The explosive kiss from a young guitarist that helped convince Cher it was all over for her and Sonny, as revealed in the megastar’s breathtakingly candid new memoir

Reflecting on this captivating narrative, I find myself deeply moved by Cher’s journey from humble beginnings to global stardom. Her account of love, resilience, and determination serves as an inspiration for many, including myself. The way she has navigated through life’s trials with grace and humor is truly remarkable.

Gazing out from the balcony of our room at the Sahara hotel in Las Vegas, I felt a pang of solitude, looking down and realizing how effortless it could be to step off and vanish.

In October 1972, I found myself at the age of 26, trapped in a marriage that had lost its love. The triumph of our popular Sonny & Cher show on CBS had transformed my husband Sonny in a way that was unrecognizable. He became so preoccupied with building an empire and aspiring to be a mogul, he seemed oblivious to my feelings or even the fact that I had emotions at all.

On that particular evening, our tour manager, Jerry Ridgeway, had arranged to accompany the band, along with his lively, youthful companion Paulette (who was four years junior to myself), for a fair outing. Over time, she would prove to be an invaluable friend to me.

In simpler terms, I lacked female companionship and Sonny seemed indifferent to the fact that I had a friend. He likely viewed Paulette as young and less intelligent than him, so he never saw her as a threat. However, hearing about her experiences made me compare my situation more keenly.

Instead of yearning for Paulette’s life, I found myself questioning whether I wanted my own. The growing turmoil within me was causing difficulties in eating and sleeping. My weight began to decrease drastically. On Paulette’s birthday, she enjoyed chicken cordon bleu, a dish I adore. Yet, when it came time for me to eat it, I couldn’t bring myself to take even one bite. This left me feeling alarmed.

In a nutshell, I’d rather not share this with anyone due to the fear of my words reaching Sonny. Instead, I found solace in silent, secretive needlepointing, keeping myself preoccupied as a means to cope.

Upon learning that the band was attending the fair, I looked forward to the possibility of Sonny joining them, yet when I sought him out, I discovered he was engaged in discussions about business matters with our attorney, Irwin Spiegel, in our private suite instead.

He called me over to sign something, saying: ‘We got a contract with Caesars.’ I had no say in the decision and signed the new contract for us to perform in Vegas every summer for God knows how many years, tying us into something I didn’t want to do because touring so much felt like it was killing me and I knew our daughter Chastity, who was three at the time, was suffering, too.

As a lifestyle advisor, I’d say, “I came to understand that my partner’s priorities would always lean towards business before me and my emotions, which left me breathless. Instantly, I found myself overwhelmed with anger, fear, and an unshakable feeling of being cornered.

Recalling my purpose, I managed a grin and asked, ‘Hi, it seems like every band member is bringing their dates to this fair. It looks enjoyable, would you like to join?’

He barely looked up at me and said: ‘No, just go with Ridgeway and Paulette.’

After that point, I began to experience feelings of helplessness and eventually desperation. For a brief spell outside on the balcony, no other solution seemed viable.

On five to six occasions, I found myself reflecting on Chas, my mother, my sister, and everyone else, contemplating the impact such actions might have on those who admire me, viewing them as potential solutions. Each time, I retreated back inside.

One day, everything took a turn for the unexpected. During a break from my performances, I found myself stepping onto the balcony once more. In that moment, a new thought occurred to me: ‘I don’t necessarily need to end things by jumping, I could simply choose to walk away.’

Paulette offhandedly shared that it was Bill, our new band member who plays the guitar, who inquired about obtaining an 8×10 photograph of me from the office.

‘I do believe that Bill may have a crush on you!’ she laughed.

On that particular evening, Paulette and I attended The Righteous Brothers’ performance at the Hilton hotel during our breaks. It turned out that I ended up in a circle of people seated at a booth, with Bill – a rather tall 21-year-old from Texas – occupying the spot next to me. To my surprise, he casually placed his hand on my knee. To this day, I still can’t fathom how confident he was.

Later, I found myself in the hotel lobby with Bill when he stepped out to purchase cigarettes. It was there that we unexpectedly encountered David Brenner, the renowned stand-up comedian who introduced our act. Seeing me alone with Bill left him momentarily stunned, as if he had spotted Frankenstein alongside Dumbo.

‘Hi, guys, what are you doing?’ he asked.

David and Sonny were very intimate, and I assumed he wouldn’t be the one to tell him. So, I responded calmly: ‘Ah, we’re merely getting some tobacco products.’

David looked so nervous, but I’d already done it, I’d kicked over the can, milk was spilled.

Bill and I ventured outside towards a large, brick-built structure situated at the rear of the hotel. We stood there peacefully together, resting against it in silence, when all of a sudden, he exclaimed, ‘It’s astonishing how you manage to exist in such a manner.’

After that, he drew me nearer and planted a kiss on me. It seemed as though my head might detonate from the force of it. Bill was an exceptional kisser, yet Sonny generally disliked such actions. This kiss was what I had envisioned in sixth grade when I realized that kissing would someday be part of my life. Subsequently, we ascended to drummer Jeff Porcaro’s chamber, where the band was enjoying beer, marijuana, and exchanging guitars. Shortly afterwards, the telephone rang, and it was Sonny on the line. “What the hell do you believe you’re up to, Cher?” he inquired. (In this version, I have attempted to maintain the original’s informal tone while making the language more natural and easy to read.)

“I guess I haven’t got a clue, just spending time with friends… It’s so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

At that point, I was completely clueless about my own identity, as I found myself saying to him, “I’m here to help Bill grasp his publishing rights better, so I decided to take him to our private room.

If I were Bill, I might have been contemplating, ‘This plan seems risky, given my superior is above me, I’m not venturing up to your room.’ However, he chose to follow me, and upon entering our shared suite, Sonny was seated in a chair, fixedly gazing at us without uttering a word.

He softly requested Bill to step into the bedroom for a conversation, which Bill obliged. With his gaze fixed on me, Sonny appeared distressed, almost anxious. “What’s your plan?” he inquired.

In a moment of surprise, I found myself blurting out something unexpected: “I wish to share an intimate moment with Bill.” It wasn’t my intention, but I felt compelled to say it as a means to gain my freedom from him.

The silence was deafening. Then he said: ‘How long do you think you’ll need?’

I have no idea what made me say what I did next: ‘Two hours.’ The whole conversation was insane.

‘OK,’ Sonny said, and without another word he got up and left the room.

I entered the bedroom to find Bill seated casually against the bed’s headrest, his legs stretched long, ankles crossed, engrossed in a cigarette.

For the first time, I found myself engaging in a conversation rather than keeping quiet due to my lack of trust. On that particular evening, something unusual compelled me to lower my defenses and share all my secrets with Bill.

In summary, we merely chatted, I shed tears, and that was it – nothing more transpired. We were both drained of energy. Moreover, such a display of emotions would not have occurred in my private space, regardless of the circumstances.

Without much awareness, it seemed like 5 am had arrived, and Bill was gone. Shortly after, Sonny approached from the other side of the bed, gently lifted my hand and removed my wedding ring from my finger. It took a moment for me to understand his actions, but I was so tired that I didn’t have the energy to react.

In the afternoon, I found myself waking up in a bit of a haze. Navigating the higher passages of the Sahara, I sought my husband, repeating to myself, “I can manage this. I truly can.

I eventually found him sulking in his dressing room, where I walked in and blurted: ‘Sonny, I need 500 dollars in cash. Now.’

From the moment we began cohabiting, there was a lingering doubt within him that I might eventually depart, an apprehension he didn’t openly express until much later. This fear was subtly hinted at in a poem he presented me years ago, with a line that read, ‘A butterfly admired by all, yet cherished by none.’

When he became certain that the time had arrived at last, it also struck him that he was powerless to prevent what I was about to do.

It’s not entirely clear in my mind the chronological series of events, but when I learned that Sonny had slept with Bill’s girlfriend out of spite the previous night, something resonated deeply within me. I approached Bill and invited him to join me in Sausalito, a peaceful coastal town close to San Francisco that holds fond memories for me and Sonny, particularly our day spent there amidst the fog. I regarded it as a secure environment.

Upon reaching San Francisco during the wee hours, we hopped into separate taxis as a precaution if anyone recognized us. However, our drivers found themselves disoriented in the dense Bay Area fog. Later, I found out that Sonny had hired detectives to trail us, and they too got lost. It was evident he wasn’t about to let me venture off on my own.

Due to getting lost en route to the shore, Bill and I found ourselves returning to the airport earlier than planned. Eventually, we booked into a budget hotel around 4 am. There, our encounter was extraordinary, leaving me certain that I would never be intimate with Sonny again.

It was puzzling because despite feeling deeply unhappy, I still held a deep affection for Sonny, yet the passionate love I once felt during our early years together had faded.

In the autumn of 1962, I, a 16-year-old aspiring actor with no funds and little hope, crossed paths with Sonny, who was then employed as a promoter, charming disc jockeys to spin new tracks, amidst his ongoing divorce from Donna, in a coffee shop nestled in Los Angeles.

He was the youngest son of a family of Sicilian immigrants, always 27 years old and easygoing with a ready smile. Whenever he entered a coffee shop, it felt as if Maria and Tony from West Side Story had walked in, causing everyone else to become momentarily unnoticeable.

Individuals who left high school early, with unique appearances, we shared a common background – turbulent upbringings. We matured at an accelerated pace and struggled to maintain relationships, but our connection seemed destined, which worked well for me. At that time, I was young, malleable, and content with being nurtured. He consistently made me laugh heartily.

He had a unique knack for appreciating my quirky humor and enjoyed partaking in activities I enjoyed, as he retained a childlike enthusiasm within him. Unlike other women, he preferred simple outings like grocery shopping at Safeway over extravagant dinners at expensive restaurants, and instead of craving fancy evenings, he looked forward to shared activities such as painting together (though not particularly skilled), sculpting with clay, or packing a picnic for a day at the park.

Over the course of the past ten days or so, I’ve found myself forging a lovely friendship with someone new. Intriguingly enough, this bond was formed shortly after I relocated from a stunning, expansive house in Encino – a prosperous suburb nestled within the greater Los Angeles area. My mother, along with her latest spouse, Gilbert, had been my residence up until that point.

As a devoted admirer, let me share with you an intriguing turn of events in my life: Gilbert graciously provided me with a dwelling in the glamorous Beverly Hills, where I lived alongside Josita, our vibrant 22-year-old German housekeeper. When she departed, the financial burden of the apartment became too heavy for me to bear. In a pinch, Sonny proposed that I relocate to his residence, with the expectation of cooking and maintaining the house in exchange for my accommodations.

He assured, “You’ll be comfortable here; there are two separate beds.” But let me clarify, it’s not about physical attraction for me.

Over time, our relationship evolved into something resembling that of siblings, or perhaps a guardian and child, given my past as an apprehensive youngster with numerous fears, a teenager who found peace only in the company of background noise from the television, a habit that persists to some extent even today.

One evening, the dark screen that appeared after television shows ended at midnight unexpectedly triggered a panic response in me. Sonny then suggested I join him under the covers, gently tucking me in first, before turning towards the wall.

‘Just sleep, OK?’ he said. ‘Don’t bother me.’

In a typically caring and robust manner characteristic of Sicily, Sonny looked after me. During my illness, he checked my temperature, made me comfortable, and even picked up my prescriptions from the pharmacy.

Whenever he was away, I’d tidy up the space, humming tunes from artists such as Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Etta James on the radio or records. I can’t seem to recall which song I was crooning the day Sonny unexpectedly walked in and listened to me.

He exclaimed, “You have a wonderful singing voice!” His eyes seemed to be seeing me for the first time. To which I simply responded, “Indeed,” as I proceeded to neaten up my bed.

‘But I mean you can really sing. Have you always been able to sing like that?’

‘No, Son, I just started today.’

He murmured something vague, then headed towards the kitchen to prepare dinner – a task he’s been handling since his first taste of my culinary efforts. Frankly, I had no objections as he can whip up any dish and create a delightful feast.

In no time, it seemed as if the sun only rose and set behind him, despite my awareness that I didn’t fit his preference. My body type wasn’t fashionable then, and one day, when I wore a friend’s bathing suit to the beach, Sonny’s expression fell upon seeing me.

‘My God, you’re skinny,’ he said. ‘You don’t have any shape at all! Is that all there is to you?’

Without any bends, I resembled a straight-up matchstick, but one night, following our visit to the movie theater, he unexpectedly kissed me. It seems I had grown on him at last, and from that moment, a reversal became impossible.

When 22-year-old Philip Spector hired him as an assistant at Gold Star Studios on Santa Monica Boulevard, where he was producing popular tracks for top artists, he convinced Philip to let me contribute my backing vocals to The Ronettes’ hit song “Be My Baby.” For the subsequent year, it became rare for Philip not to record a song without my backup vocals.

Instead of acting classes, I found solace in singing, and I had faith in Sonny’s advice that I should abandon them. Although I might have managed to juggle both, Sonny was gradually encroaching upon my life.

Sonny was more of a home-loving individual, yet he’d occasionally whisk me off to nightspots, not for dancing but to mingle with professionals in the entertainment field. Most times, I found myself too weary to last through the late hours, and I struggled to comprehend the purpose if I wasn’t allowed to dance or engage in conversation with others without him. He insisted that anything a couple couldn’t enjoy jointly was not worth pursuing at all.

He wouldn’t even let me listen to music or wear perfume, because he didn’t like the smell. That was disappointing because I loved perfume, but I still didn’t realise that I was having to give up a lot of myself while Sonny gave up nothing, because the changes in how he treated me came very slowly. It was very Machiavellian (an author Sonny loved).

In 1969, we officially tied the knot, but much earlier, we symbolically sealed our bond by exchanging custom-made silver rings in a small souvenir shop, followed by an informal ceremony in our bathroom. It may have seemed quaint, yet every word I spoke held immense significance as we stood barefoot, facing each other between the shower and window, with the mirrored medicine cabinet reflecting us behind.

In a spontaneous manner, I crafted unique wedding vows of my own and pronounced them. He followed with a few heartfelt words, and we exchanged our rings, shared a kiss, and that concluded our brief ceremony. Shortly after, Sonny ventured into the kitchen to prepare spaghetti sauce while I hummed a cheerful tune.

By the summer of ’63, he had transformed into an omniscient guide for me, the one who advised me to abandon my cherished softball games that I shared with my mom and our companions.

With unyielding determination, he convinced me that I should devote all my time to honing my singing skills rather than wasting it on games. His aspirations for me were temporarily thwarted by Philip Spector, who believed my voice lacked commercial appeal and resembled Paul McCartney’s vocal range. Sonny was determined to find the right song for me, and he never stopped composing, even if it meant working through the night – a time when his creativity peaked. So energized, he couldn’t sleep, instead spending hours at the piano or the kitchen table, jotting down ideas. Since he wasn’t proficient in many chords, most of our songs were written using just a few key ones.

In November 1964, we found ourselves at Gold Star Studios, ready to contribute our final backing vocals for Philip Spector’s production. This was for the hit single “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin'” by The Righteous Brothers. A global chart-topper, it went on to win a Grammy and was later recognized as one of the greatest songs of the century.

Despite our satisfaction at parting ways on a triumphant note, we were penniless without Sonny’s earnings. Earning money outside of Gold Star was going to be challenging, but one evening in early 1965, Sonny roused me to play another fresh tune he had penned.

He frequently wrote lyrics on discarded cardboard from shirts, covering both front and back, and then passed it to me. As I squinted through tired eyes, struggling to decipher his poor penmanship, I attempted to understand the words. However, Sonny’s voice was far from impressive during daylight hours, so you can only imagine how challenging it was to listen to him sing at 2am.

He crooned, slightly out of tune, “I got you,” but it didn’t strike me as impressive at first listen. With a yawn, I expressed my dislike, stating bluntly, “I don’t believe this will be a success.

Two hours past, he gently stirred me from sleep once more. “Hey, hey babe, I’ve cracked it! Listen to this.” With one squinty eye, I tuned in, nodding in approval. “That’s improved,” I conceded. His use of ‘babe’ was comforting, a familiar term picked up from my mother who used it fondly for everyone. It had become a part of me, and Sonny echoed the same sentiment. Yet, overall, I remained unimpressed by the tune.

There have been instances where I’ve made mistakes before. When he asked me to repeat what I sang, I replied, ‘Alright, alright, but afterward, I’ll be heading back to sleep.’ (In this paraphrase, the sentence structure and vocabulary are simplified for easier reading.)

Back in the sweltering summer of ’65, I unleashed “I Got You Babe” as a single, an action that set our world ablaze and reshaped it forever. This melodious masterpiece catapulted us to the pinnacle of charts in both the United States and Britain, toppling even the mightiest tunes to claim the No.1 spot. It’s still hard for me to wrap my head around how a simple song could alter our destiny so profoundly.

In just two weeks, The Beatles’ single “Help” soared to the number one spot in the UK, selling over a million copies, earning it a gold certification.

That sentimental little tune became loved the world over by people with whom it resonated somehow and found its lyrics tender and sweet. Unbeknownst to me, I’d be singing it to audiences for the next 50 years.

© 2024 Cher

• Adapted from Cher: The Memoir, Part One, by Cher, published by HarperCollins on November 19 at £25.

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2024-11-09 20:21