Murder, Music and Mickey D's! Part I: Charles Manson

As Promised, Im Taking You to the Hollywood Hills!

Welcome Friends!

WARNING: I have written some feel good stories, some political satire and some tributes to my mentors; this is not like any of those. This story contains some pretty grisly details of murder and references to some explicit lyrics. I strongly suggest skipping this one, if you think either of those will offend or upset you.

ALSO: To provide a fair level of protection for the people and places mentioned in this piece, I must ask that you subscribe, even at the free level (by clicking none), to continue reading. Thank you for understanding.

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

The Cleveland Institute of Art’s Cinematheque, is one of the best alternative theaters in the world, showing classic, foreign and independent films, and is my favorite testing ground for a first or second date! I can disagree with someone’s political views or religious beliefs, but I’m sorry, I just can’t see myself building a life with someone who can’t appreciate great film! I’ve dragged nearly everyone I care about there and most have loved me for it! Occasionally it’s an easy sell, like when I invited a date to see Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

I didn’t know what the film was about, I didn’t need to, Tarantino hasn’t disappointed me yet! When I started to get the gist of the movie, I wondered if I should mention to my date that I had spent several nights in that ill-fated Cielo Drive house, 24 years after the Manson family carried out the horrific murders that inspired the movie.

After, some back and forth within my own brain, I decided that I’d either be seen as a show off or full of shit, so I kept it to myself. I knew that some day I would have a newsletter where I could brag all I want, as long as there was some point, lesson to be learned, or inspiration to be drawn. Alas, here we are!

My boyfriend and I were rollerblading through the streets of downtown Cleveland in May of 1992, when we saw a huge crowd forming in front of the Board of Education Building. A tour bus had just pulled up and Fleetwood Mac’s Don’t Stop was blaring out of speakers, luring us to come closer. Bill Clinton, the governor of Arkansa emerged, speaking passionately and enthusiastically about his plans for a new America, before putting on shades and blowing some saxophone!

It was the first time I felt a politician was speaking a language that I understood, and my boyfriend and I registered to vote shortly after, so we could help him get elected. The winds of change were blowing and I was young, fearless and eager to ride the wave.

The early 90’s in Cleveland was an electrifying time, we were on the cusp of something truly great! Projects were breaking ground or being dedicated that would change the landscape and skyline forever, and what a view I had, from the 2nd floor of the all glass Galleria, where I was raking in the cash bartending at Ninth Street Grill, and saving up to buy a house in Tremont.

You could wander through the dining room, during the busy lunch rush and see meetings happening, blue prints spilling over tables, too small to hold them. The Jacobs brothers and Mayor Michael White would be holding court, almost daily, at the restaurant’s most desirable tables, with stunning views all the way down East Ninth Street to Lake Erie, sure to attract investors and entice developers.

The Cleveland Indians had played their last game at Cleveland Municipal Stadium and were settling in to Jacob’s Field. Art Model was still years away from making his unforgivable decision to take the Browns away from us.

Yes, the winds of change were blowing, and Cleveland was no longer considered The Mistake on the Lake. We were instead, taking our rightful place as The Rock and Roll Capital of the World, after a long and hard fought battle to win the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.

Not surprising, Clevelanders who suddenly found themselves living in LA with success and fame, no longer had to be embarrassed of their rust belt roots, and were often heard promoting Cleveland and praising its people. Two such artists, Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails and comedian Drew Carey, used their new found fame and fortune to build platforms, from which they helped to hoist many talented Clevelanders, including my boyfriend, however, some people for one reason or another, just can’t seem to get out of their own way.

Interestingly, if you google ‘famous Clevelanders,’ there’s not an asshole in the bunch. Well, Joe Eszterhas, admitted to being one and no one argued differently, but he has since found God! As Saturday Night Live’s Church Lady would say, ‘Well isn’t that special? How convenient!’

In 1991 and 1992, my boyfriend, Paul Michael and his band, The Adults, opened for Nine Inch Nails, several times as part of the Pretty Hate Machine North American tour. It was an incredibly exciting time for us and I felt that he was on the cusp of being discovered and signed to a major record label, something I had just naturally expected would happen, considering his immense talent.

I was beyond proud, however, Paul continually defied the manager’s request to play his older funky and familiar, fast paced punkish music. He opted instead, to play new songs and experimental music, featuring a classical violinist at times, a risk that disappointed fans eager to form a mosh pit, but may have paid off in the long run with Nine Inch Nails’ frontman, Trent Reznor, who was always looking for new sounds.

A year later, we were invited to California, to stay with Nine Inch Nails, in the Hollywood Hills, where they were recording The Downward Spiral. Trent had built a music studio in the house where followers of Charles Manson carried out the gruesome murders of several members of the Hollywood elite.

While Paul was familiar enough with the history of the house to request that we sleep in the nursery (because no one was murdered there!), I knew nothing. I could put a face to the name Charles Manson and I knew he was a crazy cult leader, that was sent to prison because his followers murdered for him, but that was all I knew.

We had a bit of difficulty finding the address we had been given, 10066 Cielo Drive, but fortunately we found a postman willing to help us. He said the address had been changed from its original number, but that we won’t find it on the gate, adding, “People still come up here and light candles, leaving dead flowers or satanic symbols or messages.” I laughed nervously, not quite sure if he was kidding.

Photo by Julia Kadel on Unsplash

We pulled up to a tall wooden gate fortified with barbed wire along the sides, stopped at an intercom to press the call button and noticed several security cameras. No part of the house was visible from the gate and there was heavy brush on either side of the drive, with the edge of the hillside bearing down on us to our right.

I was starting to feel like there was a lot more I needed to know about the house we were entering, as Nine Inch Nails’ drummer, Chris Vrenna, opened the gate remotely, and then greeted us on the other side. He informed us that Trent was off recovering from the MTV Awards and the parties that followed, that were held the night before, so after giving us a brief tour, Chris left us to make ourselves at home.

The house was surprisingly modest from what I had imagined. Paul was happy to see that Trent had a beautiful golden Labrador Retriever named Maisy to keep his dog Chopper company while we unloaded our van, and made up our room. I have wonderful photos somewhere in a storage unit, back in the US, that I hope to share some day.

Later we explored the vast outdoor space, taking in the picturesque landscape, the pool, wishing well and the hazy view of a smog-filled LA. We found a basketball and started shooting hoops near the garage, which felt great after 3 days in the van traveling from Cleveland to LA, sleeping in rest areas and showering in truck stops.

The basketball got away from me, and I followed it to where it finally rested, along a hill side of weeds and shrubs. When I picked up the ball, I saw something strange moving in the foliage. Curiously, it looked like frog legs twitching, but I didn’t see any body. I crept closer, only to see a tiny yellow eye where the body of the frog should be. It took me a minute, but then I sadly realized that the frog’s body was inside the outstretched mouth of a snake, who’s skin matched the golden brown, dusty and dry terrain exactly. I had only a very vague idea of what had happened on this property at that point. Had I known the gory details, that scene might have made me spin on my heels, and head for home!

Back inside the house, we made some much needed cocktails and Chris showed us to a room, where in one corner sat the dark colored, leather bound, dentist style torture chair, featured in one of Trent’s videos, with its straps and buckles hanging down to the floor. In the center of the room, was what looked like an organ, but Chris pointed out, that it was actually called a mellotron, and this one belonged to John Lennon! It was the very same one you hear in the intro to “Strawberry Fields Forever” and was lent to Trent by a fascinating film producer and record executive, Ted Field.

Years ago, I spotted that same mellotron in Cleveland, at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum, encased in glass, and I suddenly remembered, with a mix of confusion and guilt, setting a margarita down on it, while fiddling around with the keys and buttons. My son Ari was probably two at the time, but he was really impressed when I told him that his mommy got drunk and tried to play it once, in the Hollywood Hills, long before he was born!

There were several copies of Helter Skelter, (Bugliosi, Vincent. Helter Skelter: the True Story of the Manson Murders. New York:W.W. Norton,1974) lying around the house, and Chris strongly encouraged me to take a copy and read it. He confessed, that he too, didn’t know very much about the house before his arrival.

For the rest of the day and most of the next, while everyone else was in the music studio, I would scare myself to death, not only reading the book, but also using it as a guide. I retraced the steps of the murderers first hand, starting outside, at the interior of the electric gate, very near where I saw the snake.

In August of 1969, Charles Manson had sent four of his followers to this address (10050 Cielo Drive), with the instructions to kill everyone inside as gruesomely as possible. Shortly after midnight, Susan Atkins, Linda Kasabian, Patricia Krenwinkel and Charles “Tex” Watson, each carrying weapons and a change of clothes, scaled an embankment by the fence (explaining the barbed wire!), and entered the property. Watson had shimmied up a telephone pole and cut the phone lines prior to entering as Manson had instructed him to do, ensuring that no one could call for help.

Upon seeing headlights coming towards them immediately after entering, Watson instructed the girls to lie down in the bushes while he hid beside the gate. Steven Parent, an 18 year old, had been visiting a friend, William Garretson, in an attempt to sell him a clock radio. Garretson was the caretaker at the residence and lived in a small cottage behind the main house. He was the only survivor, as he was undetected and amazingly heard nothing.

When Parent drove his father’s 1965 AMC Ambassador Coupe up to the button that would open the electronic gate, he ran into Watson. Looking at the button myself, it seemed to me, that it may have been the very same one that Parent intended to push, before Watson reached into the window with a knife and slashed the watch off of his wrist. Upon seeing Watson’s gun, the teenager begged for his life, promising he wouldn’t say anything. Watson then shot him four times, in rapid succession, killing him, then he reached inside the car and turned off the ignition.

Watson instructed Linda Kasabian to stand watch at the gate, and the others to meet him at the front door of the house. He removed a screen and climbed through a window, entering the room that was to be the nursery for the son of film director Roman Polanski, who lived there but was away shooting a film in Europe. He then opened the front door for Atkins and Krenwinkel to come inside.

Similarly to the call button that I had examined, the window in the nursery showed no indication of being new or replaced from the photographs I was seeing in Bugliosi’s book. For two nights, I would stare at that window before falling asleep, trying hard not to imagine Watson creeping quietly past baby furniture and toys for the infant that was never to come.

I only caught a glimpse, thankfully, of the room where the killers then gathered all the occupants of the home; Polanski’s wife, actress Sharon Tate, who was 8 1/2 months pregnant; her ex-lover Jay Sebring, a celebrity hairstylist; Abigail Folger, heiress to the coffee fortune; and her boyfriend, writer and filmmaker, Wojciech Frykowski, who was staying with Tate as a favor to his friend, Roman Polanski, as it was nearing the end of her pregnancy and he did not want her to be alone.

This was the room that Trent converted into the music studio, and while he kept it very dark, even in the day time, I could still make out certain architectural features, matching the photographs in the book, that frightened me terribly and made my entry into that room impossible. Sharon Tate and Jay Sebring were stabbed and mutilated inside that room and were found with a rope tied around their necks and strewn across a beam in the ceiling. Sebring had been shot as well.

The gravity of where we were, really began to sink in, when Paul and I were alone outside in the swimming pool late into the evening. It was so quiet, except for the crickets. High above it all, nestled into the hillside, it became eerily clear to me, how no one heard any screams or the four gun shots that killed Steven Parent, as he tried to leave the estate.

In direct contrast to the stillness and tranquility my body felt inside the pool, my mind was frantic, feeling frenzy and desperation, picturing Abigail Folger and Wojciech Frykowski, who somehow managed to free themselves and flee from the house separately, only to be chased down and fatally stabbed by Krenwinkle and Watson, a combined 79 times, right there on the lawn. I imagined, how Abigail’s white night dress must have looked, illuminated by the bright blue reflection of the pool, like a ghost being chased.

I was struck how the trees, suddenly looked so ominous. Sloping sideways, stretching away from the house, as if they had always known that unspeakable evil would be coming and they would be its only witness.

Finishing up the book outside, on a chair the next sunny afternoon, I found myself unable to concentrate, sitting beside the infamous white front door. I would stare at it, looking for any traces of the word ‘PIG’ which the murderers wrote in Tate’s blood, after stabbing her 16 times as she begged and pleaded with the killers to spare her unborn child’s life. While I thought about doing it, I could not bring myself to touch any part of the door, and thankfully, it was always left open, wide enough to slip past without any contact. Upon moving out a very brief time later, Trent removed the door and brought it with him to New Orleans, where it is preserved in the music studio he built in a converted funeral home.

I don’t remember seeing much of Trent, until our last night there. He joined us outside at a table behind the house, where Paul and I were making ourselves at home, grilling corn on the cob and bbq chicken quarters while drinking cheap beer, like the Beverly Hillbillies that we were! He sat across from us holding his head in his hands. His shoulder length jet black hair was pulled back by a wide black band and his face was strikingly pale, sickly almost, considering the California sun.

Though he said very little, Paul and I got a sense that what Trent was trying to convey, was that it had all been a terrible mistake, and that he was not meant to be there. It was clear he didn’t want to be rescued, but he didn’t want us to think he was there on his own free will, either. He apologized, as if he had let us down some how.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, during which Trent seemed to be struggling to say something or ask something of Paul, he finally said, “Nothing is as it appears out here Paul, nothing!” He stood up, looked at the grill and sighed, saying, “Damn, that looks good, I fucking wish…” and he walked away, seemingly upset, before finishing his sentence. When everything was done cooking, I arranged some food on a platter and left it in the kitchen for the band.

Later that night, I sat on a bench at the end of the property alone and I stared at the LA lights in the distance and wrote the only thing I wrote that entire trip; “LA. There’s so many somebody’s that nobody’s really anybody!”

The next morning, I was devastated to see that no one had eaten any dinner, but it was very possible that they were still in the music studio, working well into the morning. I imagine it was easy to lose track of time, among other things in that house.

I can’t remember if we had planned on staying longer, but three days proved to be enough and we left practically unnoticed, early on Sunday morning, September 5th to go meet Drew Carey, a comedian who’s career was just taking off and Betsy Voinovich, who had been writing the screenplay for her movie, a movie heavily influenced by Paul. Both were huge fans of the Adults and they invited us to watch the Cincinnati Bengals take on our Cleveland Browns on a giant TV screen at a West Hollywood bar called Apples, with a bunch of Browns Backers. (More to Come about Drew and Betsy, So Stay Subscribed!)

After pushing the button to exit the electronic gate, and trying not to think of poor Steven Parent, I looked at Paul sideways, with raised eyebrows, grinning expectantly and asked, “So…how’d you leave it? What’s the next step?” His expression was all too familiar. He was looking for the words to let me down easy.

As I turned onto Benedict Canyon Drive, Paul looked at me with a mix of bitterness and arrogance, and said, “Pfft, I’m not playing with those guys! I’d have to drink a bottle of Cuervo a day to play that crap! Do you see how much those guys drink? I’m not doin that!”

But then, in January of 1994, Paul was invited to go on tour with Nine Inch Nails, and told to get his passport, as they had dates scheduled for Europe, The UK and Canada. He was suddenly excited, and didn’t mind me blabbing the news to everyone we knew. I did my best to assure him that I was up for the task of taking care of Chopper and his rehearsal hall while he was away.

As final preparations were being made, phone calls starting pouring in to my house from LA, because Paul did not have a phone. Tour managers left questions on my answering machine, that Paul made little or no effort to answer in a timely manor. Accommodations were being made, flights and hotel rooms were being booked, and Paul was not cooperating.

I remember Paul becoming frustrated by the tone of one of the road managers, who was growing more and more impatient with him and his reluctance to give out his personal information, including his social security number. Paul became overwhelmed by the formalities, and asked repeatedly to speak with Trent but was told that he was no longer accessible. The phone calls eventually stopped, the tour began, and Paul was not on it.

To Be Continued…

Recently, I asked Paul if he regrets the decision he made then. “EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE!” he answered. What Paul failed to see, and what he admits now, was all the opportunities that he missed. He could have learned an incredible amount about the music business, touring, state of the art musical equipment and the latest technology. He would have met so many amazing musicians from all over the world, including David Bowie, who asked Trent if he could join the tour in 1995!

Funny Story…

While reading Helter Skelter, the day after we arrived, on a chair outside the white front door, I was joined by drummer, Chris Vrenna. He looked so bad ass with his platinum buzz cut and his pale, thin, sculpted body, but he was so quiet, shy and sweet! After discussing the book for a while, he told me he was sure we had met before, but neither one of us could think of where or how. Suddenly he blurted out “McBuffy…?”

To which I responded, “Apple Pie Chris…?” And we both burst into laughter!

I worked at McDonalds off and on through high school, working there during bouts of homelessness, even living in a car behind the place that I bought off of a woman coming through the drive thru for 75 bucks! Located on 117th Street in Lakewood, an area known for its hard rock clubs, drag bars, skanky strip clubs, concert venues and 24 hour diners, my McDonalds was known as the place where the freaks hang out and I loved working there!

I had developed several crushes on customers, mostly cool looking musicians, and Chris was one of them! I knew the sound of his car, when he pulled up to the drive thru intercom, his exhaust rattled in a way that I thought was on purpose. If I remember correctly, he drove an 80’s light blue, misty metallic Nissan or Datsun, which was covered in bumper stickers and had a Nine Inch Nails logo across the center of the rear windshield. I would always give him his apple pie for free (thus, the nickname!) and sometimes, if I thought I could get away with it, I didn’t charge him at all!

As a joke, Paul took my name tag from my McDonald’s uniform and replaced ‘Bridget’ with ‘McBuffy,’ in direct contrast to my two toned punk rock hairdo. I thought it was hilarious, but no one seemed to notice or care when I wore it!

When Chris and I stopped laughing, we exchanged a look after eyeing our surroundings, that said, ‘We’ve sure come a long way since our days at McDonald’s!’

McBuffy! (My Senior Class Picture. 1989)

And Finally…

We live in a remarkable time of truth telling. I have seen countless documentaries on the lives of musicians that one would think had it all, only to find that they were living in a hell, from which they could not escape. Perhaps Paul is wrong to regret his decision. “The Self-Destruct Tour”certainly lived up to its name, leaving Trent addicted to drugs and severely, dangerously depressed.

As was apparent in the grueling, two year tour schedule, it seems like there is a mad rush, to make as much money off of a new artist as possible before fans decide they like someone else. The artist is pushed to extreme limits with no regard for their health and happiness.

The last and most revealing track on the album that was recorded at the Cielo Drive residence was Hurt, which received a grammy nomination for Best Rock Song in 1996. The song, which Trent called ‘a valentine to the sufferer’ was covered in 2002, by Johnny Cash. The accompanying video, directed by Mark Romanek, won best video of the year by The Grammy Awards and The Country Music Awards. When asked how he felt about the video, Trent said the following:

“I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. What I had written in my diary was now superimposed on the life of this icon and sung so beautifully and emotionally. It was a reminder of what an important medium music is. Goosebumps up the spine. It really made sense. I thought: ‘What a powerful piece of art.’ I never got to meet Johnny, but I’m happy I contributed in the way I did. It wasn’t my song any more.”

The fact that these powerful and desolate lyrics resonated with a music legend of a different era and genre all together, gives us a glimpse into the loneliness and isolation that many musicians feel.

One can only imagine then, what failed musicians must feel. Charles Manson was, not only a failed musician, but he felt strongly, that he had been betrayed by Dennis Wilson of The Beach Boys, who had recorded a song that Manson wrote, promising him credit and compensation, but then changed the lyrics and removed Manson’s name from the album. The Cielo Drive house may have been targeted because it was the former home of Terry Melcher, a record producer, introduced to Manson by Wilson, who expressed interest in signing Manson, but then changed his mind, leaving him feeling rejected and humiliated in front of his family of followers.

Please know, I am not advocating for the man, I’m just really interested in what makes men into monsters. In my next newsletter, I will recount my brutal encounter with a man who may very well have been Jeffrey Dahmer. Brace yourself!

Thank You For Being Here My Friend!

Hopefully, you are not too freaked out and you will continue on this journey with me! You didn’t really expect a smooth ride from someone so fearless did you? I suggest you buckle up, for the next few miles and hold on tight! You won’t be board, I promise you that!

Cheers!

Bridget