A Woman Like Me

by Bettye Lavette

  I could—and I did.

  Now all we needed was another song for the flip side.

  “Do you know Willie Jones?” I asked.

  “’Course we know Willie,” said Johnnie Mae. “Who don’t know Willie?”

  “Willie has this song, ‘Shut Your Mouth,’ that he said I could do.”

  “Willie got himself in trouble,” said Timmy. “He’s locked up.”

  “Don’t worry nothing ’bout that,” said Johnnie Mae. “If it’s good, and if he said you can do it, I’ll go to his jail cell and get his okay.”

  That’s just what she did, and a week or so later, I was about to make my first record.

  I couldn’t have been more excited. Johnnie Mae and Timmy were hooked up with Robert West, who at that time had more juice than Berry Gordy. These were folks with several labels of their own and a history of hits. Johnnie Mae told West that she thought “My Man” was a hit.

  They took me into a tiny studio and gave me great musicians. Johnnie Mae was there to make sure I gave it that funky feeling. I wasn’t about to disappoint Johnnie Mae. My attitude was strong. I’m not saying I was Big Maybelle or Etta James or Tina Turner. But just as I knew my big booty demanded attention, I knew my big voice could do the same. Besides, I was high as a kite—not on smoke or wine, but on the idea of making a record. I was also amazed that it had happened so quickly. And even though I’d just turned sixteen, after recording “My Man,” I instantly turned twenty-one.

  Matthews and West said the song would come out on one of their labels—Northern, Reel, or Jam. I didn’t care which one. I just wanted to see my name on a record and hear it on the radio.

  It all happened, but in a bigger way than I could have ever imagined.

  “That record’s so hot,” Johnnie Mae said to me, “that when Jerry Wexler heard it, he wanted to put it out.”

  “Who’s Jerry Wexler?” I asked.

  “One of the owners of Atlantic.”

  “The Atlantic record company?”

  “No, the Atlantic Ocean. Of course, Atlantic Records.”

  “Atlantic Records is really putting it out?” I asked. “Atlantic, the one with the red and black label? Atlantic, who’s got Ruth Brown and LaVern Baker and Ray Charles and Solomon Burke and the Coasters and Clyde McPhatter and the Drifters?”

  “And now,” said Johnnie Mae, “Miss Bettye LaVette.”

  For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless. Several seconds went by before I asked the only question that occurred to me, the only question that seemed to matter.

  “Do I get any money now, Johnnie Mae?” I asked.

  Johnnie Mae turned around instantly and slammed me against the wall. She grabbed my throat and said, “Bitch, you haven’t even made any money. Just take that cute little ass of yours and go on tour.”

  I was scared to death.

  Lover’s Question

  Back when I was eleven or twelve, Mama came home one day from Elma and Carl’s record shop with a hot new song by Clyde McPhatter.

  “Wait till you hear this, Betty,” she said.

  She put on “A Lover’s Question.” I loved it as much as my mother did. Daddy didn’t feel the same way. He was in a bad mood. He’d been drinking—as had she—and wanted more. They were both drunk, but Daddy wanted to be drunker. Meanwhile, Mama had hidden his liquor. That was her only way of preserving it. They got into a screaming match. To make his point, he grabbed that 78 record, threw it on the floor, and smashed it to bits. Mama didn’t protest; she simply ran back out to Elma and Carl’s and bought another copy. When she defiantly put it on the turntable and cranked up the volume, Daddy repeated his record-smashing routine. Mama didn’t lose a beat. She was out the door in a flash, and when she returned, she had a fresh copy of Clyde’s masterpiece in hand. This time when Daddy destroyed it, Mama minded even less.

  “I bought four extra copies,” she whispered to me.

  Daddy had to admit defeat. Clyde McPhatter was the winner. Before long, I was calling him my favorite singer. So you can imagine how I felt, four years later, standing in the wings of a fancy theater watching Clyde sing the thing live. I thought I’d faint.

  Not only was I touring with Clyde McPhatter, but there was Ben E. King—the same King who, with “Spanish Harlem” and “Stand by Me,” had two of the biggest hits in the country. Croaking Clarence “Frogman” Henry was also there, singing “You Always Hurt the One You Love,” as was Barbara Lynn with “You’ll Lose a Good Thing.”

  Atlantic put some muscle behind “My Man.” It hit the R&B charts and quickly climbed past “Green Onions” by Booker T. and the MG’s, the Contours’ “Do You Love Me,” and Esther Phillips’s “Release Me.” It wound up running neck and neck with the Four Seasons’ “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” “My Man” dropped, by the way, the same week as Marvin Gaye’s “Stubborn Kind of Fellow.” Marvin had been insistent about singing standards exclusively in the style of Nat King Cole. But when that didn’t produce hits, he saw his stubbornness as a problem—so he wrote a song about being stubborn and had a smash.

  “You got a bona fide hit, Bettye,” said Robert West.

  I was literally going places. The tour continued, dropping and adding artists as we went along. On our night off in Montgomery, Alabama, West’s hometown, we went to see the unknown Otis Redding. He was a big guy—broad shoulders and long, strong legs—as country as a barn and as sweet as sugar. We took a liking to each other and were booked on the same show at the Royal Peacock in Atlanta, the major black venue in Georgia.

  Otis was from Macon. As a Detroiter, I saw myself, even at sixteen, as far more sophisticated than twenty-one-year-old Otis. After all, he wore shiny mohair suits and red socks. Tacky!

  There was no question he could sing. “These Arms of Mine”proved that. He started flirting with me during rehearsals on a Friday. We moved along to after-the-show drinks on Saturday, and by Sunday we were on intimate terms. He saw me, he said, as “a cute little girl from Michigan,” and I saw him as a sweet man with an easygoing way. Naturally, I was flattered that he was enamored of me. After a weekend of shows, he went his way and I went mine. When we met up again, our little fling was back on, but I never took it seriously. I never took him seriously when he said he wanted to marry me. He said Atlantic would love that because we were both on subsidiaries of their label.

  “Aren’t you already married?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “My girlfriend back home is pregnant by me.”

  Whatever the case, I had no interest in being Mrs. Otis Redding. To me, he was simply a wonderful singing guy who shared my love for Roy Rogers and Dale Evans and country and western music.

  During the tour, I also had a brief fling with Ben E. King. That was tricky because Ben had both a home wife and a road wife. That made me second to the second.

  I also had my eye on Clyde McPhatter. I wanted to sleep with him, if only to surprise and delight Mama with the news. But that wasn’t possible because he traveled with a high-class call girl from New York who kept him in diamond watches and gold cuff links. Man, did I want to be her! She was absolutely beautiful. Rightfully so, she saw me as a character out of All About Eve. That’s why she never let Clyde out of her sight.

  In January of 1963, I turned seventeen and found myself once again on the same bill as Otis. He and I were back at the Royal Peacock, where he opened for me. “My Man” was still red hot and his “These Arms of Mine” had just begun to take off. His show was much more elaborate than mine. He had his own band. I basically had one song and a few pickup musicians. But that song was still getting me over and, even better, Atlantic was talking about me cutting another one. First, though, I traveled to Miami for a show at the Knight Beat in the Sir John Hotel.

  The poster outside the club gave me top billing. Coming attractions included Redd Foxx, Jerry Butler, Ma
xine Brown, and Chuck Jackson. It was my first trip to Florida, and I was about to make a splash—except for one thing. I lost my voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the emcee. “It’s star time. Here she is, all the way from Detroit, Michigan, the little lady with the big voice. Please give a big Miami welcome to Miss Bettye LaVette.”

  I got up there, looking all cute, feeling all perky, but when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a croak. I was hoarse as hell. In those days, I never stopped talking. I was so excited to be on the road, I never wanted to go to bed for fear of missing something. I had to meet everyone and be in every conversation. As a result, my voice was gone.

  It wasn’t God who intervened on my behalf, but the next best thing—Little Willie John, among the greatest of all singers. A fellow Detroiter, he felt my pain. He jumped onstage, put his arm around me, and broke into his big hit, “Talk to Me, Talk to Me.” By the time he had warmed up the audience, my voice was back and I made it through. Grateful to Willie for saving my young ass, I took my bow, went to the dressing room, smoked a joint, and headed back to the club where a table had been reserved for me. I needed a drink. When I sat down in a chair facing the stage, though, some man said, “You can’t sit there.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s Marrie Early’s seat.”

  “Who’s Marrie Early?”

  “You don’t know Marrie Early?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

  “Everyone knows Marrie Early.”

  “Everyone except me,” I said, sitting where I wanted to sit.

  “That’s Marrie’s seat,” the guy repeated. “That’s where she sits every night.”

  “Every night but this night,” I said.

  “I told you once,” said the man, “and I’ll tell you again. That there seat is reserved for Marrie Early.”

  Something in his face told me not to fuck with him. So I left the chair empty and took another one.

  For the next hour or so, all the talk at the table was “Where’s Marrie?” “Wonder when Marrie’s getting here?” “Sure hope Marrie gets here soon.”

  I thought to myself, This Marrie Early must really be something.

  She was.

  Marrie Early’s late entry to the Knight Beat was one of the great moments of my life. The minute she walked in that place, every head turned. If I thought I was the star that night, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Marrie Early stole the show.

  She walked in wearing a clingy white linen suit with nothing underneath. She had flawless caramel-colored skin, alluring eyes, double-rolled eyelashes, and a smile that lit up the night. She was beyond beautiful. She was small in stature—my size—but with bigger breasts, a smaller waistline, and wider hips. I later learned she had posed for a centerfold in Jet. You’d expect a woman this drop-dead gorgeous to be haughty. Not Marrie. She was a sweetheart.

  “Baby,” she said to me, “can’t tell you how much I love that song of yours they’re playing on the radio. Everyone down here’s been talking about it.” She spoke softly in a southern accent with a tone reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes, sugar, everyone. You know Sam Moore and Dave Prater?”

  “I don’t.”

  “They call themselves Sam and Dave. Out-of-sight singers. They’re my best friends. They’ve been telling me you’re the best singer they heard since Ike found Tina.”

  For being one of the world’s best-looking women, Marrie was not interested in talking about herself. She talked about you. She made you feel good about what you were doing. She became one of my closest friends in life and, in many ways, a model for my sexual behavior. When it came to sex, Marrie was as free as a bird. If she liked you, she fucked you.

  I’d guess you could have called Marrie a prostitute except for this fact—the men who gave her money for love did it without being asked. Guys threw money at her. I can’t tell you the number of men—even devoted lovers of mine—who would testify, “Never had no pussy like that. Never had and never will.”

  I adored Marrie. So did every man in show business. She had suitors everywhere. The girl was international. She had guys who took her on cruises, guys who sent her jewelry, guys who paid her house mortgage. And the funny thing is that they were okay with Marrie having other guys—as long as she had them. No matter how rich or famous a man might be, he knew he could never own Marrie Early. She belonged to mankind.

  Marrie was queen of Miami, a city that didn’t even like blacks. But there was no man—black, white, or orange—who didn’t like Marrie. Of her many wonderful qualities, the best was her freedom. She was free to fuck whomever she wanted, and her lover was free to do the same. If Marrie was out with a man who suddenly saw another chick who grabbed his attention, she’d say, “Go on, honey. Don’t bother me none. I’ll find my way home.”

  Marrie’s home was supercool. She was the first single woman I’d met with her own house. That’s where I learned that you could have lobster at home. It was also where I saw my first walk-in closet. And talk about clothes! Marrie designed and sewed her own. She had a real feel for showbiz outfits, and over the years she made me dozens of gowns.

  “If you could sing or dance, Marrie,” I told her, “I’d have to kill you. You’re too talented as it is.”

  She laughed away compliments and turned them back on you. “You’re the artist,” she said. “I just sew.”

  Marrie had a relaxed attitude about everything. She surfed the wild waves of life with extreme poise and grace.

  One time I was in her living room when she was back in the bedroom with a man. The doorbell rang. I went to see who was there. It was another man. He said he had a dinner date with Marrie. I went to the bedroom to tell Marrie what was happening.

  “Shit,” she said, “I’m too tired to get out of the bed and get dressed. Just have him come back here and join us.”

  He did what he was told, happy to have Marrie on whatever terms pleased her.

  It wasn’t purely sex that drove Marrie to men. It was more her desire to please them. She had a heart for people. She got great satisfaction in pleasing everyone. She used sex, but in a fascinating way.

  Take Marrie’s cousin. Because of her fluctuating financial circumstances, at this particular time Marrie was living in his house. He didn’t like all her men coming around and threatened to kick her out. Marrie concluded that her cousin was confused about his own sexuality. She thought he had eyes for her men. But she also thought he needed to experience some serious sex with a woman. That’s why she said to me, “I think we should both fuck him. I think having us both at once might clear his head.”

  That’s what we did and, sure enough, Marrie was right. Cousin felt great afterward and left her alone to live in his house.

  If I called Marrie in the middle of the night from Chicago to tell her I needed a thousand dollars to get out of jail, she’d get me the money in a minute. So naturally, I’d do anything for her, including helping her fuck her cousin blind.

  I remember that when Marvin Gaye met Marrie, he turned to me and said, “Bettye, if you had legs like that, I’d love you all night.” I’m not sure Marvin loved anyone all night long, but he did love big-legged women. Like nearly all the women who knew him, I’d been chasing Marvin and getting nowhere. Riding high with “Stubborn Kind of Fellow,” Marvin also hit with “Hitch Hike” around the same time Jerry Wexler called from Atlantic to say that he wanted another single from me. By then Robert West had become my manager.

  I saw West as a cool old man with the right connections. He managed the Fabulous Playboys, a group he renamed the Falcons. They had a huge hit in the late fifties, “You’re So Fine,” and, at one time or another, their members included Eddie Floyd, Joe Stubbs, Mack Rice (who wrote “Mustang Sally” and “Respect Yourself”), and W
ilson Pickett. Like me, the Falcons recorded for Atlantic, as would Pickett later on.

  When West took me to United Sound to record my second single, “You’ll Never Change,” we used the Playboys who were replacing the original Falcons.

  By then, I was living with one of the Playboys, Alton Hollowell, whom we called Bart. On that same session, Don Davis, a major Detroit character who later produced Johnnie Taylor, played guitar. (I never liked Don or saw his talent. When I needed help, he was conspicuously absent.) We were all convinced that “You’ll Never Change” would be a bigger hit than “My Man—He’s a Lovin’ Man.” We were all wrong.

  My work life meant a lot of time away from my daughter. Some people said I was wrong to leave Terrye with Mama and Sister. But to those people I’d like to quote the song that says, “If I should take a notion to jump into the ocean, ain’t nobody’s business if I do.” I felt my business was singing. Fortunately, Mama and Sister felt the same. They realized motherhood was not my thing. Show business was. My family never let me down. In essence, Terrye had three mothers—a doting grandmother, a loving aunt, and, in third place, an often absent mama doing all she could to pay the bills.

  Was I guilty then? Am I guilty now?

  I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t live with some degree of guilt. When it comes to my daughter, love and guilt go hand in hand. But did guilt overwhelm my need to get out there and do what I knew I was born to do?

  Hell, no.

  Bacon Fat

  Many men have already run in and out of my story. And there are many more to come. Some are barely remembered; others are badly remembered. I recall many with gratitude and love. It’s a mixed bag. But there are a few who demand a chapter of their own. The first of those is Clarence Paul.