A Woman Like Me

by Bettye Lavette

  He wrote back.

  I understand why you’d be pissed. I didn’t mean any disrespect, only that your talent is so great it requires the best production. I just don’t think Tiven is right for the job. I’m not a producer. I’m a fan—probably your biggest fan. And I just want you to do great.

  I wrote back, “Who appointed you the overseer of my career?”

  He wrote back, “No one. But you’ll never find anyone who loves your singing as much I do.”

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked.

  “Buy and sell antiques.”

  “I love antiques. I’m somewhat of an antique myself.”

  The e-mails flew back and forth, and got me curious about my new highly opinionated pen pal. His name was Kevin Kiley, and our paths were about to converge.

  • • •

  Still looking for a deal?” asked Randall Grass, the Shanachie label exec who proved to be a good friend.

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Got an idea.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Ever hear of Dennis Walker?”

  “No.”

  “Ever hear of Robert Cray?”

  “I think so. Young blues guy?”

  “That’s him. Ever hear his ‘Right Next Door’?”

  “Yes, I like it.”

  “Well, it was written by Cray and Dennis Walker. Walker produced it. He’s won Grammys. I think he’s the perfect producer and writer for you.”

  “What does he think?”

  “He thinks it’s a good fit. He’s looking for a female singer. Better yet, he’s got a deal on a label called Blues Express. They’ve hired him to write and produce a whole record—and they’re letting him pick the vocalist.”

  “Tell him to call me.”

  A half-hour later, he did.

  An hour into our conversation—I was in Detroit, Dennis in Burbank—we were drawn to each other. Over a period of time, the attraction grew stronger.

  The challenge, of course, was Robert. When he came into my life, I had other suitors, but I found him the most suitable. He gave me everything I wanted and, in return, made me promise I wouldn’t fuck around on him. I had kept the promise, but now things were changing.

  When I got the parcel of songs that Dennis Walker sent, I saw that he was a white man who understood rhythm-and-blues as deeply as the blackest black. I liked about eighty percent of everything he wrote, and I liked a hundred percent of what he was telling me on the phone. He was seductive in all ways: He told me that he loved my voice—a compliment guaranteed to win me over—and that he knew just how to make me happy in the studio. He was a poet who spoke beautifully. When he sent me his material, I loved the lyrics. Even though all of them had not been written specifically for me, they all felt that way. From Dennis’s perspective, my voice was perfect for his songs. He kept saying that he was falling for me.

  When I got to California to cut the record, Dennis and I connected on every level, as though we’d known each other our entire lives. The relationship took me all the way back to the sixties, where the producer/writer was also your mentor/lover. Everything was great—his fabulous house jutting out from the side of a mountain with a world-class view, his appreciation of what I could do vocally, his vision for what I knew was going to be nothing less than a sensational rhythm-and-blues album, the purest R&B album of my career. There was only one tiny problem.

  Before the project began, Dennis had been arrested for drug conspiracy and was out on bail.

  “No matter,” he said. “We’ll get the thing recorded before my case comes up.”

  “If you say so, baby,” I said, eager to get my voice on these funky tracks.

  When it came to personnel, though, Dennis and I clashed.

  “I want to bring in the Memphis Horns,” he said.

  “The Memphis Horns are great,” I said, “but every damn time they’ve played on one of my records, the record has flopped. I’ve had enough of the Memphis Horns.”

  So Dennis brought in the horns from The Tonight Show band. I always loved their sound. All I needed was Rudy Robinson.

  “I don’t think he’s right for this record,” said Dennis.

  “You’re crazy,” I said. “He’s the best musician I know. I’ve fought with him for thirty-five years, but I won’t record without him. No one knows me like Rudy. No one has his finesse or funk. No Rudy, no me.”

  “I’ll give you Rudy, but you gotta give me the cats I’ve been using for the Robert Cray records.”

  “Long as they understand that they gotta follow Rudy wherever he goes. Rudy’s direction is my direction.”

  “You really like your piano player, don’t you?”

  “I don’t use the word ‘genius’ very often, but that’s what Rudy is.”

  Rudy came to L.A., and so did Cray’s sidemen. The sessions were fiery. The songs caught my spirit and had me singing harder and smarter than I’d ever sung. They had an edge of intelligence that much of R&B lacks. I left Burbank convinced I’d cut a near-perfect rhythm-and-blues record.

  When they sent me the final mix, though, I was horrified to hear how dominant Dennis had made the organ. Organs remind me of funerals. Rather than argue with him, I got Robert Hodge to buy me a plane ticket and flew back out to Burbank where I got the goddamn organ off the record. The next day he was hauled off to jail. I got the record I wanted.

  Happy ending?

  Not yet.

  Another instance of sugar turning to shit?

  Afraid so.

  More buzzard luck?

  Hell, yes.

  The head of the record company disappeared. No one knew where to find him or what would happen to the masters. So I had no choice but to go get those tapes and bring them back to Detroit. One way or another, the album had to come out. After a countless number of false starts and agonizing delays, it was finally released in 2003 on the Blues Express label, but I never saw a dime of royalties. At least I had a record out there that showcased the present-tense power of my voice.

  A sad footnote to this project: Not long after we got through recording, Rudy died. I dedicated A Woman Like Me to his memory, calling him “my friend, my left tonsil, and my music director.” Like Jim Lewis, Rudy Robinson helped forge my soul as a singer. He completed me. He led me and followed me. He heard in me what I didn’t hear in myself. He was crazy for sure, but no crazier than I was. And together, these two crazies made musical sense. I miss him like crazy.

  The Dennis Walker record was another one of those triumphant debacles that characterize my career. The music was great, but no one really heard it. It lived—and still does—on the margins of the mainstream audience.

  I kept looking for the right record deal. I thought I had a good lead with Scott Billington, who produced for Rounder Records and worked with Irma Thomas. His sound was a little clean for me, but I knew I could make it nastier. Billington expressed all sorts of enthusiasm but never came through.

  For all these frustrations, though, I felt something shifting. The biggest shift of all happened in the smallest way, by my singing a couple of songs at a birthday party.

  Rosebud and ANTI-

  In 1941, five years before I was born, Citizen Kane, directed by and starring Orson Welles, was released. The life story of a character based on newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst, the movie opens with Kane’s final word before dying: “Rosebud.” It then takes the entire film to explain what “Rosebud” means.

  I was in my mid-fifties before I understood what Rosebud meant to me. It was the name of the booking agency that finally took me from the minor to the major leagues.

  Mike Kappus ran the Rosebud Agency. They booked big acts, including Robert Cray. I wanted and needed an outfit like Rosebud. Before he went to jail, Dennis Walker had urged me to contact
Kappus. I wasn’t shy about contacting anyone. I sent Mike a copy of A Woman Like Me.

  “The album’s great,” said Mike, when I finally got him on the phone. “It’s one of the best R&B records I’ve ever heard.”

  “So you’ll book me?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “You have no real management. You have no real record label.”

  “But I’m real,” I said. “Hell, I’m as real as it gets.”

  “Sorry, Bettye. But I do wish you the best.”

  Only a few weeks later, I got a call from John Goddard, owner of Village Music in Mill Valley. John is another one of those angelic music lovers who spends his time helping long-suffering artists get their due. He was a key force behind the comeback of Little Jimmy Scott.

  “I’d love for you to sing at my birthday party,” he said. “I’m having a two-night celebration.”

  As he went over the guest list—Bonnie Raitt, Steve Miller, Huey Lewis—I took special note when he mentioned Mike Kappus.

  For years, people had been saying that hearing my records was one thing, but hearing and seeing me live was a whole different experience. I wanted Kappus to see me live.

  Goddard’s parties made the difference. After Michael saw my show, he did a complete turnaround, saying that he wanted to book me. I was off and running.

  Learning to navigate the Internet also made a difference. I saw that I had fans and friends in places I’d never imagined. One was Frederick Wilhelms III, another angel, this one disguised as a lawyer. We called him Saint Frederick because he was on a godlike mission to find royalties for artists who’d been screwed out of money. Saint Frederick took me on, and while he didn’t find me a fortune, he did uncover payments and got checks coming my way. He did me all sorts of favors and charged me practically nothing. In a field where entertainment lawyers are justifiably maligned, he was nothing short of magnificent.

  Things were turning around. The big break with Rosebud meant I could work—and Mike Kappus kept me working all the time. I’d never been happier. I was built for a busy career and, despite middle age—or maybe because of middle age—I was able to handle it. I didn’t have any distractions. I didn’t harbor any doubts. Work was what I wanted.

  I started working bigger festivals like crazy, and for the first time in decades, I was actually making a living. To be on a bill, in America or Europe, with Etta James and Bobby Bland was an honor. My billing as a traditional blues singer didn’t thrill me, but I was thrilled to win a W. C. Handy Award from the Blues Foundation in Memphis for Comeback Blues Album of the Year—A Woman Like Me. Even though it was an R&B record, who was I to quibble with categories? Besides, even during the purest of the blues festivals, I did just what Jim Lewis had taught me to do. I sang anything I wanted to.

  • • •

  My correspondence with Kevin Kiley had gone from e-mails to phone calls. I had started a flirtation and wasn’t thrilled when he sent me a Christmas card with a picture of him and his girlfriend. I didn’t want him to like anyone but me. After a while, he exposed his hand; he said he was falling for me. He was a genuine person, and I realized that I needed to respond to his genuineness. I also realized that he was a far better person than I was. It was a compliment that someone so good would be attracted to me. So when he said he was coming to an antiques show in Detroit and wanted to take me to dinner, I readily accepted.

  When he showed up at the house and saw me for the first time, he said, “You’re little.”

  Proud that I’d never lost my figure, I took that as a compliment.

  “Careful,” I said, as he walked down the steps to my blue basement, “that’s where Stevie Wonder bumped his head.”

  On the way to dinner, I played him A Woman Like Me in the car. He liked it, but he wasn’t shy about critiquing it.

  “You’re ready to critique everything, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “I love your singing,” he said, “but I have to be honest about the production.”

  Honesty turned out to be one of Kevin’s chief qualities. The other was generosity. That night he gave me an exquisitely custom-designed multi-CD package of my complete recorded work. He even commissioned John Ridley to write liner notes. No one had ever bothered to do this before. It was the most precious and loving gift I have ever received. I couldn’t help but cry.

  We had a great time, and at the end of our first date, he leaned over and kissed me.

  “My fans don’t kiss me,” I said.

  “This one does.”

  Kevin Kiley turned out to be a helluva guy. He had all the right attributes—bright, handsome, sexy, and younger than I was. It didn’t hurt that he knew everything about me. Fact is, when it came to soul music, he was a serious scholar. We loved each other’s company. I felt love was coming my way. The problem, though, was Robert Hodge. I take that back. Robert was never a problem. He was—and remains—a blessing in my life. Robert was Mr. Loyalty, a man, like Jim Lewis, who had stuck by me through thick and thin. He was also my boyfriend and someone who insisted that, when it came to lovers, there could be no others. I tried to stay faithful and did—until Dennis Walker came along. Once Dennis was gone, I was back walking the straight and narrow. But this Kevin Kiley was something else. Not only was he down-to-earth and refreshingly candid in all his opinions, he was a good singer—a white guy with a black style—who gigged in local bars around northern New Jersey. Kevin was more talented than I was. He could play many instruments, while I could play none.

  When I went to West Orange and visited his home, I saw his beautiful antiques and his amazing vinyl collection. He was a neat freak like I was. His pretty two-story house, situated on a quiet tree-lined street, had a big backyard with all sorts of greenery. By then, Kevin and I were getting closer and closer. Musically, culturally, and—you guessed it—sexually, we were a perfect pair. Our only roadblock was Robert.

  Other women have asked me, “Bettye, you’ve had all these men. You’ve gone from one to another and yet I don’t see any of them angry at you. How do you do it?”

  I don’t know. I’ve been lucky and I’ve also been choosy. Aside from my first husband, the evil pimp who nearly killed me, and someone like Gene Chandler, I’ve gravitated toward men who’ve understood and accepted me for who I am. Of all those men, Robert Hodge turned out to be the most loving and gracious. He wasn’t happy when I told him that I had fallen for Kevin, but his devotion was so great that he stayed on to be part of my management team. His care for me overwhelmed his romantic attachment. Today, Robert remains my constant companion on the road. As if that weren’t enough, he and Kevin have become close friends. For that I’m extremely grateful.

  My relationship with Kevin was intense. We met in October of 2002 and were married in July of 2003. At age fifty-seven, I became a blushing bride.

  How lucky can one girl be?

  Luck had never seemed to go my way, and I’m not sure it was luck that turned the tables. I’d credit the change to pure tenacity. I was simply too headstrong to quit. After all I had been through, after everything Jim Lewis had taught me, after a lifetime of experience, I knew goddamn well I could sing—and I wasn’t about to go away quietly.

  Eager to get me connected to a label, Mike Kappus introduced me to Ry Cooder. I hadn’t heard of him, but Kevin had. Kevin was excited that the producer of Buena Vista Social Club wanted to produce me. We got together with Ry who was enthusiastic about working with me. He said he’d been in three different bands that had played versions of “He Made a Woman Outta Me.” He had connections with major labels. I saw myself at Warner or RCA, Sony or Universal. It turned out, though, that Ry’s high-priced producer fee, along with my weak sales history, created an unacceptable package. All the majors passed.

  Mike had another idea. After one of my shows, he came to my dressing room with this tall, w
hite, hippie-looking dude with a big Afro, a dirty T-shirt, no socks, and a sweet smile.

  “This is Andrew Kaulkin of ANTI-,” said Mike.

  “Hi, Andrew,” I said. “What’s an ANTI-?”

  “My record label.”

  “Wish I had heard of it.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve heard of you—and I love you. Loved the show. Would love to record you.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, we’ll have to talk about material and producers, but I want you on my label.”

  My first thought was, I need a record so bad and this is what I was sent? I need a major label, not a guy with a big Afro and no socks.

  “We may not be a major label,” said Andrew, reading my mind, “but we’re proud and aggressive and completely independent.”

  “Sounds like me,” I said.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Andrew turned out to be another angel. It took me awhile to adjust to the idea of a label run by young people, but those young people won me over. After more than a half-century in the business, this was the first time I felt like I had the long-term support of a record company that saw my artistic potential.

  Andrew Kaulkin had dozens of ideas. That’s why I started calling him my musical guru. But being one of those people who must challenge gurus, even my own, I naturally challenged Andy when he suggested an album of songs written by women.

  “I’m not sitting around for hours and listening to a bunch of girls sing,” I said. “Aside from a couple of good relationships, I’ve never gotten along with girls all that well. When it comes to other women, I’m more competitive than friendly.”

  “Trust me, Bettye,” said Andy. “We’ll find songs you can sink your teeth into—songs written from a woman’s point of view.”

  Andy brought in Joe Henry, a producer who had won a Grammy for a CD he had recently done with Solomon Burke. Like Ry, Joe was eager. He praised me to the sky. He said he couldn’t wait to work with me in the studio. Great. Let’s get started.