Born in North Carolina, given to adoption, then bounced from one foster home to another until she was unceremoniously dumped from the adoption system at the tender age of thirteen. Frankie was on her own at an early age. She was legally adopted by a famous rock star who brought her to the U.K. Decades later, her grown daughter pours over the scrap books of her mother’s photos.
“Mo-om!” Her daughter, already a top line all grrrl band opening for world class rockers, “You were everywhere!”
“We did get around.” Frankie smiled softly as her daughter studied photos of Frankie with Led Zep, Beatles, Donovan, Eric Clapton, Bill Graham, David Bowie, on and on and on…
Frankie was royalty. Everyone knew it and treated her accordingly. It was obvious that she was smarter and quicker with a repost than most rock stars and adept at social networking before it was ever conceived of and generally one of the hottest most gorgeous women anyone, even rock stars, would ever be privileged enough to be in the same space with. Apple Records in London was on the upswing. The Beatle’s earnings had created one of the biggest parties in the history of rock n roll.
“I was the coffee?… Tea?… or Me?… girl at Apple Records.” Frankie confided demurely. Speaking in her totally assimilated upper class British accent she confided in many secrets, one of which was the number of hit songs that had been penned in her honor.
“I was with a singer/songwriter who had a partner. When my boyfriend left town, his partner wanted to get involved. When singer/songwriter number one came back and found out that his partner had been boffing me, they had a terrible row. Like two queens really. Imagine Betty Davis and Marlena Dietrich going at it. A seismic event. Thermonuclear emotions. They decided to break up their songwriting team and go their own ways. But I stepped in and said that I would leave instead. I did not want to be the cause of their break up. I left and they wrote their first platinum hit about me leaving them both.”