This episode was written and hosted by Lexi Pandell. She has produced work for the You Must Remember This, as well as writing for the New York Times and the Atlantic. Follow her on Twitter.

SOURCES

Read more about Norma Tanega's life

Try to Tell a Fish About Water: The Art, Music, and Third Life of Norma Tanega by Norma Tanega with a contribution by Diane Divelbess

“No Stranger Am I,” a short film by Erica Tryon

Norma Tanega, Who Sang About a Cat Named Dog, Dies at 80 (New York Times)

Norma Tanega, ‘Cat Named Dog’ singer, dies in Claremont (The Daily Bulletin)

Norma Tanega in the Treasury of Claremont Music

Norma’s biography from her former website

More on Norma Tanega's art

Internal and External Worlds Collide in Norma Tanega’s Psychologically Charged Art (Hyperallergic)

Norma Tanega

Internal Landscapes: Paintings 1967 – 2005 (White Columns — includes photography of an exhibit)

Go walkin’ through Norma Tanega art exhibit in Claremont (The Daily Bulletin)

More on Dusty Springfield's life

Dusty!: Queen of the Postmods by Annie J. Randall

Dusty: The Classic Biography by Lucy O’Brien

Dusty: An Intimate Portrait of a Musical Legend by Karen Bartlett

Dancing with Demons: The Authorized Biography of Dusty Springfield by Penny Valentine and Vicki Wickham

Dusty Springfield (Rusty Connolly for the Evening Standard)

How Dusty Springfield told me the sex secret that could have ruined her, reveals Ray Connolly (Daily Mail)

Norma Tanega’s music

“Walkin’ My Cat Named Dog” live performance

“A Street That Rhymes at 6 AM” live performance 

Images of Norma and Dusty together in California

Photo of Norma and Dusty, Christmas 1967

Photo of Dusty with Norma’s mother 

Photo of Dusty and Norma playing music at the former’s house in the mid-70s

TRANSCRIPT

I remember the first time I heard Norma Tanega’s voice. A friend posted one of her songs on an Instagram story. There was an upbeat twang of guitar. 

And then this alto voice — raw, yet smooth.

And then she’s joined by this chorus and a tambourine…

And I was just like…Who is this?

I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of her before. I was transfixed. So I started digging. And what I found was pretty incredible. I found out that Norma was from Vallejo, a city in California not far from where I lived. She had a huge hit folk song. She was the partner of Dusty Springfield at the height of their respective fame. Dusty, the singer of “Son of a Preacher Man,” took great pains to hide her lesbianism. Though her same-sex relationships were an open secret in the gay community, I didn’t even know she was queer.

And, after Norma and Dusty broke up, Norma seemed to have …disappeared. 

Her story, particularly the end, felt incomplete. 

I gathered facts, but Norma eluded me. I needed to find out more. 

My name is Lexi Pandell, and you’re listening to Have You Heard This One? A show about the stories from the back pages and hidden corners of music history.

I’m a California-based journalist who has produced work for the podcast You Must Remember This, as well as writing for the New York Times, the Atlantic, and many others. I call myself a generalist because, well, I am. I tend to cover stories based on what most fascinates me at any given time, the things I can’t get out of my head, the stories that feel incomplete. I’m prone to falling down rabbit holes. And, boy, was this a rabbit hole. 

This is a story about Norma Tanega’s life, from the spotlight to the fringes of fame to her remarkable third act.

Norma’s friend, ex-partner, and fellow artist Diane Divelbess wrote of her: “Norma the complicated — or was she simple? Was she tough or simply resilient? Always generous, she could be selfishly honest. Usually playful and outgoing, she could be moody. Creative, of course. Devious, never. Who was she? Who was she? Where to begin…”

Norma was born on January 30, 1939. Norma’s father, Tomas, immigrated from the Philippines to the United States, where he became a citizen by joining the Armed Forces. He was a bandmaster in the Navy, which is how he met Norma’s mother, Otilda, who was from Panama.

Tomas’ job brought the family south to Long Beach. Norma took after his musical talent. She learned classical piano from an instructor in Los Angeles. She also painted, and, in high school, some of her works were displayed in the Long Beach Public Library.

Norma had high cheekbones, dark brown hair, and her trademark: a wide, brilliant grin. She was also queer. And she stayed local for an all-women’s college, Scripps. 

Brian Ransom: When Norma came out of Scripps, there was this burgeoning, like, young and vibrant, lesbian scene. They were a force to be reckoned with.

That’s the voice of Brian Ransom, an interdisciplinary artist, professor at Eckerd College, and close friend of Norma.

Brian Ransom: “There was a really, I think, nurturing environment for all of them.”

And Norma and her friends were not without a sense of humor.

Brian Ransom: “They would talk about people pulling the, the fire alarms in the middle of night, and everyone would have to come out and everyone would see who was sleeping with whom.”

She graduated from Scripps in 1960 and then attended the Claremont Graduate School, where she received an MFA in painting and printmaking in 1962. Throughout this time, music remained a passion. As she later said, “I studied classical piano for 15 years, but like everybody else in college in the '60s, I was affected by the folk music rage."

“We Shall Not Be Moved” audio cue

Norma taught herself guitar by playing back parts of Joan Baez records and hanging out at performance spaces. After grad school, Norma moved to New York City to pursue a career in the arts. She visited galleries and painted. At one point, she gave a spontaneous musical performance at a party, and the hostess gave her a check for $1,000, a huge sum equivalent to $8- to 10,000 dollars today, which Norma used to fund a backpacking trip across Europe.

She returned to Greenwich Village in 1963 and joined the early anti-war protests. This was also the time of the coffee house scene, where folk music blossomed. In an apocryphal tale, she would later say that she was playing some Bob Dylan songs in a cafe when she got approached by a man. Not just any man but Bob Dylan himself. He gave her tips on how to play his music—and offered her some weed, which she apparently declined.

Brian Ransom: “This is just Norma talking, I didn't know what truth there is to it, but, you know, in those days, she said that she slept with Bob Dylan one night, and I don't know if that means biblically, I suspect not. And the only thing she remembered about it was, after he left, there was gravel in her bed.”

This wouldn’t be the last time Norma was “discovered.” She was heard by record producer Herb Bernstein and then Bob Crewe. “They said he produces records in New York and he should hear you,” she later recalled. “I was like, ‘Sure, let’s go meet him.’ I thought it was a joke.”

But Herb and Bob were very much for real. Bob Crewe owned New Voice Records and had produced acts like Frankie Valli with the Four Seasons and Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. He dug Norma’s sound and signed her to his label. Her debut was a cheeky song called “Walkin’ My Cat Named Dog.” That’s the song that would change everything.

Norma wrote “Walkin’ My Cat Named Dog” because, well, she wanted a dog but wasn’t allowed one in her apartment. So she got a cat, named him Dog, and took him on walks. 

Her success was completely unexpected. Of Norma, Diane Divelbess also wrote that, while Norma always had her guitar, “[N]o one in Claremont expected to hear her singing 'Walkin’ My Cat Named Dog' over their radio!”

In 1966, the song hit No. 20 on the American charts and No. 1 on the British charts. Norma performed on American Bandstand and Where the Action Is. And she released her eponymously named debut album. 

But Norma was an outlier in the predominantly straight, white music industry. She was a woman of color. And, of course, a lesbian, though she did not publicly announce herself as such. This is Mario Verlangieri, a musician and friend of Norma’s.

Mario Verlangieri: “They kind of didn't know what to do with her when she got signed, because she was so different from everyone else. They wanted her to look a certain way and sing a certain way and add all this production to a lot of her songs.”

As a newspaper said of her at the time: “She wears enormous rings on her fingers, brightly colored smock dresses, attractive chunky earrings — and really only needs a feather in her swept-back raven-colored hair to make her a natural double for Minnehaha.” Minnehaha is a fictional Native American woman from an old epic poem. In more modern terms, it would be like a reporter comparing Norma to Pocahontas.

Norma was also the only woman in all-male concert tours. She told a reporter, “I was the only girl. It was stunning, marvelous, terrible.”

Even as a rising star, she never entirely felt like she fit in. As she told another reporter, “Every place we played, I’d sing my three songs and say, ‘God what am I doing here?”

She wrote the song “You’re Dead” in response to the music industry’s stifling chokehold. 

As Norma said, “I always played for personal joy and that could make things difficult. Music is for pleasure. I was never good at business.”

But, in 1966, Norma was still playing the game. She traveled to England to tour with her hit song. There, she was set to appear on the variety show Thank Your Lucky Stars. And, at rehearsal, her life would change forever. 

Norma later said, “I’m standing there with my guitar like a dork while this woman, I had no idea who she was, stood on some scaffolding and went over and over this song until it was, of course, perfect.” 

That woman was pop star Dusty Springfield. I spoke to Lucy O’Brien, music journalist and author of Dusty: The Classic Biography. 

Lucy O’Brien: “Dusty in 1966 […] was pretty much at the top of her game…she had her first number one single with ‘You Don't Have to Say You Love Me.’ And she had become a real household name.”

Born in West Hampstead in 1939 to a middle-class Catholic family as auburn-haired Mary O’Brien, Dusty discovered Black soul music and put her laser focus on becoming a professional singer. By 1959, she did just that, joining bands, including one with her brother Tom, before going solo. She reinvented herself with a new name, huge peroxide-blonde wigs, and slashes of dark eye makeup, becoming known for her unique, resonant voice.

Dusty was on the rise and, it seemed, couldn’t be stopped — but she had a secret. Like Norma, Dusty was queer.

Lucy O’Brien: “In the UK, homosexuality was illegal until 1967. It was an area that was completely taboo and underground. Dusty would have, I suppose you'd call it a beard, you know, she, she would have a pretend boyfriend or her name would be linked in the press with Mick Jagger or, you know, some other guy on the scene. And these were all smokescreens really because, in terms of her love life, she was very focused on women. Really, it was like a split life.”

And then she met Norma. Think about them for a moment. Dusty, who conformed her image to the constructs of the 1960s pop scene and was a notorious perfectionist. Norma, coming from the more progressive West Coast and Greenwich Village folk scene. Dusty, who longed for mega fame. Norma, who rebelled against it. 

They were different. And their connection was electric.

Though Norma returned to New York City after her tour, she remained in contact with Dusty. They called each other regularly, and by the end of 1966, Norma moved to the UK so they could be together. Norma loved London, saying, “It was the epitome of cool.” And she loved Dusty, too.

Here’s Annie Randall, a musicology professor at Bucknell and author of Dusty! Queen of the Postmods. She interviewed Norma extensively for her book.

Annie Randall: “They were musical partners. They were life partners. They were lovers. All of it.”

Norma and Dusty initially lived in a tiny cottage near Ennismore Gardens, which Dusty rented until Norma convinced her to invest in a house. As the story goes, Dusty eventually wrote a shopping list which read, “Buy bread, buy milk, buy house.” She purchased a large home in Kensington that they transformed into the famed party pad Aubrey Walk. Norma decorated while Dusty traveled around on tour and did stints on TV. While friends and family knew about their relationship, outsiders assumed Norma was Dusty’s lackey or secretary.

Annie Randall: “You just didn't come out, especially if you were a public figure. And they just couldn't be free.”

What was their relationship like?

Here’s Lucy O’Brien. 

Lucy O’Brien: “Norma brought out a sensitive side to Dusty, the sort of more intellectual side and the artistic side.”

Norma wrote songs for her, including “The Colour of Your Eyes.” 

And she let Dusty re-record her own song, “No Stranger Am I.” 

Lucy O’Brien: "You can hear how much she loved her. They are just intensely romantic.”

Norma also worked with Dusty’s brother Tom; they even recorded a duet together, “Sing Me Sunshine.” 

Dusty and Norma threw infamous parties, inviting celebrities like Elton John. The nights often ended in food fights, a longstanding habit from Dusty’s childhood. She had a particular affinity for throwing pies. That was Dusty — lovable and eccentric. 

Lucy O’Brien: “On the downside, though, Dusty was a difficult character.”

The swings were drastic with Dusty. At her lows, Dusty struggled with then-undiagnosed bipolar disorder, a relentless schedule, anxiety, self-harming, and debilitating perfectionism. As for her highs? Well, she could be…

Brian Ransom: “Insanely egotistical." 

That’s the voice of Brian Ransom.

Brian Ransom: “...and also, in her defense, like, one of the great pop singers of all time.”

As Norma diplomatically put it, “She was a singer, I was not. She required a lot of upkeep.”

And, of course, they had an image to maintain, as Lucy O’Brien explains.

Lucy O’Brien: "There were a few probing articles in the papers. ‘Oh, isn't it interesting you know, you know, Norma spends a lot of time at Dusty’s house.’ So the inference is there for everyone to read into it really. Nudge nudge, wink wink. To be open to be openly gay at that time would have been commercial suicide and a complete no-no because it was still seen as incredibly deviant. And the pressure to stay in the closet was hugely intense.”

And, as Annie Randall says, the contrasts in their personalities also became very apparent.

Annie Randall: “My impression of Norma is that she was just a true blue person, that what you see is what you get. And if Norma is the person who loves, you know, it's 100 percent. Norma was in the relationship 100 percent. And I don't know if Dusty knew what to do with that.” 

Over time, the couple fought more and more. And, when Norma tried to laugh off conflict or be passive, Dusty became enraged. Their arguments usually started after midnight. Friends, like tennis star Billie Jean King, reported being kept up late on the phone with Norma on one line and Dusty on another. 

Annie Randall: “There were definitely two Dusties. There was Mary O'Brien, who she said was really nice. And then there was Dusty, who wasn't always so nice.”

Dusty drank heavily. And she took Mandrax — a Quaalude that, now, is known to exacerbate the manic cycles of bipolar disorder.

Norma had a brief affair during one of Dusty’s absences. Though Dusty threw a fit about it, she later said she didn’t blame Norma. And, after all, why should she? Dusty was regularly unfaithful. She had a dalliance with a woman while recording Dusty in Memphis in 1968. And, early in her relationship with Norma, Dusty had an affair with Julie Felix, another queer Southern Californian folk singer living in London. Julie later told journalists, “We were both with other women, so our time together was double secret. We were naughty and we liked the intrigue.”

Throughout this time, Norma kept working from home, painting and writing songs, including co-writing the song “Dusty Springfield” for jazz pianist Blossom Dearie. 

1970 would be a turning point for Norma and Dusty. Norma was working on her sophomore album, I Don’t Think It Will Hurt If You Smile. It was poised to be a breakthrough.

Here’s Annie Randall.

Annie Randall: “It was recorded in London, very much under the influence of Dusty and her production team. So the production values are higher. You can also hear that the backing musicians are really good, really good. The songs themselves are very inventive. And it shows this real eclectic mind.”

But then…Norma and Dusty split up. Norma left Dusty, left London, left the spotlight that, for the past four years, had been dimming on her. Her album, I Don’t Think It Will Hurt If You Smile, completely flopped when it came out in 1971. She may have had a hit only five years earlier, but by then, she had been eclipsed by Dusty. As Norma put it, “Dusty devoured me.” Still, their parting wasn’t without sadness. This is from “Go My Love,” co-written by Norma and recorded by Dusty after their break-up.

Flash forward to 2006. The setting? Claremont, California. A teenage Mario Verlangieri was about to start drum lessons with his mom and sister. They got a recommendation for a percussion teacher who ran classes out of her home in Mount Baldy. 

Mario Verlangieri: “Such a beautiful location […] you can look out the window and see the mountains.”

His family took a class and loved it. They started going weekly. 

Lexi Pandell: “I'd love to hear you tell kind of at what point you figured out who she was.”

Mario Verlangieri: “She didn't really brag about it too much. It was just kind of very matter-of-fact, like, oh, I had this hit song, you know, in the ‘60s. And I think that my mom and I had sort of done some research online after that. And we're like, oh, wow, she's the real deal.”

That’s right. It was Norma Tanega. 

How did she land back in Claremont? Well, let’s talk about Norma’s second album. Remember the one that should have been a huge hit? 

Annie Randall: “This is where the sexuality police came in.”

Annie Randall is talking about how the press cracked the case on Dusty and Norma — the tabloids had already published suggestive material about them. And Norma’s new album was about to push them both into the spotlight.

Annie Randall: “Finally, Dusty’s brother stepped in, and Norma confirmed this, Norma told me this — that Tom Springfield actually suggested to Norma that she leave England. And just, they should break up because the threat of being outed was just so great and career ruining. Tom Springfield slipped a note under her door, saying, I think it's time for you to leave. I always found this bit of the story so tragic. They were very close. And I think they loved each other very much. But the constraints of Dusty’s fame and society's homophobia made this happen.”

And as for the album? Well, the record company, RCA, let it fail intentionally. 

Annie Randall: “That could have been a real inflection point for her career. And it sunk like a rock. It simply was not promoted. She left England, and nobody knew about this album. When she came back to California, it was like, some big bubble had burst. And, you know, she landed back on the ground with a thud. You know, there was no more fairy dust.”

Back in Claremont in the early 1970s, Norma considered taking another go at the music industry. She played some new songs for a producer in L.A. According to Diane Divelbess, “After the session, he told her his interests had turned to country western and he was really hoping to hear something more like ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E’ by Tammy Wynette. Norma was stunned and hurt. It was a kick in the gut.”

Another artist might have adjusted their sound according to the industry’s whims. But Norma was done with that.

Annie Randall: “She really could have handed her songs over to other singers if she wanted to. But she did not trust the music industry. And I think this came up quite a bit in our conversation in one way or another, how skeptical she was and how she knew musicians were routinely ripped off by the industry.”

So, instead, Norma left music behind and lived a completely different — and incredibly full — life. For a number of years, she and a friend ran an art gallery in Redondo Beach. In 1973, she moved in with Diane, her school friend turned partner, and they bought their beloved mid-century ranch house in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. The home was designed by architect Foster Rhodes Jackson and was outfitted with a pottery studio, painting studio, and music room. There, Norma made art with friends and threw amazing parties. 

Annie Randall: “Her home became kind of like a haven or a refuge for young experimental people around that area.”

She became an adjunct professor in the art department at Cal Poly Pomona and, for 30 years, taught English as a Second Language at the Claremont Adult School. I spoke with Erica Tyron, director of student media at Pomona College and a friend of Norma’s. Here’s Erica:

Erica Tyron: “It definitely was something that she did to pay the bills, but she talked about it often and fondly as very fulfilling work for her. Beyond those people being students in her class, they were friends of hers. She continued to stay connected to them.”

And, of course, she painted. Even in the ’60s, a newspaper quoted her as saying that painting, not pop, was her first love. As Mario put it…

Mario Verlangieri: "Her art was all made for herself.”

She created enormous landscapes in bold, sweeping colors with lines dashed through them and white x’s. And she did a series of abstract self-portraits about her experience with different prescription drugs. Here’s Brian Ransom: 

Brian Ransom: “There will be colors often that you didn’t really readily recognize cerelian, alien blues, various weird metallics — phantasmagorical.”

Though her art was shown in local galleries, her friend and board member of the Claremont Museum of Art Catherine McIntosh later said, “Her pieces were too personal to be very sellable. She wasn’t painting to sell paintings; she was painting to express her own feelings.”

In 1987, Orange Coast Magazine called her a “recording artist who hit it big with a single record, then faded into musical obscurity.” But Norma didn’t fade into musical obscurity — at least not if you were living in Claremont, California, like Brian.

Brian Ransom: “Slowly, music started to seep back out of her again.”

Norma did things her own way, collaborating with local musicians, experimenting across genres and instrument types. She and Brian met in the late 1980s. He was making instruments out of clay — yes, seriously. And what does a clay instrument sound like, you wonder?

Brian Ransom: "It's just sitting here but I have like my ceramic trumpet, and I also play a brass. It's not one ceramic—"

Lexi Pandell: “Is that one ceramic?”

Brian Ransom: “This is ceramic.” [clanks it]

Lexi Pandell: “No way, that's so cool. Wow.”

Brian Ransom: “Here you want to hear it?”

Lexi Pandell: “Yeah!”

BR: “(plays)”

Brian put out an ad in the local paper looking for a percussionist. That’s where Norma stepped in — it was experimental, and that’s all it took to hook her. Brian and Norma’s Ceramic Ensemble played at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena, and elsewhere. Later, she played with other bands, such as Hybrid Vigour, and Latin Lizards, as well as Baboonz, a band that included her young student Mario. I could go on — Norma made a lot of music with a lot of people. She played on at least 25 CDs during her time in Claremont.

Though Norma and Diane remained friends, their relationship was open and eventually, Diane married another woman and moved to Washington. But Norma was not wanting for romantic options. She had swagger. 

 Brian Ransom: “Norma notoriously was with a variety of younger women. We went down to this sort of hipster bar and Norma walks in and, you know, everybody takes notice, I mean, she's so striking. And she would wear some sort of cloak. She probably still had her sunglasses on. It would just like rattle the cage when Norma walked in. There would be a couple of exes around and maybe someone she was interested in, I don’t know. But she always had had such a presence.”

To an outsider, it seemed like she had fully left her old life behind. Commercial music, fame, all of it. Norma’s friend Erica made a short film about Norma’s life called “No Stranger Am I,” which is available on YouTube. 

Erica Tryon: “There's footage of her pulling out a very tattered, wrinkled copy of ‘Walkin’ My Cat Named Dog’ that was her copy of it. And it just was, it spoke sort of volumes about how she just wasn't precious or attached to that part of her life or career.”

But watch that clip, and you’ll see she kept a whole collection of Dusty’s records. In great condition. Everyone handles breakups differently. But didn’t she resent Dusty or, at least, how things ended between them?

As it turns out…no. And what’s more? She actually kept in touch with Dusty — for decades. Dusty moved to California in 1972, not long after Norma. She lived in Laurel Canyon. Here’s Annie Randall.

Annie Randall: “Dusty was going to California to try to reboot her career into this new sound world in the ‘70s. And disco was happening, all kinds of stuff was happening. I think she encountered a lot of the kind of Hollywood phoniness. I don't think Dusty was prepared for that.”

According to another one of Dusty’s biographers, Dusty and Norma briefly tried to give their relationship another chance, but it didn’t work out. Soon, Dusty met the woman with whom she’d live for the next six years. And even as Dusty and Norma flitted around to different relationships.

Annie Randall: “She stayed in touch with Norma, very much so. And Norma was kind of like her safety net. And I would speculate almost her conscience as well.”

There’s a photograph from the mid-1970s of Dusty and Norma playing instruments together in Norma’s home. Dusty on the tambourine and Norma on a drum set, looking up at Dusty and smiling. And there’s another from the late ’70s of Dusty and Norma’s mother, Otilda, sitting together outside Norma’s home. In these images, without her wigs and signature make-up, Dusty looks natural. Relaxed.

Even with Norma’s friendship, Dusty’s California life devolved into tragedy. She was offered the first take for Elton John’s famous duet with Kiki Dee, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” and the theme to the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me. But she couldn’t handle it. Her voice was giving out. Dusty was incredibly self-critical for this perceived failure, for burning out on the relentless tour schedule and demands of fame. She continued to self-harm, suffered suicidal thoughts, and even passed out during a recording session. She was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder, went to rehab and joined Alcoholics Anonymous, where she became anonymous — ironically — by posing as her actual self, Mary O’Brien. 

Annie: “Dusty was kind of way into the drugs and way into the alcohol at that point. Norma was her rock, because Norma didn't do that. When Dusty would go off the rails or have a breakdown or something, she would always go back to Norma and Norma would center her. They became almost like family members.”

And Norma really was there for the worst of it. Dusty met actress Teda Bracci at a halfway house, and in 1983, the pair exchanged vows in an intimate ceremony — same-sex marriage was not yet legal. But the two fought viciously. One day, they were cataloging Dusty’s music when they began to argue. The fight escalated to a devastating end. Teda hit Dusty in the face with a saucepan, knocking out some of her teeth. Dusty grabbed a skillet and hit Teda back.

Dusty was hospitalized. Norma later recalled rushing to Cedar Sinai Hospital and bursting into tears when she found Dusty there, swollen and bruised. Despite getting reconstructive surgery, Dusty’s face was never the same.

Dusty went on welfare and, by 1985, spent time in and out of Bellevue Hospital under the care of the psychiatric team. 

She did have one last hit. It was the 1987 Pet Shop Boys collaboration “What Have I Done to Deserve This?”

Annie: “It was very sad. I mean, when you get that terrible mix of your career, going down the tubes, and then, you know, drug and alcohol problems, mental health struggles, domestic violence at home. You know, Dusty lost all of her money too. And she was broke. And so I'm sure that this is where Norma came in as well.”

Norma not only came to Dusty’s side but protected her. When Dusty was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1994, she only told a few friends, including Norma. In Dusty’s final years, she and Norma spoke often. Dusty died in 1999 at just 59 years old.

In the wake of Dusty’s death, Norma told journalist Peter Sheridan, “'I really loved her. I loved her up until the end. She was really a true friend, more like a sister to me. Though I hadn't seen her in a while, I spoke to Dusty by phone, up until the end.” When pressed to tell more details about their relationship, Norma said, “I must respect the way she was, not talking about it.”

Annie Randall: “Norma could have written a tell-all book that would have made her maybe millions of dollars, honestly. She was devoted to Dusty’s legacy. She'd never, never dished the dirt on Dusty, and I'm sure she had a lot of it to dish. I know she did.”

But why? Why would she stick with Dusty through all the sadness and messiness, the ups and downs of addiction, all of it? This is Brian.

Brian: “I think the answer is really simple. Norma just loved her. Norma loved her. And wanted to support her, despite her, you know, sort of self-hating and nihilistic tendencies.”

Brian: “Norma was so magnetic herself that there was always somebody there ready to be with Norma, so Norma wasn't desperate to reconnect with Dusty as much as that she loved her and cared for her.”

It’s certainly a testament to Norma’s character. And, according to Annie Randall, also to the times in which they lived.

Annie Randall: “This was also the AIDS era. And, you know, queer friendships took on so much more importance and found family in that regard as well.”

As Norma’s friend Aida Pavletich later said: “The ’80s, deplorably, lost us many gays, among them Norma’s dear friend and fellow painter David Authier...it left us grieving for our missing friends.”

Annie Randall: “This is something that actually astonishes me about Norma. Given Tom Springfield's purported role in getting her to leave London. She stayed in contact with him. They probably were in contact right up until her death. They remained friends. Isn't that odd? I mean, she did not hold a grudge.”

By all accounts, she lived very much in the present. And so, throughout the 2000s and 2010s, Norma painted, played music, taught, spent time with friends, mentored. And, in 2014, her old music was pushed back into the public eye. Here’s Mario.

[Mario 1 33:22] “She said, You're not going to believe it. They're going to use my song in a TV show […] about vampires.”

“You’re Dead,” her screed against the music industry — became the tongue-in-cheek theme for What We Do In the Shadows.

Not long after, Norma was diagnosed with colon cancer. She told only a few friends, including Mario and Brian, in the final days.

Mario: “I didn't really even know she was sick until the very end.”

Brian: “I went out there for, you know, her last days, which was, you know, really beautiful. Heartbreaking, but, but beautiful. I got there in time that, you know, she recognized me, and she gave me one of the world-lighting smiles.”

Norma died on December 29, 2019, at age 80. Friends spread her ashes near her home. As her friend Aida said, “I set their colors free into the sky to find her.”

This line from Aida, as well as several others who knew Norma, is from a retrospective anthology about Norma’s life and art called Try to Tell a Fish About Water, published in 2022. The book’s final page reads, “The reflections and documentation gathered for this collection represent an accurate but incomplete view of Norma Tanega’s extraordinary life.”

An accurate but incomplete view. I said at the start of this episode that I was seeking to fill in the blanks about Norma. I’ve spent so much time immersed in research about her life, talking to people who knew her, and yet…I still don’t feel like I know her as well as I want to. And I’m frustrated in some ways that the story feels unfinished. 

But, in another way, it’s fitting. Norma and Dusty were both secretive at times and exceptionally private at others. But ever complicated. Ever changing. Beautifully unknowable.