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Ian 'Sammy' Samwell was a record producer who'd written songs for Cliff Richard and the Small Faces. I moved into a commune in Hampstead, London, with my lover.I was now wearing hippie clothes: see-through dresses and men's frilly shirts with no skirt.After he'd had a few hits, I went out with him and some mates. In an emergency, the girls in the commune were ready to help in any way.He was buying a round and - guess what - he found himself suddenly short. When one of the musicians in the house, Robert Wyatt, discovered his girlfriend in bed with another man, he tried unsuccessfully to slash his wrists.
As Marc became more famous, his ego swelled and he took too many drugs. When he died in 1977 after his purple Mini smashed into a tree, we were distraught. Gloria could have died herself - she was still very ill. If she had asked me the same question 10 years later, I might have replied differently. It was late at night and Sammy was in a deep sleep beside me. ' There was no reply, so I took his silence as approval and went ahead.
Later, he came backstage to tell me he thought the show was really cool. He wanted to pretend he was a tough guy, but he wasn't.
Jimi was small in the flesh and had no pretension about him. If someone took one tab of acid, he would take six. The David Bowie I first met was not yet a glam-rock peacock, but a reserved young man who hid his shyness behind a veneer of mystery.
That's how a Warner Brothers executive, who was a dinner guest at the commune, discovered me in 1971. If he didn't exactly lose his sense of humour, Cat certainly mislaid it for a while.
He started laying down the law when we toured the U. He carried a small prayer mat with him, which we would mock lightheartedly.
I'd already released one single - a flop which had only succeeded in getting me better party invitations.