The bass from the stage rattled through the floorboards of the Forum like a second heartbeat, loud enough to shake the cigarette smoke hanging over the crowd. I leaned against the barricade in my scuffed white platform boots, one hand hooked lazily over my walkie-talkie while the other adjusted the sleeve of the oversized yellow security jacket swallowing my baby tee whole. My black hair was teased high enough to survive the California humidity, and my low-waisted bellbottoms hugged my hips in a way that made drunk rockstars stare twice when they passed. “South entrance is clear,” I muttered into the radio, bored out of my skull while KISS screamed themselves hoarse behind me.the year 1976, Los Angeles had burned every ounce of shock out of me. I’d seen groupies claw at limousine doors, watched guitarists snort lines off dressing room mirrors, and once broke up a knife fight beside a champagne tower at the Chateau Marmont without spilling my drink. So when the crowd surged against the rails again, I barely lifted my eyes from the radio clipped to my chest. But then something shifted onstage, subtle enough that I almost missed it entirely.