Kim Fowley Quotes in The Runaways (2010)

Kim Fowley: Joan! This is Joan Jett. And you are?

Cherie Currie: Cherie.

Kim Fowley: Cherie? Cherie what?

Cherie Currie: Currie.

Kim Fowley: Cherie Currie. That's your real name? Tell me, Cherie Currie, can you sing or play a musical instrument?

Cherie Currie: Yeah. Yeah, I can sing. I won a talent show lip-syncing David Bowie. Why?

Kim Fowley: "Why?" ask the maybe-great Cherie Currie. Read my lips. We love your look. We're choosing you to become a part of rock 'n' roll history. Do you want to be in the band?

Cherie Currie: Are you kidding?

Kim Fowley: How old are you?

Cherie Currie: Fifteen.

Kim Fowley: Jail fucking bait. Jack fucking pot!

Kim Fowley: You hear that? That's the sound of hormones raging.

Kim Fowley: Dog shit! Urine-stained dog shit! Rock 'n' roll is a blood sport, a sport of men. It's for the people in the dark, the death cats, the masturbators, the outcasts who have no voice, no way of saying "I hate this world, my father's a faggot, fuck you, fuck authority - I want an orgasm!" Now, growl! Moan! This ain't women's lib, kiddies - this is women's libido! I wanna see the scratch marks down their fucking backs! Now, do it again. Again. Like your boyfriend just fucked your sister in your parent's bed. Like you want a fucking orgasm!

Kim Fowley: Pig stink! They'll eat you alive out there! Rock 'n' roll is tough music played in tough venues! Men don't like to seem women anywhere but in their kitchens or on their knees - let alone on stage with guitars. Now, buckle up and get ready for boot camp, babies - you're gonna be trained like the Viet fucking Cong.

[shouts outside]

Kim Fowley: Bring it in!

[Guys filter in carrying crates filled with junk]

Kim Fowley: Okay, filthy pussies, today is heckler's drill. These degenerates here are not your fans. They're not here to tell you how pretty you look, they don't want your fucking autographs. They want to hurt you. They want you to retreat. Do not.

[the girls look at each other wearily]

Kim Fowley: Now, move it, move it - I wanna see you bitches to the death dance. Play!

[Guys start throwing bottles and bricks and garbage]

Kim Fowley: Incoming!

Joan Jett: Hey, fuckin' heckler's drill really worked. This girl threw a bottle at my face... smashed it right back at her!

Kim Fowley: You girls did the death dance in there. Showed those little punks how to cock fight.

Cherie Currie: What the fuck is this?

Sandy West: That was pretty nasty, Kim.

Kim Fowley: That - is what we call controversy. That - is what we call publicity. That - is what we call a juicy story. And you're welcome. Because of me, that piece is twice as long and half of it is about you! This is press, my budding young starlet - not prestige. Get used to it. Now get in the booth and finish the song. I got this place on lock-out and I'm paying through the fucking nose. So let's go, let's go. Sing. Sing!

Cherie Currie: No.

Kim Fowley: No?

Joan Jett: Come on, Cherie, let's just finish and go home.

Lita Ford: Yeah, get in the booth, Cherie.

Joan Jett: Shut the fuck up, Lita. Shut the fuck up!

Lita Ford: You shut up.

Cherie Currie: I'm not singing.

Kim Fowley: Of course you're singing. You're a singer, Cherie! That's what you do. You sing and you strut around in your underwear. You do what I tell you to do. And right now, I'm telling you to get in the booth. So get in the booth.

Cherie Currie: No.

Kim Fowley: Mm. Get in the booth, Cherie.

Cherie Currie: No.

Kim Fowley: Get in the booth.

Cherie Currie: No.

Kim Fowley: Get in the booth before I lose my patience and send you back where I rescued you from.

Cherie Currie: Good! Send me back, I don't give a shit! I wanna go back!

Kim Fowley: Careful... Get in the booth.

Cherie Currie: No!

Kim Fowley: Get in the booth!

Cherie Currie: No! I'm not gonna be your little lap dog anymore! You've been speaking for me this whole time! You get in the fucking booth! I'm done!

Kim Fowley: Cherie Currie! Welcome. You look great. What song are you going to sing for us today?

Cherie Currie: Um, "Fever".

Kim Fowley: "Fever"?

Lita Ford: A Peggy Lee song?

Sandy West: Who's Peggy Lee?

Joan Jett: My mom likes Peggy Lee.

Lita Ford: Kim, you should have told her. We don't play that shit.

Cherie Currie: Suzi Quatro covered "Fever".

Lita Ford: It's a slow song. We don't play slow songs.

Joan Jett: Well, can you do a different song?

Cherie Currie: Yeah, it's just the only one I learned for today.

Kim Fowley: [interrupts] Go! Wait outside. Go. Go!

Kim Fowley: Joan, come here. Bring your guitar. We have to do it for her, I guess. Cherie? Cherie.

[listens to Joan's guitar]

Kim Fowley: She's a wild child. She's a wild girl.

Joan Jett: Yeah.

Kim Fowley: She's a wild girl. She's a, oh she's a firecracker. Give me something else. Something else. Firecracker, rocket, bomb, bomb. Cherry bomb! Cherry bomb.

[Joan changes guitar riff]

Kim Fowley: Do it again. She's a ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb! Ahh!

Joan Jett: [laughs] That's good!

Kim Fowley: Yeah. Cherry bomb, right. Hello daddy.

Joan Jett: Hello mom? I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb! That's good!

Kim Fowley: Right? Yeah!

Kim Fowley: Cherie Currie. Cherry bomb. Sex kitten. Brigitte Bardot in a trailer park. Joan Jett. The rock 'n' roll heart, street tough brunette. Sandy West. Miss California with a joint in her mouth and a chip on her shoulder. Lita Ford. The love child of Sophia Loren and Ritchie Blackmore. You do not wanna fuck with Lita.

Joan Jett: Uh, are you Kim Fowley?

Kim Fowley: Lemme guess. You sing in a band. And it's the greatest fucking band in the world. And I'm the luckiest dogfucker because I get to hear it first.

Joan Jett: I'm, uh... I'm Joan Jett. I play guitar. Electric guitar.

Kim Fowley: Joan Jett, that's a cool name. You guys got a demo?

Joan Jett: No... No guys, man. I want to start an all-girl rock band.

Kim Fowley: Really. Well, maybe I am the luckiest dogfucker after all... Sandy! Sandy the drummer, this is Joan Jett. She claims to be some sort of guitar goddess.

Joan Jett: Well, I didn't say that... that "goddess" thing.

Sandy West: It's cool.

Kim Fowley: What in the fuck have you girls been doing over there?

Joan Jett: We've been practicing, man! Like you said.

Kim Fowley: Well, get back to it. You bitches are gonna be bigger than the fucking Beatles!

Kim Fowley: Repeat after me: 'I'll give ya something to live for. Have ya, grab ya until you're sore.'

Cherie Currie: I can't say that.

Kim Fowley: What? Oh, Okay. Goodbye. Go sell girl scout cookies. Who's next?

Kim Fowley: [to Cherie] I like your style. A little Bowie, a little Bardot, and a look on your face that says I could kick the shit out of a truck driver.

Kim Fowley: Yeah, I was gonna form a band of dwarves, you know, but their hands were too small. They couldn't hold their instruments.

Record Executive: Well, these girls can certainly hold their instruments.

Kim Fowley: And their liquor.

Kim Fowley: Girls nowadays, they don't have any role models. This band is self-empowerment, man - Aphrodite, Cleopatra, Eurydice! No more second-class status, sitting at concerts with asshole boyfriends who worship bands from a Popular Mechanics evalutation of amplifiers. The Runaways have the most chance of any group I've seen... To do with the Beatles did. To tear this world apart.

Cherie Currie: I'm taking a break.

Lita Ford: Again?

Kim Fowley: No, you're not. You dogs wanna stay up all night, eating pussy, sucking cock, chewing Quaaludes, that's fine. But not until you get this song down. Now, do it again: One! Two! Three!

[the girls start playing]

Kim Fowley: Horse shit! Horse shit!

[Cherie laughs]

Kim Fowley: What are you laughing at? You think you can sing like that in front of people? In front of customers? You bitches need to start thinking like men. No snips, no snails, no puppy dog tails - men wanna fuck! Men want this! Filthy pussy! And you're gonna give it to them. You're gonna put it in their faces and then take it away, just to break their fucking hearts. What's wrong, Cherie, are you tired?

Cherie Currie: Yeah.

Kim Fowley: Yeah, are you bored?

Cherie Currie: Yeah, I am, actually.

Kim Fowley: Well, guess what? You're not allowed to be tired, you're not permitted to be bored. You're an employee. You are my property, and you'll do as I say or you can go flip tacos with your better-looking sister.

Cherie Currie: Fuck you, Kim. I'm losing my voice. I'm taking a break.

Kim Fowley: Hey! News flash, diva: This ain't the opera. They're not coming to hear your chops. They're not coming to hear you bang on your drum. We are in the music business. You wanna be artists, cut off your fucking ears and mail them to your boyfriends. You wanna be rock stars, listen up. Now, Cherie's lack of greatness - her lack of rock 'n' roll authority - is getting in the way of our product. What is that product? Sex! Violence! Revolt!

Kim Fowley: Are you becoming one with Japan?

Joan Jett: Well, I dunno - I learned how to use chop sticks.

Kim Fowley: I need you to keep it together there for me, Joanie.

Joan Jett: Yeah. Yeah, sure.

Kim Fowley: You dog cunts'll be lucky getting your next gig singing in the fucking shower.

Kim Fowley: The Runaways were... a conceptual rock project that failed. Do I regret that they turned on me? No, I'm glad they turned on me. It shows spirit. If I'm training a wild dog, and it bites my hand, I know I've trained it well... My hand is made of iron... That's all it took, that's all it took. 16 years old and she's already a creep. Am I worried about them? No, they'll be fine. In a few years, they'll all be living in a trailer park in the valley. Fat, pregnant and happy as fleas on a dog. But me, poor me, I'm on my way to becoming Rock and Roll Legend.

Kim Fowley: [to Sandy and Joan while rehearsing] Halt! I know what we're missing. I know what we need.

[He shows them a picture of Brigitte Bardot on a motorcycle]

Kim Fowley: Huh?

Joan Jett: Yeah.

Sandy West: Bitchin!

Kim Fowley: Vroom Vroom!