Underneath It All (20 page)

I returned to Los Angeles with a bounce in my stride. I knew I was on the right path. I wasn't just dreaming about recording a record anymore, I'd done it. As absurd as I knew they were, Brook's words had lingered in my mind. I had to prove to myself that he was really wrong. My career wasn't just a "hobby." I hadn't outlived my fifteen minutes of fame. I had the rough mixes of my songs in hand and they were the proof I needed to walk confidently into the new life I'd chosen.
The homey Studio City house I leased after I split with Brook was just as I'd left it—unpacked and unlived-in. The scent of mothballs and fresh cat shit hung in the air. Mr. Steve ignored me, pissed he'd been incarcerated at the kennel up the street while I was away. "Ah come on, buddy . . . I'm sorry I left ya. Can we be friends again?" He tore across the house, completely uninterested in my fickle brand of love. I guess it was time to pay for my neglect. There I was, a single woman with an angry cat and a house full of remnants of a failed marriage. If there was ever a time for "happy hour," it was now.
I dismissed the "happy" thought in favor of unpacking my life. As I emptied the dusty moving boxes in my new living room, I was confronted with skeletons of my married years. I voted against a trip down memory lane and shoved all the remaining traces of Brook away in a back closet, knowing full well that my baggage had just gotten heavier.
Man, how much baggage can one girl accumulate?
I couldn't stand to be still for a moment. I didn't want to feel the loneliness that nagged at me, so I put my life in high gear.
Idle time is the devil's playground. . . .
I made the rounds, calling my manager and chatting up my agent. I was back and anxious to get cracking, and I needed the distraction of a busy schedule. Pouring my energy into my work, I was game to audition for any decent part that came my way.
I was thrilled to land a role on Melrose Place shortly after my return, cast as one of the followers of a cult leader who enticed resident
Melrose Place
star Laura Leighton to join our happy family. It was a wicked role and I was a secret fan of Darren Star, who was the creator of
Melrose Place
. My favorite character on the show was Sydney (Leighton) and it was the best of all possible worlds to book a job, actually like the show, and get to work with Laura. I thought she was great fun to watch and I eagerly waited for the scripts to arrive. Finally, a show my mother would have heard of, perhaps even liked—I couldn't wait to tell her.
As I settled into life as a single woman and prepared for my work on
Melrose Place
and the upcoming release of my first single, "Control," I started to enjoy myself.
I had met Roseanne Barr and Sandra Bernhard at a Grammy after-party the year before. They were hanging out in the VIP section of a hip La Cienega nightclub when I arrived with the gang from Radioactive Records. Roseanne introduced herself, generously saying she had a lot of respect for me. She said Hollywood was a tough place, especially for a woman with a past. I was taken off guard by her candor, amazed that she even knew who I was. She left me with a promise that if there was ever a role on her show that was right for me, it would be mine. Nearly a year had passed since that encounter and I was working on
Melrose Place
when the call came in. Roseanne had kept her promise and Juliet worked it all out. I would five-episode story arc on
Melrose Place
and then start shooting a recurring role on
Roseanne.
It was the first time in my life when I actually knew what my next gig would be.
We filmed
Melrose Place
on a soundstage deep in the Valley just past Magic Mountain. As I soared along the 101 freeway to work, I listened to Courtney Love's band, Hole, tear through the air.
Pretty on the Inside
was my anthem record and I screamed every word to get psyched for the day.
I was halfway into filming the episode in which I destroy designer Jane's clothing line. I was running lines in my head as I pulled onto the stage lot and made my way to the makeup room. Heather Locklear was already there looking perfect. She was pleasant as always and her friendliness was contagious. I respected her. She was one of those people who always made you feel welcome but still managed to keep you at a safe distance. She had an impeccable reputation, everyone loved her, and she was the ideal role model, so I studied her set etiquette to see what I could learn.
The women of
Melrose Place
all got along fabulously. At least that's how it looked to me. Many of the actresses had already done their share of prime-time television and were completely at
ease in the frantic world of makeup, hair, wardrobe, press, and filming that they lived in. I've always found it unnerving to enter a production when it is already in full swing, whether it's a film that has started shooting weeks earlier than your character's start date or a group of people who've been working together for a few years on a series. When the principals have already formed relationships, you are clearly the new kid on the block. It's like jumping into the rapids and swimming for your life. There's a real rush involved but also a genuine chance of drowning.
Juliet came to the set a lot. I was grateful to have her there and relieved to encounter a truly kind person in Laura Leighton. She was open and warm, and made me feel welcome in her domain. I got no attitude from her or anyone else on the set.
I fell into the groove of weekly television series as my five-episode arc continued. I wouldn't have minded sticking around longer. I realized then that being a regular must be the hardest job in show business. The hours are brutal and the workload fierce. But it's also the steadiest gig an actor can get and the thought of that security was very appealing to me.
I wondered if Brook thought the same thing about his steady
Homicide
gig. Did he think of me as often as I still thought of him? It had been months since we'd spoken and I hated not knowing where he was or what he was doing. Was he happy with his choice? Was I really happy with mine? Why couldn't I have my cake and eat it too? There were plenty of happily married actresses working in Hollywood—weren't there? In that moment, I couldn't think of one.
My experience on the set of
Roseanne
was even more frantic than filming
Melrose Place
. Half-hour comedy, as I had discovered years earlier on
Married with Children
, was all about energy and pace. And these people had it. Every morning I would arrive for work and prepare myself for the first race of the day, always waiting for the arrival of cast member John Goodman, Roseanne's husband, Dan, on the series. I thought he was the coolest. We goofed off a lot together, racing with our shoelaces tied together from the cast parking lot toward the working stage.
Goodman always dusted me, easily zooming up the hill and crossing the finish line first. I don't know how he did it, but I was sure he must have had motorized shoes. He gloated, his six-foot something beefy frame shaking with laughter. "Better luck next time, kid," he'd say with a satisfied smile, and be gone, leaving me at my trailer screaming, "I demand a rematch, Goodman!"
I spent the first morning in a cast read-through on the
Roseanne
stage sitting around a long wooden table where I traded lines with Roseanne Barr and Laurie Metcalf, two unbelievably talented comedians. I was in awe of their level of skill and terrified I wouldn't be able to hold my own with such pros.
How did they get do good? Were they. just born funny?
I called Juliet looking for advice, and she led me to the door of acting coach Howard Fine.
Howard was one of the hottest acting coaches in Hollywood, known for his direct approach to the craft. In short, he told it like it was without the sugar coating. I know that sounds simple, but believe me, in a town where people are afraid to offend celebrities, the truth is not always easy to come by. He had good taste in actors, chose his students carefully, and always had a way of pulling the best out of everyone. He became a huge influence on my work.
By the middle of December I felt wiped out. I'd been doing double duty finishing up the last episode of
Melrose Place
and working on
Roseanne
. Completely consumed with my career, I was obsessed to the point that work started to enter my sleep.
I had nightmares about giving interviews for my upcoming single, "Control." I knew I had to promote my album, but that meant doing press.
I was prepared for the worst.
Weren't there any honest journalists out there?
I found one in writer Chris Heath.
I was amazed to learn that Juliet had nabbed me the much coveted cover of
Details
magazine. I'd done a fashion layout there a couple of years earlier and had developed a great working relationship with the
Details
team. World-famous photographer Albert Watson was hired to shoot me and I was thrilled at the prospect of working with him again. Excited by the visibility such a high-profile cover would give me, I was still concerned about what the headline would be. My nerves prompted me to check out Chris Heath's previous features and I was impressed to discover that he seemed like a reasonable human being. Maybe there was hope after all.
As the holidays approached, life slowed down and I battled the blues —bah, humbug. I saw families all around me, choosing trees, wrapping gifts, and loving each other. I thought of Christmases gone by: Brook's family, decorating the tree, Patio with a big red bow around her neck drinking my father-in-law's eggnog.
Life sucked, but I had a party to go to.
Howard Fine's annual Christmas party was a must-appear, so I searched my closet for a festive frock. Pounds seemed to melt me off me when I'm working hard, and I settled on an ill-fitting long slinky red dress.
Man .. . skin and bones. . . . Oh well, time to be fussy
. I picked up my date, Juliet, at her Hollywood home and off we went to the ball.
Howard's studio was packed to the gills with actors. I recognized Emily Lloyd and the woman she was talking to, Lara Flynn Boyle. With their designer dresses and Colgate smiles, they seemed right at home on the balcony, entertaining an eager-looking group of men. I felt out of place and uncomfortable in this oh-so-Hollywood crowd.
What am I doing here?
A cool December breeze carried a waft of cigarette smoke across the room; although I was only an occasional smoker, a cigarette sounded real good.
Abandoning Juliet and dinner in favor of someone who was "holding," I spied a dark-haired man smoking in the center cal' the room, seemingly unaware or unconcerned about the "No Smoking" signs posted nearby. I said hello, bummed a smoke, thanked him, and began looking for an exit. He stopped me.
"Where are my manners?" he said with a New York accent, offering me a light. "I'm John Enos."
As we chatted casually, I became aware of considerable gossip and snickering going on around us.
Emily Lloyd craned her neck to look at us and I got annoyed. At the time I didn't know she and John were friends. I just thought she was being catty, and wondered if this guy was her boyfriend. Or was it about me?
I managed to smile as the party photographer snapped a photo of John and me together, then I flicked my cigarette away and excused myself, fed up with the crowd. As I made my way toward Juliet, John stopped me and thrust his phone number into my hand.
Is he hitting on me?
"Ah ... umm . . . thanks," I managed.
"Give me a call, let's have coffee," he said, moving off into the crowd as coolly as Elvis.
Eagle-eyed Juliet witnessed this exchange and teased me accordingly. "So, you have to bum a smoke off the best-looking guy here, huh?"
I looked at Enos holding court across the room. The thought had never even occurred to me. Yep —she was right. He was a looker. But I wasn't in the mood for romance. The holiday season had soured my libido. Maybe I'd call him later. . . . Juliet and I slipped out the back and drove home talking shop.
Though I dreaded the holidays, I was excited about the new year. I was all over the television and had a good feeling about the upcoming
Details
cover. "Control" was creating a buzz in the underground dance world and my record company was anticipating a hit.
On the outside, it seemed I was on a roll. I wish I could have felt pretty on the inside.

I endured the holidays with all the gusto of a cranky Scrooge. While I had my own family who still resided in the Redondo Beach area, it just wasn't the same without Pat and the Baltimore gang.
In more recent years my family and I had grown closer but there was still some distance in those relationships. We all had our own lives, dreams, and pasts we wanted to forget —maybe me most of all.
Mr. Steve and I welcomed in New Year's together. My pal Vince, the makeup artist from North Carolina, had moved to Los Angeles, so we hung out together shooting pool, playing the jukebox, and tossing back beers. It was a far cry from the glamorous life people thought celebrities had, but it was always amusing.
By mid-January, everything was moving at superhuman speed. "Control" climbed into the number two spot on the Billboard dance charts and it remained there for two weeks, creating enough buzz to generate real excitement in my camp. Everyone was telling me it was my time, and with my face splashed across the covers of magazines such as
Details, Surface
, and
BAM
, it seemed they were right. The folks at Radioactive
Records worked their tails off riding the hype, planning the next move. I shot a music video, gave countless interviews, and appeared at parties all over town, talking up the release of my upcoming album
1000 Fires
.
But riding the wave took a lot out of me.
Weeks later, on a quiet February morning, I sat perfectly still in my Studio City backyard. I was momentarily free of my thoughts, soaking in the sun and enjoying a moment to myself. I'd been caught up in a whirl of photo shoots and press events that had left me sleep deprived and weak. Now, I watched my cat scratch himself on the warm cement, his long white fur picking up leaves as he wiggled. Unruly weeds had taken over my once immaculate garden turning it into an urban jungle.
I swallowed the last of my muddy cup of coffee and lit the first cigarette of the day. It was time to get myself together. Collecting Mr. Steve, I returned him to the confines of the house. I felt guilty leaving him alone so often but duty called.
Grabbing a stack of vinyl records, I walked out of my house to the garage. My eyes adjusted to the dark space as I settled in for an afternoon of vinyl surfing. I had transformed my garage into a home studio, complete with mikes, recording equipment, and a top-of-the-line set of turntables. An old couch sat in the corner and the walls were lined with underground techno posters. With the exception of Moby, most of the artists I was familiar with were from the United Kingdom and Europe, where techno was all the rage.
Following the success of "Control," I had a brainstorming session with the Radioactive gang and we'd decided that the best way to promote a bandless solo singer with an album filled with computer-generated sounds was for me to perform as a DJ. The world of spinstress was completely foreign to me. But at a time when techno artists were snubbed in mainstream music in America, and live techno shows were unheard of, it was as credible an option as any to promote my album.
Stretching my body over the coffin (the turntable bed that DJs use), I blew the dust from the decks, determined to master the art of DJ-ing in a few short weeks (yeah right!). Under wing of DJ Dawna Monte!, whom I'd recently been introduced to by my record company, I fell into the groove. It helped that I have eclectic taste in music and genuinely liked spinning.
As I practiced beat mixing in my dusty garage, my eyes met those of DJ Paul Oakenfold, his face looking down into mine from the autographed record hanging above the turntables. He was a god in the techno world and I kept him hanging around for inspiration. I'd met him with Brendan Burke months earlier in London, where he was DJ-ing at a club. Brendan and I were there doing initial publicity for the album and we were looking for a way into Mr. Oakenfold's very private world. Everyone on the club circuit knew that if Oakenfold played your record, you were as good as guaranteed a spot on the dance charts. He was a one-man hit maker, and I was banking on him liking what he heard.
Brendan and I had been praying for a shot at him all night. Finally the bouncers had disappeared and we wasted no time going into action. Paul got quite a shock as I tumbled over the top of the partition and into the corner booth where he was mixing. I was a sprawling heap of platinum blonde hair as I tumbled into his private DJ booth, and I had to act fast before Brendan and I were thrown out of the club.
The tiny booth was dark. His back was to me and he clearly had no idea I was there. Gently, I tapped him on the shoulder, which completely freaked him out. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he looked from me to the locked partition door with the incredibly small open space at the top.
"I'm so sorry I startled you, Mr. Oakenfold."
He had one earphone on and one off as he attempted to mix a record.
"What? How did you?"
He wiped his mop of curly dark hair out of his eyes to get a better look at me, probably wondering who the hell I was. I talked a mile a minute, thrusting the "white label" vinyl record toward him. (A "white label" is a record company's very limited pressing of a vinyl record with no name or title on it which is handed out to DJs so they'll play it and start a buzz happening.)
"I'm really sorry to drop in on you like this," I said sincerely. "I'm Traci Lords, and I'm a huge fan. Could I please give you my new record to listen to?"
The club went silent as the previous record finished.
Paul looked horrified as he frantically allowed an ambient track to slowly fill the air. I could hear the crowd of dancing bodies scream in appreciation, thinking he had chosen a new groove. My face was hot. Oh my God! I'd made Paul Oakenfold miss his mix! I stood there frozen, not breathing, as I waited for him to strangle me. Instead, he took his phones off, turned around, and casually said, "Thanks for the record but you better go now. Here —this is my new one. Cheers."
His eyes looked down at me now as I peeled the plastic off a new record by "Wink."
Remembering how cool he'd been, I smiled to myself. Paul was the first major DJ to play "Control," and he even added it to his favorite pick of the week list. It was a major score for
All hail Paul Oakenfold!
After remembering that night, I realized my DJ partner Dawna had already called twice this morning, wanting to know what I thought of the new records we'd picked up. I pulled die headphones on and let the music transport me.
Ohhhhh, I it . . . I really like it!
I puffed on my smoke and practiced mixing into an old Oakenfold track, feeling alive again.
I was counting the days I had left to prepare for the road.
Perry Farrell of Jane's Addiction (and later Porno for Pyros) fame booked me to perform as a DJ on the after-hours Lollapalooza tour called "Enit," and I felt the pressure to ace the gig. People like to talk and I was sensitive to the snide gossip in the music rags. The headlines screamed "Porno for Perry" and implied our "friendship" was responsible for my hiring. I'd met Perry shortly after returning from work in London. We hooked up in Los Angeles. We'd spent the night club-hopping with friends. The group of us—about four guys and three girls-ended up in the pool at his house somewhere in Venice for a midnight swim. We shared a sweet, somewhat drunk kiss good night and then went back to our very separate lives, talking once in a while on the phone. He ultimately became one of my greatest supporters in the underground scene.
I opened three weeks later for My Life with the Thrill Kill Cult, a kooky shock-rock band that was the opening act for the king of techno himself—Moby. Once the rock and rollers had finished on the main stage, day gave way to night, and Dawna and I downed a shot of Jagermeister before hitting the tables. At six feet tall, Dawna wore the pants on our team—literally. She was as much my bodyguard as she was my partner. She tossed many a starstruck intruder from our stage.
It was hard keeping my vices in check while running in a world without limits, but I managed. The temptation was fierce, and I took the edge off with coffee, nicotine, and the mandatory prestage cocktail. The eyeballs that peered at us as we played our set both inspired and intimidated me. Some moments I was completely at ease onstage controlling crowds of humans with a flick of a record. We set the mood; we ruled the club. But at other times I was hit with such jitters that I had to force myself to go on. It was then that I would hide behind dark bug-eyed sunglasses with arms that lit up around my ears.
During the "Enit" tour I discovered the rush of playing for a crowd. They were the best monitor, always letting us know where we were at. We'd go on around 11 P.M. when the crowds were a mixture of Lollapalooza rock and Ecstasy-trippin' club kids. They came from all walks of life. Some weren't even old enough to order a drink. There were flamboyant drag queens, computer geeks, and gangs of Motley Crue—looking fans.
When we were good, the electricity in the room raised us up even higher. But when we were off we died a slow death in front of a heckling crowd. We played hard-core techno records like Southside Reverb, Hardkiss, and anything from Juno Reactor. We'd make them sweat, then let 'em down easy, mixing in some trippy slow ambient tunes. I found out how many fans I had in those days and I was floored to discover what a broad base it was. Sure, I had the porn fans, but I also had the television fans, the John Waters fans, and the club kids who knew nothing about me except that I was the singer of the "Control" song. "Control" eventually went double platinum and was added to the film soundrack for
Mortal Kombat
. There were genuine fans everywhere we traveled in this all-new rave scene. It was good to know. And good to feel.
I returned from the "Enit" tour to film an appearance in the movie
Virtuosity
with Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe. It seemed Hollywood had noticed the hype. Director Brett Leonard was a fan of techno music and offered me the role of a nightclub singer in his new film. I performed my second single, "Fallen Angel," in the movie. Then I was sent back to London to film a video to accompany the song's release. My album,
1000 Fires
, was taking off and I certainly felt the heat.
When I arrived home from London to a much needed rest, my mail was piled high on the top of the Japanese dining room table I'd recently purchased to celebrate my success. I sighed deeply. I'd wanted that table for years. I'd first seen it in the window of an Asian furniture store on Ventura Boulevard, right after Brook and I moved to Sherman Oaks, and remember pulling over and racing into the store to check it out. I was disappointed to learn it cost more than five thousand dollars! I didn't have five grand to blow on a new dining room table at the time, so I used to just drive by, visit it once a week, and imagine serving fabulous meals on it.
I stroked the table now sitting in my dining room covered with mail, not food. Weird. . . . I now had the money, the fame; I even had the table of my dreams. But I had no one I felt like cooking for. Was this the trade-off?