A Woman Like Me

by Bettye Lavette

  Nate’s Place, run by a friend of Clarence Paul’s, was always good for a party. It was an after-hours joint where you could eat, gamble, and buy cocaine. Something like a speakeasy from an earlier era, Nate’s was situated in a house. You had to knock on the front door and be given the nod of approval before gaining admission.

  As I walked up the steps of the front porch, two men approached me from the lawn below.

  “Who you looking for?” one of them asked.

  “Nate,” I said. “Tell him Bettye LaVette is here.”

  “You have to go around the side to get in,” said the other.

  “No, you don’t. I know the drill. Just tell Nate to let me in.”

  “Jump off the porch,” said the bigger one, as he pulled out a gun and aimed it at my head.

  I was scared but not completely intimidated. “I’m not jumping off no goddamn porch,” I said. “If you want me down, you’re gonna have to help me down.”

  He did just that, reaching out his arm and dragging me off the porch. As he did it, I dropped my diamond watch into the leaves. I was also trying to think of a way to dump the little mink jacket I was wearing over my shoulders, but that wasn’t possible. With a gun in my back, they had me walk around the side of the house where they told me to put my hands up in the air.

  “What is this shit?” I asked. “Some kind of TV show? Do y’all really know what you’re doing?”

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

  “I’m not the kind of woman who shuts up easily. I’m a singer. Singers tend to run off at the mouth.”

  “What kind of singer?”

  “Rhythm-and-blues singer. And if singing hadn’t saved me, I’d probably be doing the same as you. I was raised up with the baddest gangstas in Detroit.”

  “Which ones?” they asked.

  I named names: Adolph Ellington, Jimmy Jones, Louisiana Red. These guys were notorious, and my assailants were impressed.

  “Sister,” they said, “you so cool, why don’t you come with us?”

  “I’d love to, fellas, but I gotta see my friends inside.”

  By then some people were leaving and heard us talking. The guys got nervous and ran off—but not before snatching the mink jacket off my shoulders. Nate ran out to see what had happened. I told him and the others I’d been robbed. I should not have mentioned that I dropped my diamond watch in the grass because the people helping me search must have found it—and never said a word.

  Muthafuckas.

  • • •

  When Berry Gordy made so much money packaging black music for white people, the majors tried to follow his lead. Marketing consultants were hired to figure out the method. Columbia Records invested heavily in this area. That’s why they partnered with Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff in Philly International Records. Gamble and Huff were the first to produce the Jacksons after they left Motown. Columbia wasn’t about to make the same mistake they made with Aretha. They had made major money with Sly and the Family Stone; in the mid-seventies their shining star was Earth, Wind & Fire, whose crossover funk was all the rage. The company had cash to burn.

  Through our friendship with Detroit writer Ron Dunbar, Jim and I hooked up with Epic, a Columbia subsidiary. Here we go again.

  Was I skeptical? Not really. I couldn’t afford to be. I had to believe that this was the break I’d been waiting for. If I didn’t buy that line, I’d turn cynical. A cynical attitude would show up in my music. I had to get all excited again and figure that, as I approached thirty, I would finally taste that sweet wine.

  I recorded four songs—a cover of Charlie Rich’s hit “Behind Closed Doors,” “Thank You for Loving Me,” “You Made a Believer Out of Me,” and the one that expressed my attitude about music execs—“You’re a Man of Words, I’m a Woman of Action.”

  It was great to see my name on a major label. The Epic promo people did get me a few appearances in Chicago.

  I was in the Windy City when I called Marrie Early in Miami.

  “Hi, Bettye. How you doing, baby?”

  “Getting by, Marrie.”

  “You in Detroit?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Promoting your new record?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love ‘You Made a Believer Out of Me.’ I think it’s going to be a big hit. They’re playing it in Miami. I’m playing it every day.”

  “You’re sweet, Marrie, and I love your support, I really do, but I don’t think Epic is really behind me. Nothing’s really happening sales-wise.”

  “How ’bout love-wise, Bettye?”

  “I had a little dalliance with Pervis Staples when I got here.”

  “Mavis’s brother?”

  “The same.”

  “How was that?”

  “Made me miss an interview the next morning. First time that’s ever happened.”

  “It was that good?”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying I overslept.”

  “You seen Gene Chandler?”

  “No, you think I should?”

  “He’s Mr. Chicago, isn’t he? I know how he’s been hitting on you for years. I also know he’s a good businessman. He’s got his own label.”

  “To be honest, Marrie, I never liked him.”

  “Maybe you could learn to like him. Anyway, if you bump into him, I wouldn’t run away. Say hello for me.”

  Marrie’s easygoing attitude about men—and what they could do for you—continued to amaze me. Marrie was so relaxed when it came to the opposite sex. She accepted them the way they were. I saw her avoid their nasty traits while bringing out their goodness. I marveled at how her sunny disposition let her walk through the world with dignity and grace. Sure, she was drop-dead sexy and men wanted her; but I believe it was the sweetness under the sex that really got to them. She could transform a beast into a puppy dog.

  The vast majority of the men whom I’ve been involved with have remained my friends. I’m proud of that, and I credit Marrie Early for setting the standard. And it was also probably Marrie’s take-it-as-it-comes attitude that let me get next to Gene Chandler when, in truth, I still found him less than appealing.

  It was only a few days after I talked with Marrie that I ran into Gene at a Chicago radio station where I was promoting my new single. He was all excited to see me.

  “Bettye LaVette,” he said, “this time you just gotta let me take you to dinner.”

  This time I did.

  Dinner was pleasant enough, even though Gene spent the entire time talking about himself. He never got over his number-one hit from 1962, “Duke of Earl.” He got himself to believe that he actually was the Duke. Curtis Mayfield wrote some beautiful songs for Gene. Unlike Curtis, though, who had made a seamless transition into the seventies with “Superfly,” Gene never had another smash like “Duke of Earl.” Instead, he turned his attention to business. I saw the extent of his success when I went to his home. He was living large. I settled in with Gene and we became a short-term couple.

  The most amazing thing about his place was the refrigerator. The freezer was lined with baggies of cocaine. Most people put ice cream or frozen peas in their freezer. Not Gene. He had a fortune in blow stuffed in there. His bountiful supply of high-quality coke was one of the great selling points for staying there.

  At one point, we were in bed when a woman showed up. As she walked around the house, he didn’t even bother to introduce me.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “One of my women,” was all he said.

  I got pissed. “Don’t I get more respect than this?”

  “What are you talking about, Bettye?”

  “You got me in bed while another woman is walking through here.”

  “This woman’s making me money. You ain’t.”<
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  That was Gene Chandler, the one they called the Woman Handler. I got out of there the next day. A year later, he got busted for selling drugs and went to jail. I wasn’t entirely unhappy.

  • • •

  The Epic episode was played out. Sales were weak.

  I was back in Detroit.

  If it hadn’t been for Jim Lewis, I might have fallen back into a barrel of blues. But Jim—constant mentor and loyal friend—always made sure I had some kind of work. It might be a union dance with a big band where I was singing jazz as if I were June Christy. It might be a trio gig at a private party with people requesting Nancy Wilson or Gloria Lynne songs. It could be work with a blues band that had me sounding like Otis Redding or Etta James. It didn’t matter. I could sing anything from the Beatles to Bobby Bland. And because Jim kept hammering the importance of mastering all genres, always showing me how to read a lyric or ride over a rhythm, I was improving my artistry, even if my finances stayed flat.

  It didn’t take long for me to face another painful fact—the Epic episode was another instance of sugar turning to shit. The songs were good—I loved “Behind Closed Doors”—but there was no real chart action, no national recognition, nothing that would further my career in any meaningful way.

  I persevered, but not without fear. If earlier in my life—at the Graystone or Small’s—I had certain visions of success, there were also times, especially in the seventies, when I had visions of failure. I’d walk into a bar, order a drink, and watch a woman in her sixties singing in front of a makeshift band. She was fifty pounds overweight. Her makeup was running. Her clothes were frayed. I could hear that once upon a time her voice had been strong, but now her voice was shot. Her eyes were sad. While she sang, she worked the room, urging the patrons to stuff a dollar bill or two in her bra. Some did, but most didn’t. At one point, a guy screamed, “Let’s turn on the jukebox. Anything is better than this bitch!” I wanted to slug the guy. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stop seeing myself in this woman.

  Would I become an old lady, begging for dollars while singing some two-bit blues in a tired voice I could no longer control? I hated that thought, but I had it. I couldn’t lose it. I was getting scared.

  • • •

  Bettye LaVette,” said Bobby Bland, my favorite of all blues singers, “you got nothing to be scared of. You as bad as anyone out there.”

  We were in bed after a long night of blowing coke. We blew so much that both of us forgot about sex. With Bobby, it wasn’t about sex; it was about my genuine regard for a singer I loved. His manner was as smooth as his singing style. I could listen to Bobby “Blue” Bland sing all night.

  The blues and its younger brother, rhythm-and-blues, are fascinating forms. Sing them rough and primitive, like Mamie or Bessie Smith, and they penetrate your soul. Sing them shyly like Billie Holiday and they creep up on you and sink into your unconscious. Sing them subtly like Ray Charles and they turn up in whatever material you touch, whether it’s “Georgia” or “America the Beautiful.” Sing them like Bobby Bland, and suddenly the pain in your life, no matter how deep, turns to pleasure. Bobby is able to tease the tension out of the blues. He’s a highly sophisticated singer who understands that a simple form doesn’t mean you can’t use it to convey complex feelings. He also understands that the key to this art form, beyond the sincere expression of your heart, is taking your time. When it comes to telling the story, no one takes his time like Bobby. I can’t tell you how much I love the man.

  Other fabulous vocalists helped me deepen my respect for great singing. Take Philippé Wynne. Unlike Bobby, he was the opposite of cool. When he first came through the Detroit clubs in the sixties, everyone looked to avoid him. He was gawky and homely. He was overweight and overbearing. No one would let him sing—that’s how annoying he was. We thought he was nothing but a goofball. Then one night he walked in and said, “Hey, I’ve just been signed to take G. C. Cameron’s place as lead singer for the Spinners.” Say what? The Spinners? Can’t be!

  But it was. It turned out that not only was Philippé Wynne a brilliant singer, he was also an original. He had his own licks. Along with Gladys Knight, he was probably the best ad-libber of all time. He gave the Spinners new energy. If you listen to “One of a Kind (Love Affair),” “Ghetto Child,” “The Rubberband Man,” or “Sadie,” you’re in the presence of one of the most unique styles in rhythm-and-blues, a genre where uniqueness is a rarity. Like Al Green, another true original, Philippé doesn’t remind you of anyone. He just is.

  • • •

  I just was.

  I was calling friends at Philly International, including Thom Bell, who’d written some of the Calla songs, to see if he could help me out. Thom never called back. I couldn’t get through to guys like Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff. They were too busy, too important.

  Clarence Paul always called back. Writing with Stevie Wonder and Morris Broadnax, Clarence had a hit when Aretha recorded their “Until You Come Back to Me (That’s What I’m Gonna Do).” That meant Clarence had some money. If I couldn’t pay the mortgage, I could always count on Clarence. And if he was lonely and looking for love, he could always count on me. I still wasn’t over Clarence.

  Walter Jackson was always saying he couldn’t get over me. He was constantly after me. He knew I loved his voice, and he figured that, because he had had polio, he’d win my sympathy. Walter was a great singer, but that was it. I didn’t desire him. That made him mad, and on the little tour we did together, he’d come offstage after a stomping, screaming standing ovation and say to me, “See, Bettye, you can’t do that.” He was right. At that time in my career, I couldn’t get the audience reaction he did.

  Muthafucka.

  • • •

  The seventies became Stevie Wonder’s breakthrough decade. He won a thousand Grammys and became the golden boy of pop music. His albums like Songs in the Key of Life were huge sellers. I’d known Stevie since he was twelve. I had no reservations about asking him for help. Could I tour with him? Would he produce me? Did he have a song for me? I put in more than a couple of calls to him. I’m waiting to hear back.

  Muthafucka.

  • • •

  In 1975, when I turned on the radio and heard Labelle doing “Lady Marmalade,” I nearly slit my wrists again. That song was made for me. Except that it wasn’t. It was given to Patti, who gave it the right spirit and sound. I wasn’t surprised it was an across-the-board number-one hit. I was just aggravated that it wasn’t my hit. I was still searching for mine.

  Mine didn’t come, which is why I turned my attention from music to men. The man who interested me most was a visiting gangster from New York who had been shot twenty times and survived. I wanted to survive. I wanted to be with big-time survivors. And if that guy happened to be going against my boyfriend at the time, the richest drug dealer in Detroit, well, I’d have to make a choice.

  Sex Circus

  Jack owned a dozen chicken restaurants in Harlem and dealt heroin on the side. He also had a nephew who was working out of Detroit—David—who was trying to move into the territory of the drug dealer I was seeing. I wasn’t aware of the impending danger. All I knew was that Jack and David liked me when they saw me singing at a local club. After my set, they came up to me at the bar.

  Jack started bragging on his nephew, talking about how, no matter how many times his enemies tried, no one could take him out.

  David started bragging on his uncle, talking about how many chicken restaurants and apartment buildings he owned in Harlem and how he managed Big Maybelle and other artists like Kim Tolliver, a soul singer living in Cleveland.

  I happened to mention my boyfriend at the time, the city’s most prominent drug dealer.

  “Was the city’s most prominent dealer,” said David.

  “You need to think in terms of the future, LaVette,” said Jack. “Not the past.”


  “Far as the future goes,” David said, “that’s happening in New York City. Why don’t you come back with us? We’re flying first class into LaGuardia tomorrow night. Got a ticket with your name on it.”

  I knew Jack was for real. He had a reputation. But his nephew was sketchy and flat-out crazy. He had that far-off gaze that made me wonder. The fact that he’d survived twenty attempts on his life certainly impressed me. The fact that he liked me pleased me. And besides, I wasn’t making any real money in Detroit. A trip to New York might do me good. Besides, Jack had music-biz connections.

  We flew off to New York. When we landed, two limos were waiting. Jack went off in one direction, and David and I went in another.

  In our limo, we started doing lines. David checked us into a fancy Midtown hotel, where the party continued for several weeks. He went out during the day and at night came back with fabulous jewelry for me. He took me to the best restaurants. He took me to the Village to hear jazz. The high life kept getting higher until the night he didn’t return. I didn’t think much of it. It’s no big deal for a man to stay out all night. After all, David wasn’t exactly my husband. But one night turned into two, and two into three, and on the fourth day I discovered that my key didn’t work in the door. The hotel manager was saying we had a two-thousand-dollar unpaid bill. We?

  “Yes, you and your man.”

  “It’s his room, not mine.”

  “Don’t matter to me whose room it is. No one’s getting in there without paying me two thousand dollars.”

  “All my stuff is in there.”

  “All your stuff is now my stuff until I get two thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t have two thousand dollars.”

  “That ring and necklace you’re wearing look like they can bring two thousand dollars.”

  “I gotta give you my jewelry to get in my room?”

  “You do if you want your stuff back.”

  “Can you give me a minute?”

  “I’ll give you two.”