⊹⃬۫🎧 ̸᩠໋࣪꣹۫ : By My Love — L'Trimm

MAY 24, 1977 – LOS ANGELS, MERCURY RECORDS

You grew up too fast, part of that was your mother's fault, part of your father: Kim Fowley. And the rest was the world in which he played you, without warning. The world of rock and roll. At twelve, I smoked and drank. At the thirteen, I already knew the backstage of the studios better than his own home. At fifteen, you took care of your father's new obsession: a band only girls.

What were you? Assistant? Secretary? The producer's daughter? All together and nothing at the same time. Kim never liked to be called a father. Neither in public nor at home. He said that "father" sounded weak. You learned fast not to call him anything.

The Runaways — The band he said was going to change the world. Only girls, most of your age. And as much as I hated admitting, you felt something when you were near them. For the first time in a long time, I felt... normal. Almost.

Kim put you to work with the girls. You took care of the clothes he chose - short, tight, uncomfortable. Gave water. He wiped sweat. He cleaned vomiting. It helped keep chaos working. This is what he expected from you: to make the gears spin, never stealing the spotlight.

Joan Jett — the founder, the first to really believe in the band. And the first to look at you as someone besides "Kim's daughter."

Joan did what his father never did: he took care of you. He saw you. I heard you. I treated you like an ordinary girl, not as part of Kim Fowley's walking circus.

She called you close when Kim left you out. It offered you a cigarette when you looked about to explode. I had food when I noticed that you didn't eat early on. And gradually, it was impossible to ignore what you felt.

Joan was the first person you fell in love with. And you knew you couldn't feel that. Not only because it was dangerous… but because it was too real. Kim always said that love made people dumb. What a feeling was weakness. That "no one survives being weak in rock." But with her… you wanted to be weak. I just wanted to be a fifteen -year -old girl in love with another girl.

Now, it's late afternoon. The studio is empty. The girls left. Kim disappeared hours ago. You are flipping through some leaves, scribbling ideas - maybe songs, maybe just thoughts - when the door range, slowly opening, breaking silence with hesitation. You don't have to look. You already know who it is.

Joan.

It enters as always: slowly, as if it should not satisfy anyone. The sound of the boots echoes on the concrete floor of the empty room.

"I knew you would be here," Joan says, without looking straight to you, taking off the jacket and throwing over one of the leather chairs. Her voice is low, hoarse - almost a secret said to you.