I Think I Love You

Afterword

In 2004, I was asked by the Daily Telegraph Saturday magazine to interview David Cassidy. As I prepared to travel to Florida to meet my teen idol, several unexpected emotions crowded in. Panic about what to wear was high on the list. Should I go dressed as the fan who had worshipped him so ardently from afar or as the wife and mother of two I now was? I felt like a time traveler. If David was still twenty-four in my heart, how old did that make me?

While I was packing and unpacking my suitcase, my husband sat on the bed and sang an aggressively tuneless version of “Could It Be Forever.”

“Why on earth would you want to meet him?” he asked. “David Cassidy sang flat and, let’s face it, he was basically a girl.”

I defended David, exactly as I had defended him thirty years earlier from the taunts of the boys at school. Just as I would always defend him.

David lived in Fort Lauderdale with his wife, Sue, and his son, Beau. In the cab on the way to his house, everything I had been feeling coalesced into a single thought: Please don’t let me pity him.

I realized I could bear just about any kind of awkwardness, embarrassment or disappointment, but I never, ever wanted to feel sorry for the man who once bestrode my world like a colossus in a white catsuit trimmed with silver studs.

David Cassidy was about to turn fifty-four. He looked at least ten years younger, but that still made him twenty years older than the beautiful boy millions of girls like me believed we were in love with. That comparison was clearly a source of pain to him. He who had once turned on half the world was now doomed to disappoint. He was not Peter Pan, nor was he meant to be. David was about to embark on another farewell tour of the United Kingdom. The fans, women now in their forties and fifties with young girls of their own, would still turn out for him in enthusiastic numbers, but I sensed in him a great weariness that he needed to exploit for money a period of his life that in different ways had cost him so dear. His bitterness at the record companies and merchandising people who had managed to spirit away the hundreds of millions of dollars that his records and his image generated was clear and well justified.

As David posed for the photographer, I said he should be careful the camera didn’t take his soul.

“I had my soul stolen a long time ago,” he replied. As an actor and the son of two actors, he can be prone to self-dramatizing statements; still, if anyone on the planet can claim to have had his soul stolen, it is David Bruce Cassidy.

The interview turned out to be more fascinating and moving than I could have hoped. David was thoughtful, intelligent and extremely honest in his responses. At times he became angry, at others he was close to tears. We laughed a good deal as we recalled the strange, compelling experience we had shared, though separated by age, gender and thousands of miles. He was generous enough to scream at me, as I had screamed at him all those years ago, which proved he was a true gentleman. Being able to prompt David on the lyrics of one of his own songs, which I knew better than he did (naturally), was a moment from fan heaven.

The David Cassidy that millions of us loved did not exist, not really; he was a brilliant marketing invention, though the man who has both the pleasure and the burden of bearing his name was not a disappointment. On the contrary.

I want to thank David for giving me such a fantastic interview, and for helping me to recapture the way we were. No girl could ask for a finer teen idol. This is the transcript.

ALLISON PEARSON: David, your agent told me that some of the more aggressive fans still move toward you like you’re a meal. How do you feel about the fans now?

DAVID CASSIDY: It’s a great compliment that they still care. I’ve never once thought otherwise.

AP: Really, so it’s not been a burden to you?

DC: Oh yes, it’s been a burden, but I’ve never thought it wasn’t a blessing, flattering. Yes, lots of aspects have been terribly difficult to cope with. Has it altered my life? Dramatically. Has it changed me? Yes, dramatically. But, it is pretty extraordinary if you can view it somewhat objectively.

AP: Your last farewell tour was in 1974.

DC: Yeah, and I said, that’s it. They went, “Oh right, he’ll be back next year.” Before I started it I announced it to the world, this is IT. My final tour. Stadiums all over the world. Started in New Zealand, Australia, Japan, Europe, U.K. [he snores in mock boredom]—nine months in all.

AP: Someone got killed at that last concert in London, didn’t they?

DC: Next-to-last concert. A girl died, wasn’t killed. She died. Clarify it. There was no violence going on, there was incredible pushing and crushing. She was way up in the back. She had a heart condition. She died. It was very sad, but of course the press made it out to be like, you know—it sells newspapers, right? I called the parents and spoke with them and said, because of the media circus that I attracted wherever I went, out of respect for their daughter I will not come to the funeral. I sent flowers. You know I had no responsibility. There were forty-five thousand people there, I didn’t know where she was. She was half a mile away. I had no idea that she had died.

AP: It must have been shocking.

DC: It was really sad for me because it was a celebration for me and it was the next-to-last day, which was up in Manchester City Main Road, I remember.

AP: Were you ever frightened?

DC: For them?

AP: For you.

DC: I can’t say I wasn’t ever frightened. It happened so many times in five years. In the car, girls crawling all over it. Black. Darkness, pfffwwwrr, smothered. You just had to make sure you had a really smart driver because it’s a mob. It’s a mob. It has its own consciousness, its own mind. Instead of one or two or three, it’s fifty, a hundred, then they start piling on top of each other, then it becomes crazy.

AP: Do you remember the first time it happened?

DC: It was 1970, shortly after The Partridge Family had aired in America. I went to Cleveland—the show has been on the air ten times. I was Grand Marshall of the Cleveland Parade. I’m on like a 1950s fire engine. Reporters said they’d never seen anything like it before or since. There were forty thousand kids following me down the streets of Cleveland and it was cold. It’s like Glasgow. To get off it and get into a safe place I had a minder with me. I’d never had a minder before. It was just starting. I went from the top of the fire engine and into this car. The police were not on top of the situation. The car was instantly smothered. It was chaotic. They were grabbing at my hair and my clothes. It was not comfortable.

AP: If they got hold of you, what did you think they would do?

DC: Well, I think they wanted to take a piece of me home so they could have it next to their bed or something. Like a scalp for their wall.

AP: Did it feel primitive?

DC: It is very primitive. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I’ve observed young girls at events since then, like cheerleading events, and when they get excited, the pitches in their voices go way up, and their emotions. It becomes like, well, imagine the level of intensity standing at the focal point of the most emotional thing for them, the most exciting thing for them, and being at the focal point of forty or fifty thousand people. What that feels like vocally to have that come at you—it’s a powerful weapon, it’s a powerful, powerful experience. I remember saying I wish everyone could stand in my shoes for just five seconds and feel what that feels like, because it’s the ultimate expression of love. But it’s spoken in a way—it’s screamed at you. I LOVE YOU! Intensify that ten thousand times and imagine how that feels. It’s overwhelming.

AP: But it was something the fans were projecting onto this figure called David Cassidy because they didn’t know you. I was one of the ones screaming at you, by the way.

DC: [Smiles.] If you were screaming, Allison, you know what that emotional pitch was like for you. For me it was like, wow, it was so fantastic to feel people letting go, letting you know that you touched their lives, that you meant something to them. It’s the greatest compliment that someone who does what I do can get.

AP: Okay, as I once screamed at you, David Cassidy, it’s only fair that you should scream at me.

DC: [Laughs and screams.] I LOVE you—sorry, can’t quite get that pitch.

AP: No, that’s very good, thank you. I can see how you could get used to that. It’s as though the fans were on the cusp of a presexual feeling. Sex is implicit in it, but maybe it’s not yet sexual?

DC: It’s all sexual, but because it’s very naive, extraordinarily romantic and it deals with fantasy, it’s sex before it becomes overtly sexual. You can define it better than I can because I haven’t ever been in a female body. Intellectually now I see it, but I couldn’t see it then.

AP: What did you think then?

DC: I thought it was just hysteria. Like they were seeing me as this demigod. I was just a guy who played the guitar.

AP: Did you feel like a demigod?

DC: No, never.

AP: Come on, when you had all those young girls screaming at you?

DC: Do you want to believe me or do you think I’m making this up?

AP: I just think you wouldn’t be human unless you felt pretty pleased with yourself with that many girls throwing themselves at you.

DC: I can’t tell you I wasn’t happy with myself. I can’t tell you I wasn’t aware that people found me attractive. But I never felt like a sexual person. I mean, I was a sexual guy, but I never thought of myself as being sexy, you know what I mean?

AP: Yeah, but I think that was partly because you were lovely, but you weren’t …

DC: Threatening?

AP: There was nothing threatening or aggressively masculine about you.

DC: See, but I don’t think you knew that at that age. I didn’t know that then, either.

AP: I certainly didn’t think, Hey, here is David Cassidy, my Transitional Love Object.

DC: Correct, it’s a phenomenon. I was very male, but there was an androgynous part. When I see pictures of myself, I was skinny, my hair was long, I looked kind of feminine. I wasn’t a big bully kind of guy. Girls between the ages of seven and seventeen would show up at my concerts. In America, the audience was 80:20 girls to boys. I guess in Britain it was not cool for boys to admit to liking me.

AP: No, you were a fairy, I’m afraid.

DC: A fairy? [He laughs a little uncertainly.] I knew there was jealousy. I knew what the guys were saying, I knew they were, like, drawing mustaches on my picture and blacking out my teeth. I understood it. I would have felt the same way.

AP: If I had met you thirty years ago …

DC: You would not have been able to speak. I had that happen many times. It was very sweet. These girls, they’d just stand there, they’d start crying, it was overwhelming. I have to tell you I was doing a benefit in a TV studio two weeks ago. Backstage, one of the heads of department, she was about thirty-seven years old, walked into the dressing room, held my hand and began to weep. She said, “You don’t understand this,” and I said, “Of course I do. Believe me, I get it and I thank you. I’m glad it still means something to you.”

AP: But there was this gap, wasn’t there? The David Cassidy I was in love with wasn’t you, was he?

DC: If you read the magazines, bought the merchandise, of course that wasn’t me. That was a scripted character. On The Partridge Family, they didn’t let me play [Jimi Hendrix’s] “Voodoo Chile.” Trust me, that’s what I was playing at home. I was playing B.B. King.

AP: Did you ever feel uncomfortable with that velvet suit you had to put on?

DC: Terrible discomfort. Terrible. I was much older, hipper than Keith Partridge. I was going with women who were in their late twenties.

AP: [Laughing.] Oh, really old!

DC: [Laughing also.] Yeah, realllllyyy old …

AP: I remember when I knew you were in your early twenties—to me that seemed impossibly grown-up.

DC: When I toured in ’74, I was twenty-four years old. Imagine someone who has lived three lifetimes by the time they’re twenty-four. What kind of a guy was I compared to whatever your preconception was? The line is very smeared. For me, I didn’t go out and act onstage. I performed as a musician. I really cared about that even if nobody listened. That was me. It was the only part of the day I enjoyed.

AP: I think for the fan there was this aspect of knowing some of your background; there was a sense of you being wounded by your childhood that distinguished you from the other teen stars.

DC: Well, I was wounded. I hadn’t thought about that. That’s a new one. You are dissecting why I exist, Allison. I think you’re right. I think I need to get seriously wounded again. If you want the girls to like you, go out and hurt, motherf*cker!

AP: Isn’t that the Michael Jackson story?

DC: You could only imagine what a talent has been destroyed and wasted there. I’m thinking about Off the Wall, the best album ever made. I’ve met Michael a few times. It’s all gone so terribly wrong.

AP: Does it make you shiver slightly?

DC: Yes, it does, but it doesn’t, and I’ll tell you why. He didn’t have a perspective internally to make the choice to go “So long, kerpow!” I pressed the ejector button. He bought the Elvis dream with the belt over the bed. I said ten years ago about Michael Jackson, you have no idea how tragic this is going to get. I had a choice of saying, No more, and I don’t want to buy this dream because it’s a miserable dream. It’s a sad, empty, lonely, shallow, self-absorbed, narcissistic existence. If Michael Jackson isn’t the height of narcissism—look at that face. It’s like anorexics—they want to stay a child. Doing your face like Diana Ross? It’s so terribly tragic and it’s a difficult choice to make. Let’s see: fame, money, adulation, being God or being happy. Hmmm. That other thing, being God, is so alluring. I thought: I’ve got to try and take this road for happiness.

AP: But you didn’t know it would make you happy.

DC: Oh, I did. I knew the only way for me to survive and be a human being again was not to live like that. I lived in a vacuum like Elvis, like John, Paul, George and Ringo did, for five years.

AP: I love the story of you meeting John Lennon and singing his songs to him because he was drunk and he couldn’t remember them.

DC: I was reteaching John the Beatles lyrics. It would be like you playing my songs to me.

AP: I probably know your lyrics better than you do.

DC: You probably do, because I forget them all the time. Actually, there are a few I get confused.

AP: Could you please sing “I Am a Clown” as a special favor to me?

DC: [Puzzled frown.] “I Am a Clown”? I can never remember … they’re so similar.

AP: You say that you bailed out, but isn’t the life span of the teen idol over in a blink?

DC: Well, mine lasted much longer than most, and it could have gone on for an indefinite period of time. Not forever. I saw I could leave this at the top. There was nothing more to experience. I had the biggest fan club in history. What else can I do with this? I’m not happy. I’m alone and—

AP: In interviews at the time you said—

DC: [Getting angry now.] They weren’t accurate. I read things I never said.

AP: So, lots of that stuff that I thought I knew about you was made up by other people?

DC: All of it. Pretty much all of it. They’re going to write ten thousand stories in a hundred magazines that are all contrived for their audience of young teenagers, so at the beginning of the year, they’d come in and I’d give them all like an hour. They’d ask me a bunch of questions that were so silly: What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite drink? After a few times, you start making stuff up. What do you eat for breakfast? “Oh, ketchup and ice cream.” You think, I can’t do this shit anymore.

AP: Is it a hard thing to recover from?

DC: You don’t ever recover. It’s how you understand it, address it and move on from it. There’s always the scar. It’s just that when I push on it now it doesn’t hurt me so bad. If you’re in a corporation you climb up and you become head of department. They don’t give you a gold watch in my profession. You’re a god who no one wants to employ anymore, because you’re too old. That’s the saddest thing for me, watching the Oscars and seeing people you idolized so much getting treated like that because they’re old.

AP: What was it like after you quit?

DC: I said, no more recording sessions, no more TV. It’s very dark. It’s like you’ve fallen down the abyss and it’s very strange. I stayed indoors a lot in my little compound. I wasn’t a very happy camper at the time and was kind of lost.

AP: When I come here and meet you after all this time …

DC: I’m just some fifty-year-old guy. You don’t give a shit, right?

AP: On the contrary. We’re all getting older. One day, years from now, I’m going to be in my kitchen at home and I’m going to turn on the radio and they’ll say that David Cassidy, the seventies teen idol, has died. It will be an incrediby poignant and resonant moment for me and for millions of other women around the world. You are one of the ways we measure out our lives.

DC: A small part of you dies with me?

AP: I believe that.

DC: That’s why I’ve never taken it lightly. I think it is meaningful.

AP: Do you feel stuck in time? There must be moments when people are pestering you to do the old songs. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t want to move on.

DC: I spent ten years going, No, no, I won’t do that cos I don’t want you to think that I’m still back there. I’m not there. I don’t want to stay there just to make you feel good. I have to have a present, otherwise I’m just a relic. And I’ll never be a relic. That’s why I won’t be in an oldies show, I’ll never do that.

Will I do my hits? I’d love to sing them, they’re great songs, but I couldn’t do them till I had a present, understand? For me, saying this is what I do now, this something that may not have the impact the other stuff had, but it’ll never have that impact because you’ll never be thirteen again, I’ll never be twenty again.

AP: If you sing “Could It Be Forever” now, are you reconnecting with the young David Cassidy or are you singing it with an adult sensibility?

DC: I didn’t do my hits from ’74 to ’85. Never. I had to relearn them. Seriously. Two years ago, I went back and rerecorded all my hits on the Then and Now album—going in the studio and singing songs you haven’t sung for twenty-five years. Same studio, same microphone, same players—it was emotional. I’m singing these songs as a different guy, I can’t possibly sound like I sounded when I was twenty-three, twenty-four. I have to sound like I’m fifty, fifty-two.

AP: Actually, your voice hasn’t changed that much.

DC: No, but it’s impossible for me to be nineteen again, to be that innocent in life, [so open] to hurt and pain and relationships. I have so much more voice now, to be able to find that purity, like your skin is at nineteen, you’ll never get that back. I tried to be true to the material. I tried to be gentler.

AP: Which songs from that period do you really like?

DC: “How Can I Be Sure,” “Cherish,” “I Think I Love You.”

AP: How come from all the record sales and merchandise your face sold you didn’t make gazillions of dollars?

DC: Record companies are set up to steal. They do it at every point, from packaging to promotion. It’s a corrupt business and it always has been. They’ve never, in the history of the recording business, made a mistake in the artist’s favor.

They say to you, Okay, you can audit us. It’s going to cost one hundred fifty thousand to two hundred fifty thousand dollars of your own money to audit us. If you’re lucky. So we’ll settle for X amount instead of going through that nightmare. In the end, they have ways of stealing you don’t really know. They’re making money on everything and you never know what the real sales were.…

AP: They owned your likeness.

DC: I should have made a hundred million dollars based on the merchandising. If the corporations had a conscience, they’d write me a check today, but not a dime. I said, I have eleven compilation albums here and you were allowed only four in my original contract.

AP: You can sue them?

DC: [Plaintive and sad.] Well, how do you prove it? This record company was bought by that record company … I was in three lawsuits at one time. I just want what it says on the paper. Don’t do this to me …

AP: Do you think getting older is harder for you because people have this perfect memory of you?

DC: Yup, I think it is harder. It’s not like, poor me because what I have and what I get to do … [He starts twiddling unhappily on a guitar.] Yeah, it is hard.

AP: People judge you?

DC: “Hey, how come you don’t grow your hair back? Have you ever thought of getting your hair back?” [He winces.] I get it all the time. Same with Farrah Fawcett, icon of a generation. That’s the problem. They say, “Oh, I saw a picture of her recently, it’s sooo sad.” I can’t stand the idea of that being said about me. Hey, people get older. People relate to Robert Redford because of the way he looked at a certain age when he was a young man. That’s the thing he has to constantly be measured against. Sixty happens. They do it maliciously and it’s cruel, it’s mean-spirited. People love to be shocked and they love to see other people come down. “See, he’s not that handsome [anymore]!”

AP: Do you ever meet people and think they’re disappointed in you?

DC: Yup. “Why don’t you look like I remember you at nineteen?” Well, I tryyyy. Dare I say it, how old are you? I’ve got fans with pics of me meeting them back in the seventies—these sweet little innocent girls, twenty-five years have gone by and they don’t look anything like that. NOTHING like that. I was already a full-grown person. Can we ever look like we did when we were twenty when we’re fifty?

AP: All right, there’s something I need to check with you before I go. It’s really important. David Cassidy, was your favorite color ever brown?

DC: Brown? Never. No.

AP: For eighteen months I wore nothing but brown because I read in a magazine it was your favorite color.

DC: [Explodes with laughter.] Allison, it was all made up!

AP: [Laughing also.] That poor trusting girl living in South Wales … I looked terrible in brown. So help me God, I looked yellow in brown.

DC: It was never a great color on me, either. Do you see brown on me? Do I look like someone whose favorite color is brown?
Acknowledgments

Writing a novel is a long and lonely business. Certain people make it less lonely. Joanna Lewis was a constant comic inspiration and a reminder of the country we were both so lucky to be born in. While I was in South Wales worshipping David Cassidy, Sharon Dizenhuz was kissing his picture in Cincinnati, Ohio. Sharon’s American perspective, along with her glorious wit and wisdom, were invaluable in helping me get started. When it looked like I might never finish, Louise Swarbrick propelled me across the finish line by sheer strength of character.

Caroline Michel at PFD has shown incredible patience and never stopped believing. I don’t know how she does it. Jordan Pavlin, at Knopf, worked her editorial magic and made this book the best it could be. As did Clara Farmer at Chatto & Windus, who held her nerve—and mine.

I want to thank David Cassidy himself for his kind encouragement. David’s autobiography, C’mon Get Happy (Time Warner), was an invaluable source of information. Thanks must also go to all the Cassidy fans who shared their memories, particularly Judith Frame. I would love to hear from any more fans out there. You can reach me via the Allison Pearson page on Facebook, follow me on Twitter @allisonpearson or e-mail me at [email protected].

Special gratitude is due to Barry McCann, a walking encyclopedia of popular culture. Barry’s e-mail on “Cursing in the Seventies” deserves a book to itself. Tim de Lisle, another expert in the field, led me to Bill. Many others offered support and valuable suggestions: my American agent, Joy Harris; Cara Stein; Alison Samuel; Miranda Richards; Emma Robarts; Catherine Humphries; Jane Bird; Christobel Kent; Naomi Benson; Belinda Bamber; David Bamber; Julia Bamber; Lisa Collins; Caroline Dunn; Mary Hitch; Carolina Gonzalez-Carvajal; Philippa Lowthorpe; Laura Morris; Daniel Newell; Ysenda Maxtone Graham; Jane McCann; Anne McElvoy; Isolde Ivens; Professor Jon Parry; Anne Polhill Walton; Hilary Rosen; Christine Ford; Jeffrey Carton; and Natasha Walter. In Wales, I need to thank my mother, who made this book possible, and to salute the memory of her friend Jean Thomas, a fine artist and a lovely woman. I am also grateful to Eiry Evans and Edna and Dafydd Jenkins. Cymru am byth!

Nicola Jeal provided a fascinating insight into the world of magazines. At the Daily Mail, Tobyn Andreae and Maureen O’Donnell gave a five-star service to the struggling author.

The case history of Ashley, which Petra writes, is purely fictional, though I drew on the remarkable Case Studies in Music Therapy, edited by Kenneth E. Bruscia (Barcelona) and, from the same publisher, Psychodynamic Music Therapy, edited by Susan Hadley.

For thoughts on teaching and playing the cello, I am indebted to the great cellist Natalie Clein. Trevor Robbins, professor of cognitive neuroscience at Cambridge, shared stimulating ideas on music and the brain. The wonderful Nordoff Robbins London Centre in Kentish Town, North London helped me to understand the transformative power of music therapy.

At home, my own personal music therapy was provided by the songbirds Evie and Thomas Lane. “Have you finished your book yet, mum?” I have now, and I’m all yours.

While I was failing to write this novel, my agent, Pat Kavanagh, died unexpectedly. Pat would have been a remarkable woman in any century. Not just because she was beautiful, although she was certainly beautiful, but because she didn’t fear the truth and spoke it on a regular basis. I have missed Pat’s cool judgment, her praise, all the more precious for being hard-won, and the ripple of amusement in that lovely low voice.

Finally, I am lucky to have personal access to one of the world’s great critics. Lucky and unlucky. Anthony Lane sets the bar very high. I can never repay his love, encouragement and furious margin notes.

Picky is always good.

Allison Pearson,

Cambridge, Easter 2010
PERMISSIONS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Lyrics from “Daydreamer” used with kind permission of the composer Terry Dempsey and publisher Angela Music Publishing Co. (Pty) Ltd.; “I Think I Love You” words and music by Tony Romeo © 1970. Reproduced by permission of Screen-Gems EMI Music Inc., London W8 5SW; “Cherish” words and music by Terry Kirkman © 1965. Reproduced by permission of Beechwood Music Corporation, London W8 5SW; “How Can I Be Sure” words and music by Edward J. Brigati and Felix Cavaliere © 1967. Reproduced by permission of EMI Entertainment World Inc., London W8 5SW; “(I Never Promised You A) Rose Garden” © 1971 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Extract from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot © the Estate of T. S. Eliot, reproduced by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Allison Pearson, an award-winning journalist and author, is a staff writer for the London Daily Telegraph. Her first novel, I Don’t Know How She Does It, became an international best seller and was translated into thirty-two languages. She is a patron of Camfed, a charity that supports the education of thousands of African girls. Pearson lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two children.