Cher: Part One: The Memoir (The Cher Memoir Book 1)

by Cher

this book is dedicated to: mom~georgia gee~georganne chaz elijah

I’ve been brought down to my knees And I’ve been pushed way past the point of breaking But I can take it I’ll be back Back on my feet This is far from over You haven’t seen the last of me . . . —“YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE LAST OF ME” (song by Cher)

I wish I knew more about my great-grandmother Margaret, who wore her hair in long braids and was the woman in her community who would go into the forest and gather herbs for medicine. With knowledge inherited from her own mother and the local Native Americans, or Original People as I now know they prefer to be called, she knew which herbs and roots to pick from the forest to make natural cures. She also knew some of the tribal dances, which she taught to her children.

Addiction doesn’t just run in my family, it gallops, and its unhappy consequences have been repeated with dreadful symmetry throughout my life.

Not quite awake, she imagined for a moment that the room was full of snakes but then saw a shadowy figure cross their room. Highly attuned to danger, she pretended to be asleep until he’d left. Choking, she suddenly realized that it wasn’t snakes she could hear but gas. Jumping up, she grabbed Mickey and ran with him to a neighbor, who called the police. It was only later that my mom realized the shadowy figure she’d seen at 3 a.m. was her father. She recognized his gait and distinctive smell of fresh yeast. Roy had come back from his shift, turned on the gas, and left.

The scariest part for her was that Roy was stone-cold sober, and for a long time she couldn’t admit to herself that the only parent who ever seemed to love her and my uncle Mickey had tried to end their lives.

The women in my family rarely chose their men well and Jackie Jean was no exception, but with Lynda her sole role model, she stood little chance. Beneath his polished veneer, my father would become a heroin addict with a penchant for larceny and a shaky relationship to employment.

My mom married John (Husband No. 3), but this time for love. He was and is the only man I think of as my father. Having declared that men are “things you love against your will,” my mother was becoming a serial monogamist.

Mom was no longer Jackie Jean or even “Jack” by then. She’d changed her name to Georgia Pelham in 1949.

This constant unpredictability made me hypervigilant about the moods around me and gave me what I call a faulty emotional thermostat as I, too, began to swing between extremes.

Even though I was so young, my mother treated me like an adult confidante her whole life.

I learned early that most adults were unpredictable, so I couldn’t count on them and had to be constantly vigilant. I never wanted a plain life, but a touch of normality was nice now and again.

Daddy was now living in Texas with his new wife, a nineteen-year-old he’d brought to meet us the last time he visited. Jane was pretty as a picture, with red hair, pale skin, and green eyes. I was crazy about her—and so was he. Even Mom liked her. She and my dad moved to Burleson, where they planned to start a new family, so I realized it was better not to think about him anymore. I might only have been a kid, but I’d already learned to compartmentalize sadness—something I became pretty good at later in life.

Seeing Eartha at the Plaza was the first time I’d ever watched a female singer take over an entire room and hold it in her hands. She was tiny, but she was larger than life. I will never forget sitting in that opulent Art Deco room watching her onstage in a tight-fitting sequined dress with spaghetti straps and a fur stole. She held the attention of every man, woman, and child in the audience. At her peak in her mid-thirties, she was catlike in her movements. I wanted to be her, she was so mesmerizing, especially when she sang in French. When her set finished, she received a standing ovation with women cheering and men thumping the tables for more.

Looking back, I can see that she was one of those little signs, saying Okay, Cher, go this way.

Regardless, every young girl I met seemed to want to tell me her problems, something I hadn’t counted on at all. I’d wanted to be famous, I really had, but when it happened, it was a lot more of a responsibility than I imagined.

I was often too tired to stay out late, and I didn’t see the point if I wasn’t allowed to dance or talk to anyone without him. He told me that anything a couple couldn’t do together wasn’t worth doing. I wasn’t even allowed to wear perfume because he didn’t like the smell. That was disappointing because I loved perfume, but I still didn’t realize that I was slowly having to give up a lot of myself. He wouldn’t even let me listen to music. Meanwhile, Sonny gave up nothing.

The changes in how he treated me came very slowly, so I didn’t even notice. It was very Machiavellian (an author Sonny loved). I’m not even sure there was a lot to ask about me, to be honest, because I was becoming more and more a shadow. Only when we worked was I the person in front. I was becoming less and less of an interesting person to Sonny, even though I was interesting and funny to everybody else.

Sonny eventually got backing from Paramount to make the movie, which he decided to call Good Times. The movie is really funny. It’s kind of stupid and corny, but it’s funny. Sonny called it a “romantic comedy with songs.” The script is full of musical numbers, skits, and silly jokes. We played ourselves with a version of Sonny as a naïve singer desperate to make the two of us movie stars. He gets tricked by a scheming producer into accepting an awful script, and he and I are then seen fantasizing about the kinds of roles we’d love to play instead, from Tarzan and Jane, to a sheriff and a showgirl, to a “gumshoe” private eye with his moll.

In the lobby, we bumped into the artist Salvador Dalí. Turns out he spent every winter in the St. Regis. The famous surrealist looked us up and down and invited us to a party that his wife and muse, Gala, was having in her suite, number 1610. We went as requested and Dalí received us graciously, wearing a velvet blazer and looking as weird as he always did. His pet ocelot, Babou, lounged on a couch nearby. Everyone was either beautiful or bizarre and all of them looked as if they were high.

It was like stepping into a bad Fellini movie and, for once, Sonny and I weren’t the strangest people in the room. Feeling terribly square, I didn’t know what to do or say. I guess I did a good enough job pretending to be cool, because as we were leaving, Dalí declared, “You must come to dinner tomorrow night.” It was a command, not a request. The next night before dinner, Dalí greeted us in his studio, which was small and dimly lit.

An open door led to a large room where people were naked or in various states of undress. One bra-less chick came out wearing a see-through blouse that might as well have been Saran Wrap. Not knowing where to sit or what to say, I settled into a big plush armchair and tried my best to look unfazed. Joey sat in another chair, but Sonny and Francis were such sissies that they huddled together on a little one-seater sofa on the other side of the room.

I twisted around and saw a strange object sticking out of the crack between the cushion and the chair. Curious, I pulled it out to discover a gorgeous painted rubber fish. I was even more entranced when I switched on the little remote-control gizmo attached to it and the fish’s tail swished rhythmically to and fro. I assumed that it was a toy for the bathtub. Dalí was watching me, so I said, “Oh my God, Salvador, this is beautiful!” “Yes,” he said, his smile crooked. “It’s lovely when you place it on your clitoris.”

I somehow managed to never lose my composure. Inside, however, I was—how can I put this?—screaming. And with that, Dalí announced, “Shall we go to dinner?” Accompanied by an entourage of the bizarre orgy people, we walked a couple of blocks to the restaurant, where we were joined by the Franco-American artist Ultra Violet, who was wearing a man’s shirt and tie with a velvet skirt. She sat next to me and, saying nothing, repeatedly tapped my leg with her cane. If she does that again, I thought, I’m going to smack her.

With that, they all got up and moved to the next table a mere five feet away. Apparently, they were over us. We were so relieved that we could no longer hold it in. The boys started pounding the table and we all screamed with laughter. I’m sure Dalí thought we were all cretins, but by then we were beyond caring.

I saw the door open behind me and in walked the most incredibly handsome man. He was in his late twenties with tousled blond hair and the most amazing blue eyes and looked like he’d just spent the summer in Greece. I took one look at him and said, “You’re so much younger than I thought you’d be!” Quick as a flash, he replied, “And you’re so much smaller than I thought you’d be.” Because I was taller than Sonny, everyone always thought I’d be a giant. That was the first time I met Bob Mackie. We both laughed and that was the beginning of a friendship and collaboration that lasted from that day in 1967 to now—and counting.

We also had Charlie’s Angels actress Farrah Fawcett, who became a friend. Years later, when Farrah was sick, she would ask if she could spend her last days in my home because she wanted to see the ocean. Ryan denied her, saying, “If she wants to see the ocean, she could stay at my house.”

As I walked in the door, I saw Rosalind Russell sitting on the couch alone. It took my breath away. She was one of my heroes. She’d been one of my favorite actresses because she did everything, including Auntie Mame, which I think I’ve seen about five thousand times. Not actually, but you know what I mean. She played working women of all different walks of life: a judge, a lawyer, a newspaper woman, etc. She was a great role model and an amazing actress. At sixty-five, she was still beautiful.

Leaning in, she said one of the most memorable things anyone has ever said to me: “You know, Cher, I’ve watched your show, and you’re funny and talented. I think you could be a good actress if you put your mind to it. I’d keep going with that if I were you.” Just as with my acting coach Jeff Corey, this four-time Oscar nominee, winner of five Golden Globes, and Tony winner saw something in me, and I never forgot her words. I had a little repository in the back of my head where I kept my affirmations: first from my mom, then Jeff Corey, and now Auntie Mame.

Years later somebody asked me if I left Sonny for another man, and I told them, “No. I left him for another woman. Me.”

David asked me about my contract and how I got paid. I told him I didn’t know because I’d never read it. “It’s about time you did,” he replied, and somehow he got his hands on the document, I’m not sure how. He called me up after reading it and said, “Sweetheart, this contract is involuntary servitude. You work for Sonny. You have no rights, no vote, no money, nothing. You’re an employee of something called ‘Cher Enterprises’ with a salary you were likely never paid and three weeks’ vacation per year. He owns ninety-five percent of the company and the rest belongs to his lawyer, Irwin Spiegel.”

David started reading the contract to me, and sure enough, I couldn’t even sign a check or withdraw any money without Sonny or Irwin’s signature. I was an employee of Cher Enterprises with no ownership, so I couldn’t access any of the money I earned for the company. Beyond that, I was signed to the company and could only work with Sonny’s permission. That meant not only did I have no money, I had no way to make any money unless Sonny signed off on it. David told me the devastating contract had been created when Sonny and I were still together—it wasn’t new.

Everything David told me was a kick in the gut. I couldn’t fathom that this was true. I could understand the words, I just couldn’t understand the meaning—How did it happen? How could Sonny do that in good conscience? He’d been everything to me and for some time I had been everything to him. Then it got worse. David told me I was locked into Cher Enterprises for another two years. I was more heartbroken than angry. I couldn’t even cry. What good would tears do? Instead, I sat in a state of incomprehension until I finally said, “You mean I don’t have any money? I don’t own one of the houses? What am I going to do?”

Thank God I had David, because without him I would’ve had nothing. I wouldn’t have been able to take care of myself or my family. Sonny would have left me with my car and my clothes. As it was, he left me with my car and my clothes, and I had to buy the big house from him. Well, I had no money to buy the house—David was going to buy it. It took several days for the full horror to sink in. I’d worked my whole life, yet apparently I had nothing to show for it.

He said he’d always thought I was going to leave him someday: “a butterfly to be loved by all.” Then he made me leave. It’s just my guess but it’s an educated one. Sonny had his demons. There was something inside him that I could never understand, something that took him from being this fabulous funny guy to being someone who would take everything from me. For years, I’ve racked my brain for how he could have done what he did, and I still can’t get over it to this day.

David said I needed a lawyer, and I told him I had Irwin. “No, no, no. He’s Sonny’s lawyer, you need your own lawyer,” he said, and offered to pay for a good attorney. David called Joe D, who was actually about to start suing Sonny and me for his having been fired. David explained the situation and asked him to give me Mickey Rudin.

Mickey Rudin was one of the smartest attorneys in Los Angeles, the man who represented Frank Sinatra and who had also helped Lucy extricate herself from her marriage and TV show with Desi Arnaz.

Mickey advised me that the first thing I had to do to break my contract was to file for divorce. I couldn’t bring myself to just have my lawyers send Sonny a petition for divorce. I wanted to speak to him first and look him in the eye.

He was the father of my child, my onetime best friend and man I loved, father figure, big brother, crazy cousin, and just all-around partner in my life. Whatever he’d done, however mad I was at him, I felt I owed it to him to speak to him myself and see if we could work out a solution between us. David told me I needed to tell him I wouldn’t do the show unless I was made an equal partner.

I walked in, sat down, lit a cigarette, and stared at his face. “Son, I’ve had someone look over my contract and it says that I’m your employee. That can’t be right, can it? How can I be an employee? I’m your partner. Your wife. We created this whole thing together and neither of us had anything when we met, so tell me they’re wrong.” Staring at me and lighting one of his stupid cigars, he didn’t say a word. “I want my half of the money, Son. I’m only asking for what’s fair.” I had worked my entire life from being a teenager to now and I had made nothing. I wanted what I’d earned. But his eyes were cold to me, there was none of the sparkle I’d once seen.

“I have to be your partner. Fifty-fifty.” To my surprise, Sonny shook his head and without any emotion said, “I’m not going to do that, Cher.”

Reasoning with me in a way that sounded almost rehearsed, he told me I didn’t know what I was talking about and asked who was advising me. I knew I had to fight for my rights. I had a daughter to raise and a sister and mother to worry about. “If you don’t agree to give me half the money and redo the contract, Sonny, I won’t sign for another year with CBS. I won’t do anything with you. I can’t be working for nothing.” Sonny shrugged. “You’ll get sued.” “I don’t care.”

He didn’t think I’d ever throw away the show, but at that point, I couldn’t go back no matter what. Sonny’s face had always been jovial and his eyes always had a little twinkle in them. Even if we’d get in a fight, right after we’d be laughing again. This was a new version of him looking at me with no feeling, completely cold to me as if I was just anybody. I don’t want to say he became a different person, but something about when he started smoking those cigars, he could look at me like I wasn’t someone who loved him all these years.

It took me a while to finally ask him how he could have taken all my money when we were together. He simply shrugged and replied, “I always knew you’d leave me.” I told him that’s not a real answer. Beyond taking my money, it was real cruelty to prevent me from making more. I never got an answer to what made him do that.

I never left during the bad times. I slogged it out. I’ve said time and again there would be no Cher without Sonny, but obviously there would be no Sonny without Cher either. It was the day he heard me singing in the bedroom that everything began to crystallize for him. So how could he do what he did to me? When Sonny realized David had read the contract and was advising me, he got scared, and when he heard David had gotten me Mickey Rudin, Sonny knew he was in real trouble.

I explained to Freddie that I couldn’t go on as an employee of “Cher Enterprises” and promised him that I wouldn’t go to another network. He said he’d think about it, and I think he believed me. He definitely liked me but had no real reason to trust me. Freddie barely knew me—he lived in New York and only once in a while visited the studio in LA to say hi.

The first time I went back to CBS, I was nervous. I hadn’t taken ten steps inside the building when I ran into Sonny. We stood facing each other in the corridor like gunslingers from High Noon. “Hello, Swifty,” he said, pulling a funny face. He then started to laugh, so I did too. That’s how bizarre our connection was. When he wasn’t being a dick, Sonny Bono was so amusing I could almost love him.

Before we’d wrapped filming for the season, I got a call back from Freddie. He said, “I hear you’re making a deal with NBC for The Cher Show.” This was the first I’d heard of that. “That’s not true,” I told him. It turned out that someone was spreading rumors I already had a deal going with NBC. All I could do was tell him the truth and hope he believed me. “I promise you, Freddie, if there ever is a ‘Cher Show’ I’ll do it with CBS. It’s my home and I don’t want to go to the Valley.” He laughed, and I think that made him trust I was being honest.

By some miracle, Freddie agreed, and CBS didn’t renew the show. The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour would end for good in March 1974. Season four, which had been due to start that fall, was dead in the water. I’d sacrificed the show to save myself. Sonny and Irwin never thought I would do that. They lost their minds.

Soon after, Sonny told me I had to move out of the big house. He wanted to sell it and said that for publicity reasons, our real estate agent couldn’t show the house with both me and him living there. For some reason she had picked me as the one who would have to move out. I was starting to realize that the people Sonny and I worked with were loyal to him and not me.