Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2012 by Bettye LaVette
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Grateful acknowledgment is made to reprint from the following:
“I Do Not Want What I Have Not Got,” written by Sinéad O’Connor. Copyright © EMI Blackwood Music (BMI).
“The More I Search (The More I Die),” written by Kim McLean. Copyright © 2012 Kim McLean Music (ASCAP). Administered by Hippie Chick Twang Media, LLC.
“Before the Money Came (The Battle of Bettye LaVette),” written by Patterson Hood and Bettye LaVette. Copyright © Soul Dump Music (BMI)/Bettye LaVette (BMI).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
LaVette, Bettye, 1946–
A woman like me / Bettye LaVette with David Ritz.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-101-60067-2
1. LaVette, Bettye, 1946– 2. Singers—United States—Biography. I. Ritz, David. II. Title.
ML420.L258A3 2012 2012026041
782.421644092—dc23
[B]
While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
This book is dedicated to
the memory of
Jim Lewis,
star maker.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Drink
Three Steps
Black Bottom
Lover’s Question
Bacon Fat
The Apple
Groupies Who Sang
J
The Teacher
Higher and Higher
Changing Conditions
Child of the Seventies
The Institute for Sexual Intercourse
Before My Sugar Turned to Shit
Sex Circus
Bubbling
Sister
Trance
Trimming Hedges
Back to High School
A Woman Like Me
Rosebud and ANTI-
My Nemesis, My Gratitude
Encore
Acknowledgments
Selected Discography
Photographs
Index
About the Authors
A vicious pimp was precariously holding on to my right foot as he dangled me from the top of a twenty-story apartment building at Amsterdam and Seventy-eighth Street. It is as true as it is ironic that some months earlier this same man had met me at Small’s Paradise in Harlem, where I was singing my semi-hit “Let Me Down Easy.” The man had no such intentions; he was sadistic, callous, and impossibly gorgeous. He had wooed and won me by reciting long passages from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. He possessed the world’s most mellifluous voice. When he took me to secluded Provençal bistros and ordered in flawless French, I practically melted into the brie. He dressed elegantly. He even sang beautifully. His charm was so prodigious that only he could break my obsession with Clarence Paul, Marvin Gaye’s compatriot and Stevie Wonder’s mentor at Motown. Clarence’s marriage had not stopped me from pursuing him night and day. I lived for those few moments when Clarence and I could steal away to the dark end of the street. That’s when I was seventeen.
Before I turned twenty, the debonair pimp had temporarily cured me of my misdirected passion for Mr. Paul. Mr. Wonderful wove a web of such subtle design that I mistook my prison for a palace. Little by little, he stripped me of all outside contacts. He showed me how his own women waited on him hand and foot, and he expected the same of me. He convinced me that it was my absolute obligation to bring him at least a hundred dollars a day. That meant turning tricks.
I am a woman who does not like admitting mediocrity at any task—particularly one where fucking is the centerpiece. Yet in all honesty, I cannot claim the status of a world-class whore. I tried but stumbled. It might have been that Mr. Wonderful warned me so vociferously about soliciting cops that when I started to work, every potential customer looked like a policeman. I did not prove a good earner. I had to rely on friends to give me the hundred dollars to avoid getting beaten by my man. Fortunately, I found one sweet john—Johnny Desmond, a singing star from the forties and fifties then appearing on Broadway with Barbra Streisand. He was a cultivated man, and we enjoyed stimulating intercourse, both intellectual and sexual. Johnny kept me in business for several months, and I remain grateful.
Finally, though, I saw the light. That light did not involve religion. My story is one in which Jesus will not be making an appearance. My feeling then and now is that if God is fond of black people, he has shown his affection only recently. What the hell took him so long? What the hell took me so long to see that I was aiding and abetting a raging asshole? Sure, Mr. Wonderful looked debonair in his pale blue Turnbull & Asser shirts and his shiny mohair suits, but at some point I had to look at myself and ask, Why in the world am I putting up with this lowlife?
On a balmy spring night I gathered up my nerve and said, “I’m gone.”
“You stay,” he retorted, “until I kick your ass out.”
“I’m not asking,” I snapped back. “I’m telling.”
He responded by grabbing me by the neck, dragging me to the roof, and dangling me over the edge. The fact that the traffic down on Amsterdam Avenue was light was of no comfort.
“Bitch,” he said. “There’s only one way you’re leaving. That’s if I decide to drop you.”
I knew the man was monstrous, but I did not see him as a murderer. Of course, I couldn’t be sure, but I had to take that chance.
“If you think I’m worth the rest of your life in jail, then drop me.”
“Fuck you,” he said. “You’ll never make it without me.”
That’s when he pulled me up, slapped me around, and told me to get out
. I ran like the wind, leaving everything behind.
I hit the streets of Manhattan wearing a pair of shorts, a bra, and no shoes. I had no money.
Where was I supposed to go?
What was I supposed to do?
Drink
I was born into a heavy-drinking family. Early on I became—and remain—a serious drinker. I make no apologies for this. It’s who I am.
I drank from conception; I drank in the womb because Mama drank every day of her life. She lived to be ninety-one and probably would have made it to a hundred if, because of her drunken state, she hadn’t had a silly accident.
Daddy, who adored me, loved his liquor just as much. High blood pressure–induced strokes didn’t stop him from drinking. A stroke killed him when he was forty-six.
My parents’ grand enterprise, besides their children, was an at-home corn-liquor business where they sold booze and barbecue sandwiches. They filled the house with anyone looking for cheap drink and tasty food. A blues-blasting jukebox provided the entertainment. Among the happiest customers were the biggest gospel stars at the time—the Pilgrim Travelers, the Five Blind Boys of Mississippi, the Dixie Hummingbirds. The church entertainers didn’t want to be seen in public bars, so my parents’ home was the perfect spot. They loved to party and I loved hearing them sing.
They loved hearing me sing as well. Mama would set me in front of the jukebox and with “Let the Good Times Roll” blasting out of the speakers, everyone cheered as I pulled up my skirt and rolled my stomach in time with the music. By the age of two, I could grind to the groove.
Daddy was Frank James Haskins and Mama was Pearlina Johnson. They grew up in rural Louisiana. Before they met, Daddy had already been married. His first wife died in a fire along with their daughter, also named Betty. Mama had gone through two husbands, both younger than she was, and had a daughter, Mattie, my beloved sister and closest friend in life, thirteen years my senior. My mother was so gorgeous they called her Pretty Pearl.
Family legend said Mama spotted Daddy at the sawmill where he worked. As the planks rolled down the line, the men kicked them in a slick rhythm that flipped them over to be split with perfect precision. Supposedly Daddy was the best of the sawmill showmen. Mama liked his style and brought him lunch.
I guess lunch was good, ’cause before long they were keeping house. Mama had that New Orleans religion, the kind that let her go to Mass drunk every Sunday morning. In her version of Catholicism, God and hooch got along great.
Frank, Pearl, and Mattie migrated to the sandy beach town of Muskegon, Michigan, where I was born Betty Jo Haskins on January 29, 1946. They set up their makeshift nightclub at home in the projects where we lived. There was no gambling or loose women, only a jukebox, booze, and Mama’s homemade sandwiches. It was the perfect space for locals looking to relax.
Both my parents had steady day jobs. Mama worked for rich white women and picked up many of their social graces. Like many of the women of her background, she made class distinctions among blacks. She liked to say, “I’d rather be a goat than a nigger.” Mama’s cursing was restricted to the occasional use of “bitch,” “bastard,” and “hell.” I never saw her naked until she was deathly ill. I’m not sure Daddy did either; I suspect that she demanded they have sex in the dark.
Mama cooked in the hallowed Louisiana tradition, making masterpieces with leftovers. Later in my life, guys who quit me came back just for Mama’s cooking. For his part, Daddy demanded strict southern fare—pigs’ ears, tails, and feet. I wanted French fries, but Mama said, “I ain’t messin’ up my potatoes by cutting them up into little pieces.”
Mama sang to me. She’d sing blues by Clara and Bessie Smith, who had performed at the plantation where she’d lived. In her mind’s eye, she carried images of those larger-than-life ladies. She also loved country and listened to the Grand Ole Opry on the radio. Daddy liked the cowboy singers Gene Autry and Roy Rogers.
Mama and Daddy fought long and hard, especially when I was young. Mama tells the story about how she was going to leave him after a big blowup. She packed up me and Sister, and bought seats on the Greyhound back to Louisiana. Being the loudmouth that I was—and am—I ran up and down the aisles telling my fellow passengers, “We’re going to Mama’s home because Daddy hit her and she called the police!” Later I learned the real story: It was Mama who had a history of hitting Daddy. When Daddy retaliated, she swore she was taking us with her and never returning. We stayed in Louisiana for about a half-hour before we turned around and headed back to Michigan.
As far as I was concerned, Daddy could do no wrong, which was also his attitude toward me. He was so protective that he wouldn’t let me go to school in the rain. He was so devoted to Mattie that I was sure he was her biological dad. Not quite stocky but past skinny, Daddy had a face like the Indian on a nickel. There was a honey hue to his dark caramel coloring. He sported two hairstyles. The first was slicked back with Murray’s grease. Then when a new process came along, he wore it fried, dyed, and laid to the side. His favorite fabric was gabardine. He loved gabardine slacks, but there was nothing he loved more than a drink. As much as he loved me, I once saw him take my roller skates to the pawn shop where he got them in the first place—all for liquor money. He drank too damn fast.
Daddy liked ladies and had no shame in taking me with him to meet his women. I had no idea that they were his special friends or that Daddy was having flings. I just knew that these ladies plied him with liquor. My guess is that my mother, fearless and headstrong as she was, had a couple of flings of her own.
My folks had no regard for money. They drank away whatever slim profits their corn liquor and pork sandwiches might have yielded.
Mama was more moderate in her drinking. Every time she hid the booze supply, Daddy tore up the house till he found it. If on a rare occasion he failed to find it, he ran out to one of his ladies. Mama retaliated by getting in the car, turning on the ignition, and driving into a wall.
How did I weather this world of overwrought emotions?
No doubt, I was overwrought too, but I can’t say that I was frightened. I knew that these two people loved me dearly. They protected me. They also provided an excitement that got into my blood. Music was exciting. Dancing was exciting. Partying was exciting. Seeing people grouped together in search of fun turned boredom to fascination.
I was fascinated by the interplay between Mama and Daddy. When I was very young the explosions were nonstop. The high drama between them was better than anything on TV. The break-up-to-make-up syndrome kept us on our toes.
After nearly two years in Muskegon, we moved to Pontiac, where we stayed for a minute before moving to Detroit. My folks had factory jobs at General Motors while Sister, who married at fourteen, stayed behind in Muskegon with her husband.
When I got to be ten, the drama subsided because of Daddy’s strokes. His medical condition quieted the love storms, and Mama became his conscientious caretaker.
Sister was an angel, and her husband was a low-down dirty dog. He gave her nothing but grief. We all celebrated when Sister left him and joined us in Detroit. The problem, though, was that her next husband was worse. He was violent not only with Sister but with me and Mama as well. Sister was with this evil muthafucka—a degenerate gambler, cheater, and wife beater—for twenty years before someone did us the favor of murdering him. You could say that Sister had issues with men. And yet this same woman was the most wonderful human being I have ever encountered. She was the perfect daughter and sister. Her kindness knew no bounds. Her compassion was deep and true, her disposition upbeat and loving. She was one of the bright lights of my life.
Sister took me everywhere—to a Little Esther show, to the beauty parlor, to the department store downtown. I loved her company and her looks. She was darker than I was, and, given the prejudice of the times, that convinced her I was prettier. I wasn’t. She was petite, with s
mall arms, wrists, ankles, and legs. Her breasts were larger than mine, but my booty was bigger than hers. To an outside observer, we were almost twin images of each other.
I still remember Sister’s admonitions.
Keep your brassiere straps clean.
Don’t take money from one man and give it to another.
Wash your own panties.
Like Mama and Daddy, Sister liked to drink. She also loved to read, even though she read junk. She followed the soaps and, I believe, viewed life through the lens of those melodramatic stories. Looking back, Sister’s life became one of those soap stories. And come to think of it, so did mine.
Three Steps
Some performers who start out young complain about their lost childhoods. Well, you’re looking at someone who never wanted a childhood. I never wanted to do the things that kids were supposed to do. I related to the world of adults. I wanted to do what adults did. I wanted to drink and dance and smoke and, when I learned about sex, I wanted to do that too. I saw childhood as a silly preliminary to the real stuff, the fun stuff. I wanted out of childhood as soon as humanly possible.
I also wanted out of school the minute I got in. Mama sent me to St. Agnes Catholic School because she thought it was a good idea for me to mix in with white kids. I thought it was a good idea to take some of the corn liquor my folks were selling at home and sell small sips at school. Mother Ernesta, who took me on as her special project, didn’t agree. She saw me as a bright girl in need of direction. All I needed, though, was a way to avoid Mother Ernesta.
Like all the teachers at school, the nuns were white. I was grown before I ever saw a black priest or nun. Mother Ernesta was also certain that, with discipline, I’d prove to be a top student. She saw that, although I read well, I didn’t want to be bothered with details.
“Details are critical to true understanding,” she said.
“Why?” I asked. “All I need to know about World War Two is that it was us against the Germans, the Italians, and the Japanese.”
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