I had first seen the pink billboards of the scantily clad blonde in 1991 and was haunted by the racy, vapid image. ANGELY NE, it read. Who was Angelyne? And what was the story? Twenty-four years later, I was set to meet her in the parking lot of the French Quarter Marketplace in West Hollywood. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of this,” I thought. When I saw the pink mascot Corvette, I made my way over to say hello. “Can I have a minute?” Angelyne sighed, the likes of Virginia Hill, as she touched up her fuchsia lips, powdered her button nose and gassed up her motorcar. “Get in,” she motioned with a raised brow, then confidently peeled out onto Santa Monica Boulevard, burning rubber and bumping the curb. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
On the road heading toward Boystown, the calls started coming in from Scott, her fan club president and executive assistant. Among many potential gigs, someone wanted Angelyne for a rock video, another wanted to give her two grand to drive around and eat lunch. When the calls came to a lull, we listened to her music from the ’80s. The first song she played was called “Tangerine Rose.” It was about loving someone but not liking them. It was surprisingly good. Oh my god, I thought to myself, Angelyne is insightful. When I told her that her voice reminded me of both Debbie Harry and Mazzy Starr, she was quick to correct me. “Well, they’re all Angelyne.”
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