How being kicked out of the London Hilton by a receptionist who treated us like dirt launched my incredible 60-year career: Cher tells the full unvarnished story of her life in a rock ‘n’ roll memoir like no other

How being kicked out of the London Hilton by a receptionist who treated us like dirt launched my incredible 60-year career: Cher tells the full unvarnished story of her life in a rock 'n' roll memoir like no other

In reflecting upon Cher’s memoir, I find myself utterly captivated by her extraordinary life experiences. From fleeting encounters with Salvador Dalí and his ocelot Babou to brushes with fame and fortune in the early days of her career, Cher’s journey is a testament to resilience, determination, and an unwavering spirit that refuses to be tamed.

Looking down at us over the edges of his glasses, the man seated at the desk in the London Hilton appeared to scrutinize our striped bell-bottoms and my husband Sonny’s rumpled shirt, along with his caveman-style fur vest, as though he detected an unpleasant odor nearby.

He apologized, saying, “I’m afraid there are no bookings under that name here, and unfortunately, our hotel is fully occupied.

While walking off, Sonny bent down to examine a bound register made of leather, discovering our names written in ink within.

‘Excuse me!’ he called. ‘There it is, Bono! B-O-N-O.’

Upon my statement that the hotel was fully booked, he nonchalantly confirmed his arrival. His overconfident and off-putting demeanor left me on the brink of tears.

In August 1965, about a month after the launch of our hit single “I Got You Babe” in America, teenage fans there were captivated by our style. This was largely due to an unexpected event: our luggage, lost during a concert close to San Francisco, never made it back to us.

In our everyday attire consisting of flowery bell-bottoms, eye-catching tops, jewelry, and striped trousers, we confidently strode onto the stage, causing a frenzy among the youth in Northern California as they beheld us.

Originally, they weren’t able to secure consistent spots on highly-rated American music television shows, as it was explained that advertisers felt the older demographic wouldn’t comprehend our content.

‘You’re too far ahead for folks here,’ one producer advised us.

Feeling a bit more optimistic than we had been for some time, Sonny suggested that we should boost our visibility and this idea reminded him of a chat he’d had with Mick Jagger, whom we met during the Rolling Stones’ inaugural American tour in 1964 when they were in LA.

After they arrived at Gold Star Studios, where Sonny was employed under producer Philip Spector, he led me to encounter them at their hotel. Frankly, I didn’t engage in much conversation with them. Instead, I mostly smiled, as my growing uneasiness around men when Sonny was present made me hesitant to speak up. I had become adept at discerning his disapproval through a mere glance.

I couldn’t help but gravitate towards Mick, as he carried an aura of wisdom beyond his years and always seemed to have insightful advice up his sleeve. When he caught wind that our progress in the U.S. was stagnant, he boldly proposed we venture across the pond to Britain: “Faith in me, buddy, they won’t bat an eye at your presence over there.

During that period, we resided in a house close to Hollywood Boulevard, equipped with some used furniture like an aged upright piano that Sonny discovered in a pawnshop. Though it had three malfunctioning keys, as Sonny noted, ‘these are all situated at the bass end, which we never utilize for singing.’

To gather funds for transportation costs, we had to sacrifice our home, the TV, and even my once-prized red sports car, which had little value left due to its burnt-out engine. I naively filled the radiator with water, not realizing that it also required oil.

Initially, it seemed like nobody in England recognized Sonny & Cher, but upon our arrival at the Hilton’s rotating entrance, guided personally by the manager, I encountered two journalists stationed exteriorly.

‘Sonny, Cher, did the Hilton just kick you out?’ they asked. ‘Was it because of how you look?’

Feeling drained, I handed over all tasks to Sonny. Once the reporters got what they needed, he called a cab to transport us to another hotel with an uneven mattress, no television, and a leaky shower head.

After sleeping uninterrupted for 12 hours and taking a bath followed by getting dressed, we found ourselves in the limelight. Pictures of our unexpected expulsion from the Hilton were splashed across the evening newspapers, making headlines. Everyone clamored to have us as their first guest on television and radio shows for interviews. The frenzy was overwhelming.

It was later speculated that our managers orchestrated the entire Hilton incident as a means to generate publicity for our arrival. However, the clerk seemed to regard us with disdain, almost as if we were insignificant, suggesting that his apparent indifference might not have been an act of skillful performance.

Regardless of authenticity, it proved successful. In just a matter of days, we found ourselves on the popular music show Top of the Pops, and “I Got You Babe” climbed to the summit of the British charts and stayed there for two weeks straight. Not long ago, we wouldn’t have been permitted near the trendiest London clubs, but now we were mingling with the elite social circle. The Rolling Stones introduced us to Rod Stewart, and I developed an admiration for both Sandie Shaw, who shared my love for going barefoot, and the stunning Dusty Springfield.

Additionally, we encountered both John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Surveying the sea of renowned individuals, I quipped humorously that if an explosion had occurred, it would’ve marked the demise of music as we know it.

In record stores, we navigated through boisterous crowds of teenagers eagerly trying to get near us, a level of attention I wasn’t accustomed to. It reminded me more of what I’d observed with acts like the Rolling Stones or other celebrities, not something I associated with myself at that time.

For me, the most memorable part of my trip to London was the shopping experience. Through a connection with an Indian model who knew one of The Rolling Stones members (Brian Jones), I stumbled upon a brand new store in Kensington called Biba before it even had its sign up. Upon entering, I found myself stepping over an unhung sign as they were still arranging the store and clothes were scattered on the floor. Yet, this didn’t deter me in the least.

How being kicked out of the London Hilton by a receptionist who treated us like dirt launched my incredible 60-year career: Cher tells the full unvarnished story of her life in a rock 'n' roll memoir like no other

Leaving behind my bohemian style, I opted for a plastic suit in bright taxi yellow, requiring Windolene for cleaning, along with some zipped linen suits featuring tunic tops. As we departed England, we noticed numerous young admirers sporting their homemade versions of our attire, which brought us great joy. The journey exceeded all expectations. Everyone was incredibly welcoming, however, as we ventured further north, the accents grew thicker and I found it harder to comprehend conversations. Ultimately, I simply smiled and nodded in agreement.

Although the food wasn’t great, we would have loved to stay longer – however, word of our achievement reached America, making us a top contender in both nations instead.

Upon our return to New York, we disembarked the plane to find ourselves surrounded by around 5,000 enthusiastic teenagers heading straight for us inside the terminal. For a moment, I considered darting away in haste.

Officers assisted us towards our waiting luxury car, but the crowd came close to tearing off the door. Some assumed we were part of the famed British Invasion groups, like The Beatles, who kicked it off. Since then, anything British had become incredibly trendy in America, so it was amusing that we were actually Americans and needed to gain fame in Britain beforehand.

It’s worth noting that even the famed Princess Margaret took a liking to our performances, going so far as to invite us to play at the Hollywood Palladium during her visit to Los Angeles, which was primarily for philanthropic endeavors.

From my perspective, as a die-hard fan, the entire show turned out to be a colossal flop. The whole thing got off to a rocky start, delayed beyond expectation. To add insult to injury, Frank Sinatra had to bow out at the last moment, leaving us with the legendary Bob Hope stepping in for the introduction. Unfortunately, the sound system was plagued with issues, and the acoustics were less than ideal, resulting in a subpar performance from us that evening.

Midway through our performance, I found myself adjusting the volume lower at her request, as Princess Margaret was experiencing a headache.

It turned out to be an unusual occurrence that we got to headline at the Hollywood Bowl in January 1966, as we’d previously played there on smaller stages. This time around, being the main act with The Righteous Brothers and The Mamas & The Papas opening for us was exhilarating; it became even more exciting when all tickets were sold out within a day.

In the near future, we might be able to purchase a house in the affluent Los Angeles suburb of Encino, where I once resided with my mother and stepfather Gilbert. This property would boast a spacious bathroom, enormous closets, and a swimming pool offering a panoramic view of the San Fernando Valley, all included!

As a kid, there was a period in our lives where we were financially struggling so much that I needed to stuff old cardboard into the holes of my shoes to make them fit, and secure them with rubber bands to prevent the soles from swaying loose.

In 1964, both Sonny and I received our own Mustang cars, generously given to us by the Ford Motor Company and meticulously customized by the same artisan who had also built the Batmobile. My car was a vibrant pink with plush pink carpeting and ermine accents, while Sonny’s was adorned in forty layers of gold paint and black-and-white fur upholstery.

During that time, our lives were incredibly hectic. Being just a teenager, I was deeply concerned about falling back into poverty and as a result, I began to accumulate two of each item, fearing we might need replacements for worn-out items. This lacked any rational sense, given the double ownership of items like electric frying pans or hair dryers would have left me financially strained while maintaining good grooming – but it provided a sense of comfort due to my longstanding experience of losing possessions since my childhood.

Even though Sonny and I had all we desired, we didn’t seem to relish the rewards of our efforts as much as others around us typically would.

In the end, we wound up doing as he wished, not venturing out for dinners or movies, limiting our social interactions to exclude meetings with my old friends unless it was shopping trips, and rarely going anywhere without his company.

Except for brief excursions following performances, we didn’t take vacations. If I voiced any objections, he would respond with a stern gaze and say, “This is our time, dear,” a sentiment I appreciated.

Leveraging our high profile, he kept us extremely busy, with scarcely a break between performances, studio work, and interviews. Yet, starting from 1966, our album sales plummeted from millions to thousands when Sonny unexpectedly decided to issue a statement criticizing marijuana use, causing a rift among our younger supporters.

Despite traveling from city to city, maintaining our careers, we found ourselves moving into a stunning house in Bel-Air. It was sold to us by Tony Curtis, boasting a billiards room, paneled library, and a large swimming pool. However, due to Sonny’s expenditure of all our extra funds, we couldn’t purchase any furniture for the new place.

A significant portion was allocated for producing two movies titled “Good Times” and “Chastity.” We were both cast in these films, and he suggested they’d surpass the Beatles’ movies, being even more successful. However, neither film achieved commercial success.

I loved that new house, but it also marked a distinct change in my relationship with Sonny. To help him finish off Chastity, he hired a ‘secretary’ to take dictation, a woman who happened to be young and blonde. That old chestnut.

In March of 1969, our daughter Chastity was born. On the very first night we were home from the hospital, I collapsed on the floor in our bedroom. I regained consciousness just enough to reach the bathroom where I experienced a heavy bleed. I’m unsure of how much time elapsed before Sonny returned home and phoned the doctor, who managed to stop the bleeding. As I reflect back now, I can’t help but wonder where on earth he was when we arrived home with our newborn baby.

Regardless of his absence, it must be acknowledged that Sonny was consistently supportive and caring, perhaps due to feelings of guilt for not being present during my time of need. However, just a few weeks following the birth of Chastity, he admitted that there was an enormous amount owed in past taxes.

‘We’re broke, Cher,’ he said. ‘We have to go back on the road.’

In my expertise, it never crossed my mind that Sonny lacked financial knowledge, which could potentially make him less suited for the task at hand. However, a recent revelation has shed light on our situation – we’re in such dire straits that he’s been obtaining loans from our very own chauffeur. This discovery underscores the importance of thorough understanding when it comes to choosing the right person for financial matters.

As I began trembling with apprehension, Sonny gently grasped my shoulders and reassured me, saying, “Let me have a couple of years, and I guarantee our success will be unprecedented.

‘Okay, Son,’ I told him as bravely as I could, wiping my eyes. ‘Two years.’

To embark on the next chapter of our career, we returned to London to participate in a TV show hosted by Tom Jones. Our plan, devised by Sonny, was to perform a duet with Tom, followed by an unexpected scene where he would dramatically storm onto the stage, pretending to be upset with me for singing with another man, causing confusion and bewilderment on Tom’s part.

It was all pre-rehearsed, but the irony was that Sonny’s act wasn’t that far from the truth.

At home, Sonny listed our house for sale, arranging whatever performances we could find on the supper-club circuit and in dinner theaters at hotels and casinos. After performing for thirty thousand ecstatic fans, now we were fortunate if our audience numbered more than a hundred. In one performance, we played for just four people.

Many of the locations were quite shabby, and eventually, I grew weary of everyone expressing their desire to be somewhere else. During a late-night performance, an audience member shouted something that led me to respond: “Well, buddy, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got some strong words for you.

It seems that whatever I responded with must have been amusing, judging by the fact that the crowd began to chuckle. Sonny appeared somewhat intrigued, giving me a glance as if to say, “Alright, let’s see where this is heading.” He eventually followed suit, and we shared a moment of camaraderie that made our interaction more enjoyable for us than perhaps it did for the audience.

Gradually, we crafted a performance that drew crowds eagerly. It wasn’t our tunes they came for, but rather, they were keen on enjoying our humor.

Mostly I’d poke fun at Sonny and he’d fire back with retorts.

‘Hey, Cher,’ he’d say. ‘Do you remember when kids used to try to rip my clothes off and scream?’

‘Now they’d scream after you ripped your clothes off,’ I’d snap. Timing was everything.

Following several months of perfecting our performance, our shows began to fill up completely, and everything shifted dramatically in June 1971 when CBS presented us with a primetime television opportunity. The viewership for The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour soared, attracting big-name celebrities such as Muhammad Ali, Elton John, Tina Turner, Bob Hope, and many more.

When Sonny made the decision for us to not only produce and air a weekly show but also resume recording new music and touring, my schedule became significantly more hectic. The song “Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves” from my album Cher marked my first Top Ten solo hit and even secured my first Grammy nomination. However, by the end of that year, we had performed approximately 50 concerts, which required a tremendous amount of time and energy to manage our performances, maintain our TV show, and uphold our personal life.

Among us, one had to bear the brunt, and in my upcoming post for The Mail tomorrow, I’ll share the story of how our triumph ultimately resulted in the demise of our marriage. Sonny’s domineering nature pushed me to the edge of self-destruction.

I let my credit card do the talking in snooty shops

Apart from shopping trips, Sonny would only let me leave the house by myself. I always enjoyed my solo outings and took every opportunity that came my way.

On one of these excursions, as I was strolling close to Rodeo Drive, I chanced upon an extraordinary pantsuit with a vibrant, patterned check and a prominent red stripe across the front, displayed in a storefront. Upon entering, I exclaimed to the sales clerk, ‘Wow, I adore that! Where is it from?’

Upon catching a glimpse of me, she remarked, “This is quite pricey, ma’am,” before departing. Intrigued, I trailed after her and inquired politely, “And might I ask who the designer is?

With a sigh she replied, ‘Rudi Gernreich.’

Could I possibly give it a test-drive, if you don’t mind? However, I must admit that it seems rather costly.

She was so dismissive of me in my little crop top and bell-bottom pants that I lost patience.

‘How many colours does it come in?’ I asked. Looking at me askance, she replied, ‘Three.’

‘Great. I’ll take one in every shade.’

‘Oh . . . I see.’ I watched her expression shift. ‘Well, do you want to try them on?’

‘No. I’ll just take them,’ I replied, slapping my credit card on the counter.

The cost was far greater than I had ever anticipated for any purchase, yet it seemed a fair trade to witness the expression on her face.

The night Tina turned to me…

In the early stages of my journey with my energetic German Shepherd pup, an unexpected incident unfolded during a simple cooking session. As I stood there whipping up a meal, my playful pup scampered underfoot, causing me to reflexively shove it aside with my foot. The little one yelped in surprise, reminding me that our home was becoming a lively shared space for both of us.

‘Hey, Son, don’t do that!’ I said.

In the blink of an eye, he turned around and shoved me roughly against a wall. He didn’t shout or strike me, but his grip on my shoulders was firm, and his expression was tense. The memory of witnessing my mother endure similar treatment filled me with such anger that I thought, “Enough is enough.

Looking deeply into his eyes, I warned him, ‘There’s something I must share. Should you lay a hand on me in such a manner once more, our paths will likely never cross again.’

I wasn’t kidding, and he could see that I meant it.

In retrospect, among the many distinguished guests on my evening television program, it was none other than the captivating entertainer, Tina Turner, who graced the stage. At that time, she was performing alongside her spouse, Ike.

Before we went on she came to my room asking if I had some cover-up. She had a bruise on her arm she didn’t want showing on camera.

She settled down as I searched for it, and afterward, in a direct manner, she whispered, ‘Could you explain to me how you parted ways with him?’

‘I just walked out and kept going,’ I told her.

After our performance, Tina and I found ourselves elevated on a platform, while Ike remained down below. As he strummed his guitar, not a hint of joy graced his face – he simply focused on playing with no discernible emotion.

I just knew that whatever he was feeling wasn’t good.

Dali’s ocelot, an orgy and a very fishy toy

At the start of our triumphant phase, we found ourselves residing at the legendary St. Regis hotel situated on New York’s East 55th Street. It was there that we reconnected with Francis Ford Coppola, an acquaintance we made during his aspiring filmmaking days in Los Angeles.

At that location, we unexpectedly encountered the renowned surrealist artist, Salvador Dalí. He graciously invited us to a gathering taking place in his wife and muse, Gala’s, suite – a party she was hosting.

As asked, we paid a visit, and Dali greeted us cordially, donning a velvety jacket, maintaining his peculiar demeanor.

His pet ocelot, Babou, lounged on a couch nearby.

All individuals displayed an unusual mix of beauty and eccentricity, giving off an impression that they might be under the influence of something. Some donned elaborate black lace attire and brandished ornate silver-tipped canes.

Feeling quite out of the loop, I wasn’t sure how to act or respond. Yet, I seemed to manage passing as hip, because as we departed, Dalí announced, ‘You will join us for dinner tomorrow evening.’ It was more of a decree than an invitation. The following day, we were welcomed into Dalí’s studio – a small, dimly lit space where the remnants of a recent wild gathering were evident.

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 clingfilm.

Upon feeling something poking me on my side, I adjusted my position in the chair and noticed an unusual item protruding from the gap between the cushion and the chair frame.

Curious, I pulled it out to discover a gorgeous painted rubber fish.

I found myself even more captivated as I activated the small device connected to it, causing the fish’s tail to move back and forth in a synchronized pattern.

I assumed that it was a toy for the bathtub. ‘Oh my God, Salvador, this is beautiful!’

I said. ‘Yes,’ he replied, his smile crooked. ‘It’s lovely when you place it on your clitoris.’ I couldn’t drop that fish fast enough.

Together with an unusual group of people, we proceeded to a restaurant nearby. At this location, we were later joined by the Franco-American artist, Ultra Violet, who donned a male shirt and tie paired 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.

Approximately ten minutes into our meeting, Dalí got up to say that he had forgotten about a prior commitment.

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 and started screaming with laughter.

I’m sure Dalí thought we were all cretins, but by then we were beyond caring.

Adapted from Cher: The Memoir, Part One by Cher (HarperCollins, £25), to be published November 19. © Cher 2024. To order a copy for £22.50 (offer valid to 23/11/2024; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.

2024-11-09 05:07