Authors note: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Any resemblance
toreal persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental . . . with the exception of Molly
Meldrum.
First published in 2014
Copyright Jenny Valentish 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 1000
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 76011 081 9
Set in 12/16.5 pt Sabon LT Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press
10987654321
The paper in this book is FSC

certified.
FSC

promotes environmentally responsible,

socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the worlds forests.
C009448
Contents
PROLOGUE 1
1 KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA 3
2 REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES 14
3 MEN 25
4 BAD MANAGER 33
5 DUMMY 46
6 AWARD FOR BEST PASH 54
7 ITS ON 67
8 THE GOLD COAST 79
9 THE BIG CHEESE 90
10 THE UTE MUSTER 102
11 CHEAP TRICK 116
12 FIGHT LIKE A GIRL 132
13 LOS ANGELES 145
14 TALL POPPIES 159
15 ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME 178
16 THE AMERICAN TOUR 195
17 INTERVENTION 210
18 I TOUCH MYSELF 225
19 TAMWORTH 243
20 SOAP SCUM 278
21 WHERE ARE THEY NOW? 296
22 BOSS 319
23 TRUMP TRUMP TRUMP 328
24 NO NO NO 352
CHERRY BOMB SOUNDTRACK 369
Acknowledgements 373
1
PROLOGUE
An hour before the biggest gig of our career, we sent a roadie
on stage and instructed him to stretch a silver line of gaffer tape
down the centre of it.
Rose and I watched from the wings.
Thats my side, she said pointing to the left, which was
always her side. Do not come over that line.
Less than forty-five minutes after that I tried to strangle her
in the people mover. Then I strapped on my guitar and walked
out into the lights.
3
1
KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
At dusk, Iwaited for Rose outside Glasshouse Studios and smoked
a Marlboro Red. Ismoked Marlboro Lights in private and Reds
for public appearances.
Kings Cross was lit up like a kids party under the Coca-Cola
sign. It tugged at something inside me. If we werent in the
middle of recording a song with John Villiers, Id beat a path
down Darlinghurst Road towards the El Alamein fountainthe
scene of many of our early photo shootspast the sex shops
and bars full of dead-eyed groovers, to duck into my favourite
twinkling bottle shop. Id been drinking for three years but I
still couldnt get over the marvel of going into a bottle shop
whenever I wanted and knowing there was nothing anybody
could do about it; unless they checked my ID too closely.
But no, we were working, working. Isquinted down Bayswater
Road, along the trails of red tail-lights, towards the bouncers on
the strip. Watching them watching me. Ishifted my posture. My
cousin Rose (vox, bass) always reminded us that we should act
sexy at all times, as if a TV camera were constantly following
us. The way I rested the sole of my boot against the wall made
my skirt fall slyly across my thigh, but if anyone saw the curl of
4
Cherry Bomb
my mouth with my cigarette in it, no hands, theyd realise I was
daring them to even try.
Lately Id started telling everyone that I was from Kings Cross.
The western suburbs, where I was really raised, were so boring
that you were duty-bound to become an underage binge-drinking
statistic. The trick was not to stay there. Iwas always appraising
and eradicating my flaws, from embarrassing lyrics or eyebrows
plucked into apostrophes to being identifiably from Parramatta.
Iwatched the greats on YouTubeyour Courtneys, your Gwens,
your Steviesand I learned.
I didnt know it yet, but one day my Wikipedia entry would
begin thus: Nina Dall is one half of Sydney pop-punk band
The Dolls. Since forming the group as a sixteen-year-old with
her cousin Rose Dall under the guidance of veteran producer
John Villiers, she has written and recorded one gold album, Its
Not All Ponies and Unicorns (2012), and one platinum album,
Tender Hooks (2014), and has taken home six ARIA awards.
There will be more photographs of me in existence than of
the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition and any visiting
dignitaries put together. I will only stay overnight in suburbs
with a Park Hyatt.
Rose was still inside Studio A on the leather lounge, trying a
new lip gloss that created a chemical reaction with lips to make
them swell. I knew she was really snatching extra look-at-me
minutes from the band who were loading in, probably asking
who their manager was and if they were signed yet.
I was always waiting for Rose, mainly because she was
obsessed with her hair and not mindful of other peoples needs.
Idont want you to dislike her, though. Alot of her behaviour
was probably due to the meds; specifically the anti-anxiety pills
shed been on since starting high school. Iwasnt sure if it was
her four-bedroom (plus games room) house or the lustrous shine
5
KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
of her inky hair that made her anxious, but those pills could
really make you mean.
My hair never kept anybody waiting. I could see it then in
the screen of my phone, because Id set the camera function to
reverse. It was home-bleached blonde with black roots, and I
parted it in a curtain to one side and messed it behind my ear
on the other. It was waif, but, like, hobo waif. My tits were
small, but in the style of Kate Moss.
When Rose finally slunk out the front of Glasshouse with a
million bag straps, bra straps and bangles clanking around her
elbows, she was holding the lip gloss in front of her, as if to
fend off an argument. Her nails were Sportsgirl sea-foam blue.
I can feel it tingling, but theres nothing happening, she
reported as I pulled myself away from my phone screen. She
was blocking me with her sunnies, so I fronted her and pulled
a stray hair out of the sticky smear on her mouth. Wed been
grooming each other since we could remember.
I wore: slouch T-shirt over aqua bra, Catholic-schoolgirl skirt
(for the record, Iwent to a mixed public school), baseball boots.
Rose wore: the same, but pink bra and Doc Martens.
We liked to stay at the forefront of developments in cosmetics
and fashion, and Rose had cultivated for The Dolls a distinctive
look: one coloured bra strap hanging down, plum lips, cruel
cats eyes, beauty spots. It was a bit retro. A bit Countdown
1985, when everyone else at our school was all about 2010.
The eighties and nineties were a more romantic time for music.
Nowadays record companies had exclusive deals with TV shows
that fed the winners straight into their mincing machines. Shows
such as Australian Idol, the primetime slot in which people
were recognised for being special and were airlifted out of their
provincial predicaments.
I once drank a tequila that made my lips swell up like lilos
the next day, I told Rose, pushing myself hips-first away from
6
Cherry Bomb
the wall and stubbing my cigarette under the toe of my boot.
Or like Li-Los.
Rose wasnt listening. She was grimly fluffing her hair in the
reflection of the window and popping her lips to ensure even
application. She finally shot me a direct look. You dont have to
come on to every guy we work with, you know. Theres going
to be a lot of them.
That was really why we were here. We had come outside
specifically to talk about John Villiersand how we would have
to be very careful, vis-a-vis John Villiers and Alannah Dall.

Theres some footage of Alannah Dall back in 1986, looking

annoyed outside the Parramatta Stadium. Her band shuffles
behind her, holding their instruments, out of focus. Shes being
interviewed by Molly Meldrum from Countdown. Ive watched
it a million times on YouTube. He says, First the Queen of
England opens the stadium, now its graced by the princess of
Parramatta herself. Does this feel like a special place to you,
Alannah?
Special place, Id always think at this moment. Id have made
a joke about that.
I shouldnt think so, Molly, she says, her eyes scanning
his cowboy hat down to his pointy shoes. But no matter how
far you run, theyll always try to drag you back to where you
camefrom.
I knew that everyone in the music scene wanted me to admit
the Dall connection, so Id just come right out and say it. Mums
older sister was Alannah Dall. Everyone knew who Alannah Dall
was when you started singing one of her songs or pulled out your
iPod. Everyone had heard the smash hits about Pink Camaros and
High Maintenance, which was actually about drugs. Everyone
knew shed dated the dude in Roxy Music, and was arrested for
7
KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
indecent exposure in Toronto, and flew into Drought Aid in a
helicopter with her own wind machine in tow. Icould pull out my
wallet and show you a family snap to prove it, of Rose and me
at just five years old, with our mothers frowsy and tight-lipped
next to this exotic bird with the big hair. When we got studio
time with someone as hot as John Villiers as young as we did,
people wanted an admission of nepotism.
Alannah was a stunner in an era when it was acceptable for
a pop star to look like a plumbers apprentice, or a sequined
dinner lady, or a girl next door with a poodle perm and buck
teeth. She was flawlessly glamorous, as though shed risen from
the cover of a Dungeons & Dragons manual, the sort of vision
spray-painted on the hood of a Valiant Charger. Her dusky-rose
pout and blonde wings of hair were given a soft focus for ballads,
and she needed nothing more. The Alannah was the second-most
requested cut after The Princess Di.
Rose and I grew up studying our aunts videos and coveting
her safari suits with chunky orange jewellery, her satin jumpsuits,
rubber bracelets, lace hair bows and stilettos. Some of it wound
up in our dress-up box. That outrageous net outfit she wore to
shake the hand of Bob Hawke; there were photographs of us
both modelling it, draping ourselves over each other in Roses
parents kitchen with the microwave still in the shot.
Top 5 hand-me-downs from Aunt Alannah
1. Frame your face in videos by slicing your fingers through the front
of your hair. Look sideways through your arm disdainfully. Sing.
2. Tilt your head back and bare your teethbut only after applying
a slick of red lip gloss. Stroke the curve of your throat, down
to your chest.
3. Do a double take at the camera at a dramatic point of the song.
4. Live your life like a camera is watching you.
5. Maintain mystery in the press.
8
Cherry Bomb
Being the blonde, I fancied I should look more like our
aunt and searched my stupid face nightly for the evidence. My
inner critic had already set up shop in my ear, busily reviewing
everything I did, far less forgivingly than any journalist I would
come to encounter.
Face: an eclectic collection of detestable features. Zero out
of five stars.
Alannahs peersTV personalities such as Molly Meldrum,
rock stars such as Danger Michaels, production gods such as John
Villiersbecame as engrained in my psyche as she did. Nobody
at school even knew who Molly was, but each night in front of
the bathroom mirrorappliqud in my denim shorts and bra
top against Mums authentically vintage avocado-green tilesI
imagined being interviewed by him. He asked me questions
that cracked me wide like a coconut; revealed my tender meat
to the world.
And at what age did you realise you could rely only on
yourself?
Seven.
Seven. Molly scanned the studio audience to make sure they
understood the gravity of this. But still you managed not to let
on that anything was wrong; not to anyone.
I met my eyes solemnly in the mirror and absorbed his
admiration.
Not to anyone, Molly. Iam a vault.
Since Dad disappeared to be all hard-done-by in a different
shit suburb, the focus on me at home had intensified like I was
an ant under a microscope. At weekends I removed myself from
the gravitational pull of Mums grief and spent as much time
as possible a few train stops away at Roses house, in a part of
Westmead the other side of Pazzamazza that real estate agents
called leafy. We prepped our career by writing out Alannahs
lyrics on our ring binders and scouring her 1997 memoir, Pour
9
KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
Me Another. Just as pubescent girls in decades past had read
Judy Blumes Forever, we folded over page corners that signalled
cocaine use and sex in radio-station broom cupboards. It was
so inspiring. She was our Shangri-La.
It was Aunt Alannahs lack of interest in us that turned her
into even more of a legend in our eyes. We relished the slightest
flicker of approval like starving dogs thrown a scrap, never
tiring of asking when she would next visit. It had been six years
since shed come to Taronga Zoo with us. She and my mother
had a fight while we were watching the falcon display and we
were marched out to the car before we could even get to the ice
cream. Icould only hope to be as frantically busy as Alannah,
Mum was liable to sneer, but I am just a single parent with a
job to hold down.
The need to stake my claim on Alannah ahead of Rose was
intense. After Dad left, Mum and I went back to her maiden
name of Dall, and then Rose Rogers started calling herself Dall
too, even though she had no legal right.
When I was a little kid I hoped Alannah would adopt me, but
upon turning fourteen I decided to be more proactive. I wrote
her countless letters in pink curlicue with pictures in the margins
and tried everything to get her to write back: queries about what
hair product she used in the video for Accidents and Incidents;
wild hypotheses about what Michael Hutchence would have
been like, which begged correction; bright observations that Id
better be careful cutting my arms because I once nearly hit an
artery; despair about being anchored to my mothers gloom;
witty remarks about Roses character compared to the character
of those rather less obvious than she.
It was my pondering about contacting a local producer named
Vince Rice to work on our demos that finally provoked a response.
Such was my inability to grasp who Alannah might really be,
Iread her email in my head as though she were Nigella Lawson.
10
Cherry Bomb
Nina, she purred.
Vis-a-vis your demos. Please dont go anywhere near that
ridiculous cowboy Vince Rice, or ANYBODY ELSE who
works out of that studio. They are thieves and crooks and they
WILL rip you off.
You need somebody with a solid reputation and an ear to
the ground. Ive booked you into Glasshouse Studios in Kings
Cross for seven days with John Villiers, a producer Ive worked
with a lot. He will take care of you. Dont worry about $$he
owes me.
I hope you work through your other problems.
A.

Vis-a-vis John Villiers and Alannah Dall . . . I could tell that

Rose was pained that I went home with the engineer a few days
into tracking, even though he was cool and never mentioned it
to John Villiers. I was thankful for that, because it turned out
John Villiers was exactly my type: much older, steady blue eyes,
able forearms, faded flannel shirts, kids, divorce pending. He
winked at me when I accidentally dropped my Coke all over the
floor and from that moment on he was a marked man. (If youve
bought our albums youll have sung along to my exaltations to
John Villiers on Svengali and El Capitan, and been none the
wiser as to who they were about.) He was inside the studio right
now and I could practically feel the heat through four inches
of brick wall.
One acquired a certain studied indifference towards recording
studios over time, but at first Rose and I had been cripplingly shy
around the moody engineers and mysterious bands passing in and
out. Wed head straight for the safety of the couch of Studio A
and sit staring at our phones like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
11
KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
Bring some things in from home to help you relax, Alannah
had suggested, down the line from somewhere glittery on the
Gold Coast, where she lived these days. Alannah once caused
massive fire damage to a studio in Sydney while tripping heavily.
Legend had it a tapestry draped on the wall for ambience was
ignited by a candle. Make it your space. Candles, incense, wine;
whatever it takes.
John Villiers (no one ever said John; it was always John
Villiers) had his name on the back of every great Australian
album since the late eighties, including my aunts last ever release
before she mysteriously disappeared from public view. Id been
working on him all week, leaning against the vocal booth with
my back arched between takes or folding languidly over the desk
next to him, letting my curtain of hair drop like one of the seven
veils. Once, Istarted lisping into the mic like Gossling or Julia
Stone, just so I could hear him laugh through the cans. You
got a good sense of someone by their laugh. Id come up with a
new, husky one like Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation.
John Villiers was doing incredible things with The Dolls
songs, preserving their vim while revving them up like a Mack
truck. He said it was all about capturing the unbearable urgency
of being a teenager; that sense that everything comes in limited
supply with a short window of opportunity. He said it revolved
around the cause and effect of hormonal impulses and bad deci-
sions. Since the fifties, old songwriter creeps had tried to bottle
it, but it came most authentically from the horses mouth, he
said: Teenage Kicks by The Undertones, Alright by Supergrass,
Cant Say No by The Dolls.
John Villiers remembered that urgency, and he reckoned we
had it locked deep inside us, like a glowing gemstone in our
bellies. He actually got us to touch our bellies as we sang, to
feel our diaphragms expanding. Between takes of Bad Influence
he put his hand on my throat and got me to drop my larynx.
12
Cherry Bomb
The Dolls: the Glasshouse demos
Bad Influence: The first track we recorded, which took approxi-
mately eighty-five takes. (Alannah was said to refuse to do
more than one.) Rhymes rocknroll with filled a hole and this
old town with what a let-down. And thats after John Villiers
tidied it up.
Cant Say No: Sets the tone, albeit clumsily, for a lot of my later
work on the subject of culpability, such as Rue the Day, My
Dark Places and (The Way) Im Wired. Mixes metaphors a bit,
but not bad. You can detect the beginnings of what will become
my trademark cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof yowl.
Your Street: Rose puts on a saccharin tone Taylor Swift would
baulk at, over a vaguely ska rhythm and hideous synth chords.
(Do synth chords have any place in a Dolls song? Iwould argue
not. Id told Rose nobody ever looked hot playing keys.)
Dish Served Cold: Marking the start of a long career of passive-
aggressive revenge songs for Rose Rogers-Dall. (It just
happened, so you say / And you didnt mean to hurt me
anyway. . .) Awesome detuned guitar assault from John Villiers.
After John Villiers scratched his chin at all our other
suggestions, we decided to call ourselves The Dolls, which he
reckoned had more longevity than The Bain Maries and was
less subversive. We chose it partly because it was a pun on our
surnamemy surnameand partly because we called each
other doll, like gangster molls or gum-snapping waitresses on
Route 66. Anyway, it was too late to turn back now, because
Id stencilled it on my guitar case with spray paint and created
a Facebook page. Mysteriously, it was also starting to find its
way onto the toilet wall of every rock venue in the inner west.
Rose texted her mum to let her know we were done for the
day, then turned back to me.
13
KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
Its all right, she said about the engineer, because she knew
I couldnt help it. I had a compulsion to sleep with people; it
helped me to get a grip on a situation. She pulled me next to
her against the wall and took a photo with her bejazzled phone,
pursing her new lips.
Just be careful, she went, examining the shot. Weve got to
keep John Villiers on side. Just stick to the plan.
14
2
REMEMBERING THE
BAIN MARIES
Everybody liked to think they discovered me, as though I simply
didnt exist until they wrote out a cheque. But long before
anybody had heard of Alannah Dall, the hallways lined with
platinum records and the kidney-shaped swimming pool were
as real to me as this book youre holding now.
POUR ME ANOTHERALANNAH DALL (SABRE BOOKS)
Before we were The Dolls, we were The Bain Maries, and its
worth acknowledging the impact that cult three-piece had on our
career. It was the only time Rose and I took on an additional band
memberand it explains why we were reluctant to do soagain.
Erica Riley.
One of the Year Ten scene kids. Blue streaks in her fringe,
leopard-print stockings under her school skirt, a colourful mouth.
The teachers always ragged on her to take off her tiara, which
she would place elaborately on her desk and then refurnish in
her fluffed hair when the bell rang.
Even more than wanting to be a drummer in our band, it was
Ericas burning ambition to be a Hooters Girl. Parramatta was
15
REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES
the first city (it calls itself a city) in Australia to open a Hooters
Restaurant, but Erica wasnt the first girl from our school to
aspire to wear its orange satin shorts. She reckoned you could
get all the wings you wanted.
Word got around that in lunch break Id said theyd never
have her, not even if they found some shorts big enough. It was
only a joke, but then when I turned up late to double maths after
my extra music tuition, she pronounced me a stuck-up bitch in
a show-stopping voice. It went ignored by Mrs Thompson, and
by me, and so the trolling escalated. Dirty looks in a sweltering
demountable classroom would not satisfy her ire.
After school, on the netball court, the boys made monkey
noises as the girls crowed in their little packs. All I wanted to
do was go home, untie the damp jumper from around my waist
and drop it on to the floor on my way to the shower, where Id
raid Helens Body Shop supply and soap the day off mebut
Erica was rounding me off at the goal circle.
Sing us a song! some toolbag yelled, bursting into a bit of
vintage Alannah and pulling his regulation blue shirt into two
points away from his chest.
The injustice of the situation stung more than Ericas crack
across my cheekbone. Ifished the hair out of my face and shielded
my eyes from the sun.
If that had hurt . . . Isaid.
I knew I wasnt the horse the crowd was backing and I couldnt
understand why. Everyone knew that Erica begged all her mates
for money for an abortion and then turned up to school with a
new phone. Where was the baby? What baby? It was forgotten
almost immediately. Yet, dare to command the spotlight in the
annual school concert and you were marked for life.
The trick to being in a fight if you were a girl was to not fight
like a boy. Boys needed to rein their fists in tight and stay boxy.
Girls needed to extend their arms and keep their hair tilted out
16
Cherry Bomb
of reach. Whether you had clips or a proper expensive weave,
the sight of a raccoons tail of synthetic pink hair on rubberised
asphalt was a great leveller.
I grabbed hold of the chain around Ericas neck as she dug
her nails into my arms. She was a big unit, but we managed to
drag each other in clean arcs, eyes locked. Erica had the unfair
advantage, because Id sprained my ankle jumping out of the
bathroom window tipsy a few days earlier. Before Id even hit
double digits I had learned to plot escape routes, wherever I went.
Like now: across the oval, into the bushes, over the fence, away.
Sometimes Id do proper dress rehearsals, rolling up clean socks
and stuffing them in my pockets, sticking my ATM card down
my bra and putting on three pairs of undies. Imight sit on the
bathroom window ledge, poised, for half an hour, or for as many
cigarette stubs as I had to smoke. Then Id take everything off
and put it all back again.
The world funnelled down into Ericas facelike the freckles
on her nose that Id never noticed before. I gave her one last
heave to the left and her chain broke in my hand. I heard the
little rip in my pencil skirt as I was skittled. Istood up quickly,
like nothing had happened.
The broken necklace gave Erica the opportunity to cry foul
and brush the gravel off herself with laboured concern as her
friends gathered round. Youll be paying for the skirt and my
necklace both, was the suggestion of that gesture.
Bitch, she actually said.
Whore, Icountered.
How embarrassing was that on a scale of one to ten? Molly
Meldrum asked, as I watched everyone disperse across the oval,
dwarfed by their schoolbags.
Ten.

17
REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES
Rose had held my coat the whole time and said nothing. We
both said nothing until we pushed through her front gate
twenty minutes later and she unlocked the front door. Its panel
held stained-glass roses, and when we were little I managed to
convince Rose that her parents had named her after the door.
Im starving, she announced, slinging her bag down in the
hallway under the ornate mirror and coat hooks. Ihung mine on
a hook so that Roses mother, Dee, would be pleased with me.
It would take me years before I realised that everyone has a
story, even Rose. This truth would be reiterated to me by a series
of professionals whenever the record company packed me off to
rehabilitation retreats with names like Dry Cedars to refresh.
Ishould have been refreshing, but instead Id wind up festering
between stiff sheets that had an unbearable texture beneath
my thumbs. Flanked by bottles of expensive mineral water and
sentimental cards adorned with cautious floral designs, Iwould
contemplate how intolerably perfect my cousins life was.
For example, while I might hang out of the bathroom window
and smoke of an evening, planning escape, Rose would be eating
dinner in the bosom of her family, at this kitchen table under
the low wicker lightshade that threw little rectangles all over the
walls. I sat down in one of the chairs, just picturing it. Shed
be served proper homemade lasagne, because Dee made decent
meals with incredible ingredients like nutmeg and chives. Iloved
dinner at Roses house. Ihad to put up with visits to church if it
was a Sunday, but I could pretend I was their favourite daughter
and theyd play along.
Separation by Ninas Parents
The question on everyones lips with this new direction for the
beleaguered Dall family is simply: could Separation be too little
too late after the epic disappointments of recent years? Hopes
waned after Ninas Parents first effort, Your Father and I . . . (2007),
18
Cherry Bomb
failed to ring true with its depressing refrains including Youre just
going to spend a few months with your grandparents, and so this
follow-up must quit all the backtracking and forge ahead. I fear
we will never again have the halcyon days of, say, Ninas Fifth Year
or Ninas Favourite Christmas, but already things are sounding
more harmonious. Separation could be a bold move in the right
direction. 4/5
Molly Meldrum
Dee and Tim werent home yet, though. Rose put vintage
No Doubt on the stereo and I hopped on the counter and
picked gravel out of my palms as she made sandwiches. Gwen
Stefani really was the ultimate. It was uncanny how alike we
were. She had a mezzo-soprano range; so did I. She paired
platinum blonde hair with pink lipstick; so did I. She liked
bra tops; I liked bra tops.
In Roses bedroom we lay on the bed and ate our sandwiches
with the windows cranked open. Rose drew eyes on my arm.
She never drew anything but slightly feline eyes, colouring the
pupils in blue. Shed Tippexed her nails and then coloured them
in black with a Sharpie.
Dont eat the bread, she said. Or just eat one slice.
She wriggled up next to me and slipped a thin arm through
mine. Rose was tactile. Shed reach out and touch my hair or pat
someones thigh, without worrying about whether they thought
she was a pervert. And because it was Rose, they didnt.
Youve got such beautiful eyes, she mewed with her mouth
full. I could tell she was practising her voice for boys. We had
the exact same colour eyes, so I was just a walking mirror to her
half the time. Rose was the sort of girl whod look at a sunset
and think, That would look nice on me.
She had a silky warmth that made me envious, but Rose was
the master of the put-down buoyed up like a pom-pom shake.
19
REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES
My mother, who had asked me to call her Helen as of this
year, reckoned: If Rose were any smarter, shed be dangerous.
And also: Shes knows shes boring. Shes so boring she cant
even bring herself to finish anything she says.
And: Shes so highly strung you could play Twinkle Twinkle
on herwhich was unkind, because Rose had been picked on at
private school, which was why shed downgraded to my school.
You couldnt blame her for never daring to have my back.
Helen was more of an unsentimental, pull-your-socks-up sort
than most. There was no talking to her: everything you said got
filed away and used in future evidence against you, after she was
done being defensive about it. Ididnt want to be like her, bunched
up with bitterness. Rose and I had spent hours hanging out in
Parramatta Park at dusk with just a goon bag and a few possums
for company, speculating on what vexed her so much. Iknew all
about the adultery stuff, because since he moved out Dad used me
as his confidante whenever hed had a few beersand Id get a
few beers out of it, too. It was just hard-done-by talk as he stared
sightlessly at the TV in the corner of whatever pub hed treated us
to. His revelations rarely surprised me. Men always wanted me to
bear witness to their sexiness, for some reason; it didnt matter
what their relationship to me was.
Nothing got Helen madder than mentions of Alannah, though.
We put it down to jealousy. Helen had been Alannahs personal
assistant back in the early eighties, but it hadnt lasted more than
a year. She was my rock, Alannah explained in her memoir.
But we were too close, if anything.
Rose had a careless disdain for her own mother, Dee, but
despite Dees reproaches about not being a taxi service, they
enjoyed spending time together. When she was younger, Rose
used to get up at seven in the morning and, unbidden, clean parts
of the house for her parents, just for good-girl points. Cleaning
brought her peace. Each odd item organised in an orderly fashion
20
Cherry Bomb
satisfied a need in her brain; the same satisfaction she would get
from putting people in their place later in life.
Project Bain Maries, said Rose, emphasising each word as
she pushed aside her plate. Ive been thinking, if you pash the
guy in Cash Converters he might loan us a drum kit. Just for
a little while.
Her tone of voice told me she wasnt serious, but sometimes
Rose would recruit me for just such a mission. I knew well
the thrill of being able to make someone groan just by using
my body, but Rose didnt understand the power of it all. So
she left it to me.
No way, Isaid. There was something very wrong about that
bloke; more wrong than I could handle, so I didnt need Rose
putting thoughts in my head.
Its either that or a drum machine, so choose, she said.
Okay, next item on the agenda: what to wear on stage. Dont
freak out, okay, but I got you this.
She reached under the bed, where she kept her diary, and
pulled out a biker jacket that bore the battle scars of a thousand
hectic nights. I knew it had cost a hundred and fifty bucks,
because Id checked the tag when we were in Threads and made
a sad face.
Every weekend Rose and I made the pilgrimage to Sydneys
inner west. Newtown, with its tattoo parlours and vintage-clothes
stores hunkered under coloured tin awnings, was like the Land
of Oz to us. We followed the curve of King Street from one end
to the other, stopping in at every shop, although it was only Rose
who ever had any money. Im not saying she was spoilt, but her
dad did once pick her up from school camp in the Benz instead
of the everyday car, and when she squealed Daddy! and took
a running jump into his arms, Ihad to turn away.
Rose knelt on the bed behind me and gently released my hair
from its ponytail. A strand fell down my face and I closed my
21
REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES
eyes. Now we both have one. Your old coats so stinky, Icant
stand it anymore.
I lifted the jacket off the bed. It was heavy.
I got it when you were in the changing room trying on that
T-shirt, she said, pleased with herself. Ithought she might have.
Ispent ages in there.
Rose was on the money with the jacket. Usually we had very
different tastes. Iwas already starting to realise that there were
some clothes that only women thought were adorable, including
clogs, culottes, brogues and berets, and so I tried on things
with unisex appeal, such as hotpants and tight pedal-pushers,
tilting my head for the sideways-on smooth-down. Rose always
bought herself variations of the same thing; say, two polka-dot
cardigans in minutely different shades. She saw patterns and
repetition everywhere; it drove me nuts. And pairs. She was
especially interested in pairs.
Nina, prompted Rose. Try it on.
It doesnt smell, Igrumbled of my old coat, but I was already
disowning it, pulling this one on and getting to my feet so that
I could examine myself in front of her full-length mirror. Id
boil in it, but I looked super hot-hot. Definitely, Ilooked like I
might be in a band.
Fits like a glove, Rose crowed. It confirmed her long-held
belief that she knew me better than I knew myself.
But she didnt, that was the thing. I didnt deserve jackets.
Ididnt deserve Rose. Id done something to my cousin that shed
never forgive me for if she ever found out.
I couldnt bring myself to think about it, ever.

It was my fault that Erica asked to join the band. She and I had
fallen into a truce whereby we had stopped calling each other
skanks in the corridor and would phone each other after school
22
Cherry Bomb
in the spirit of keeping ones enemies close. Id sing her some
song that was probably going to be a big hit and shed tell me
who she was thinking of bashing. When it came to hanging up
wed both stay silently on the phone, trying not to breathe.
During those calls Id say things like, Yeah, it probably,
like, wont come to anything, but weve got an albums worth
of material now, and Id mention the Telecaster I was saving
up for, even though I was still dragging a Strat copy to and
from Roses house. It was just brags, but then Erica expressed
an interest, forcefully. Iprobably still had some wriggle room if
I wanted to escape, if it were not for the fact that her brother
had the only known drum kit in Parramatta, other than the
ones in Cash Converters.
Its a temporary measure, Rose said intensely, when we had
a meeting on her bed to discuss it. This band is you and me.
And if either of us ever leaves, its over.
Top 10 Rose and Nina bedroom band names
1. The Bain Maries
2. The Cruella Devilles
3. Las Chicas
4. The Alannahs
5. Hot Tamales
6. The Lesbians
7. The Foundlings
8. Miso Horny
9. Geisha Girls
10. The Vignettes
And so, The Bain Maries began to take solid form in Roses
bedroom, with Erica wedged behind the kit in shorts so small I
preferred not to turn around to face her. Reluctantly, Iput her
anarcho-vegetarian anthem to three chords.
23
REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES
C So you like a bit of steak to eat from day to day
C You like the taste and youre prepared to pay
F Money to kill the animals that do you no harm
C And at night you go to sleep safe and warm . . . G
We were, and will always remain, a punk-rock bandalthough
you may variously have read pop, pop-punk, punk-rock and
(terrible) kitty-punk. From the start, Iwas the chief songwriter.
Within a week I wrote the vaguely tribal Mud (Mud sticks,
sticks like glue / How about I throw it at you / Throw it at the
wall / Throw it at the wall / Throw it at the wall, etc.); and
Creeps and Perves, about the men of the western suburbs;
and Dead Samantha, with its unrevealingly ominous plotline
(She said oh my god / Oh my god / Oh my god). On this
particular night I revealed Dumb Girl, which was about Erica,
who thumped away at her toms none the wiser. Icould always
feel Ericas eyes boring into the back of me when we played,
probably judging me for looking too lithe.
Im not being horrible, but I think your guitar is out of tune,
Erica said, waving Dumb Girl to a halt. Rose sighed and drew
cherry lip balm on her lips, which Id come to understand meant:
This is your problem.
As soon as Erica left each night, Rose and I spent hours
honing our craft in front of her ensuite mirror. Lined up with
the light dimmed flatteringly, we practised shimmering. Ifilmed
Rose on my phone as she radiated magickal energy through
her eyeballs, then she did me. The model Tyra Banks called it
smizing and wed watched all the footage on Americas Next
Top Model. Rose had even started to upload her own tutorials,
on hair, make-up and facial expressions.
Im doing it! Get it! shed say.
Rose had a natural propensity to look sour when she was
off-guard, so my job was to make sure that she didnt slip. In
24
Cherry Bomb
return, she coached me on how to give a small, magnanimous
sigh whenever a photo was taken, which softened the face.
Through the nose, she instructed. And think blessings.
Ibless you.
Wed also taken to speaking with American accents, though
we hadnt discussed this as such; it just happened organically. All
three of us, Rose decided, needed to wear one bra strap visibly
hanging down under our top, even at school. That would be
The Bain Maries thing.
These are some of my fondest memories of Rose. Anyone we
came to work closely with over the years, from stylists to drivers
and personal assistants, would comment among themselvesand
to the odd journalistthat she and I were scathing about each
other. But I needed her. I loved the reward of making her face
light up, just as I hated to feel myself blacken inside whenever
I compared our lives. So, when The Bain Maries were booked
time at Glasshouseto emerge, with John Villiers spit-polish,
as The DollsI didnt hesitate at the idea of being locked into
a contract with my cousin for an unspecified number of years.
We were yin and yang, the perfect foil to each other, Ithought.
And anyway, Iowed her.
Praise for Cherry Bomb
Though the coating is rocknroll, the tough interior is about
the capricious, bewildering whims of adolescence and young
adulthood. Nina Dall is as singular and mercurial a character
as Ive ever been charmed and terrified to meet.
TI M ROGERS
Valentish has nailed the desperate, sociopathic scramble to reach
the dizzying, depraved heights of rocknroll, where if you dont
hate your bandmates on some level, youre doing it wrong. I
laughed, I blushed, I actually guffawed. I couldnt put it down.
ABBE MAY
Jenny Valentish is hands-down one of my favourite writers in
Australia. Her first novel, Cherry Bomb, is full of punch, charm
and sleek observations.
ADALI TA
369
CHERRY BOMB SOUNDTRACK
CHAPTER 1: KINGS CROSS SHANGRI-LA
The Runaways: Cherry Bomb
Ramones: Sheena is a Punk Rocker
Cherry Glazerr: Teenage Girl
CHAPTER 2: REMEMBERING THE BAIN MARIES
Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Pin
Kenickie: Come Out 2Nite
Killing Heidi: Mascara
CHAPTER 3: MEN
Divinyls: Boys in Town
The Undertones: Teenage Kicks
The Belle Stars: Sign of the Times
CHAPTER 4: BAD MANAGER
The Long Blondes: Once and Never Again
Toni Braxton: He Wasnt Man Enough
The Distillers: Drain the Blood
370
Cherry Bomb
CHAPTER 5: DUMMY
Lykke Li: Youth Knows No Pain
Sky Ferreira: Nobody Asked Me (If I Was Okay)
Babes in Toyland: Wont Tell
CHAPTER 6: AWARD FOR BEST PASH
L7: Can I Run
Abbe May: Sex Tourettes
Hole: Boys on the Radio
CHAPTER 7: ITS ON
The Raveonettes: Sleepwalking
PJ Harvey: You Said Something
The Pretenders: Night in My Veins
CHAPTER 8: THE GOLD COAST
Wanda Jackson: Fujiyama Mama
Stevie Nicks: Edge of Seventeen
Jane Wiedlin: Rush Hour
CHAPTER 9: THE BIG CHEESE
Danielle Dax: Cathouse
Daisy Chainsaw: Love Your Money
Ema: So Blonde
CHAPTER 10: THE UTE MUSTER
Daphne & Celeste: U.G.L.Y.
Cat Power: Lost Someone
Martha Wainwright: Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole
CHAPTER 11: CHEAP TRICK
Altered Images: I Could Be Happy
Bangles: Walking Down Your Street
Robyn: Dancing on my Own
371
CHERRY BOMB SOUNDTRACK
CHAPTER 12: FIGHT LIKE A GIRL
Lana Del Rey: This is What Makes Us Girls
Beach House: Myth
Cheetah: Spend the Night
CHAPTER 13: LOS ANGELES
The Runaways: Queens of Noise
The Go-Gos: This Town
Cyndi Lauper: Heading West
CHAPTER 14: TALL POPPIES
Jack off Jill: Fear of Flying
The Preatures: Is This How You Feel?
The Donnas: Who Invited You
CHAPTER 15: ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME
Holly and the Italians: Tell That Girl to Shut Up
Belly: Now Theyll Sleep
Dum Dum Girls: Wrong Feels Right
CHAPTER 16: THE AMERICAN TOUR
Ladyhawke: Back of the Van
Martha and the Muffins: Echo Beach
Elastica: Waking Up
CHAPTER 17: INTERVENTION
Neko Case: Hold On, Hold On
Concrete Blonde: Tomorrow Wendy
Those Darlins: Screws get Loose
CHAPTER 18: I TOUCH MYSELF
Strawberry Switchblade: Since Yesterday
Blondie: In the Flesh
The Motels: Total Control
372
Cherry Bomb
CHAPTER 19: TAMWORTH
Bow Wow Wow: Go Wild in the Country
Savages: Husbands
The Pretenders: Night in My Veins
CHAPTER 20: SOAP SCUM
Lucinda Williams: King of Hearts
Adalita: Blue Sky
Ronnie Spector: Never Gonna Be Your Baby
CHAPTER 21: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
Lush: Hypocrite
Siouxsie and the Banshees: The Passenger
Mazzy Star: Fade Into You
CHAPTER 22: BOSS
M.I.A.: Paper Planes
The Slits: So Tough
Gossip: Heavy Cross
CHAPTER 23: TRUMP TRUMP TRUMP
Junk Horses: I phone, No Answer
Warpaint: Elephants
Lydia Lunch and Rowland S. Howard: Endless Fall
CHAPTER 24: NO NO NO
Metric: Dreams So Real
Transvision Vamp: Sister Moon
Catcall: The World is Ours