Book Read Free

Le Freak

Page 27

by Nile Rodgers


  The only other voice that got through to me was Nard saying, “Yo, man, let’s do this.” I don’t remember what we played for our first song. I don’t know who spoke or how we were introduced, or if the tone was somber or New Orleans–style celebratory. But I do remember what happened when we played. My mind raced a million miles an hour through the set, with the Voice in my head asking for the last time: “Do you think you deserve to be out here with Bernard and this crew of top-flight musicians?” But it was amazing to be there, sober and rediscovering a Nile I thought I’d lost.

  After we finished the first song, I screamed, “I belong up here!” The audience was stunned by my outburst. They had no idea what I meant. We were at a memorial, which made my comment even more strange and inappropriate. But I had just defeated a demon. My addiction was doing push-ups all right, but my recovery was doing Pilates, aerobics, and training for an Ironman Triathlon.

  We played the rest of the set flawlessly. Even though Bernard thought my outburst was whack, he was grinning from ear to ear because he could sense that we were back on the beam.

  (Illustration credit 13.1)

  fourteen

  We’re Gonna Party Like It’s 1996

  I AWOKE ON DAY ONE OF 1996 WITH A SMILE. IT WAS MY SECOND consecutive New Year’s Day without a hangover. That day, as a completely stone-cold sober civilian, I could have a blast just walking my dog. Who knew frosty marine air could make a man feel so alive?

  That same day, the evening news was brimming with reports on Michael Jackson’s “HIStory” tour. He was apparently performing in Brunei, promoting his current album of the same name, which I’d had the good fortune to play on.

  The news was all good, but I was concerned about Michael. During the making of “HIStory,” he’d revealed things to me in the studio that made me think he was searching for something that he couldn’t define. His longing wasn’t about music—he always knew exactly what he wanted me to play. His musical decisions happened in minutes. His concerns were more philosophical. We’d spent hours just talking.

  Before we started recording, I reminded Michael that my old band New York City had opened for the Jackson 5 during the American leg of their first world tour. To my utter surprise, he remembered almost every minute of our time together on the tour bus more than twenty years ago, including my obsession with the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comic books, which I read to him when he was sixteen years old. Michael loved the Freak Brothers and we both laughed at the thought of his strict, straitlaced dad discovering the comic’s actual contents. I was awed by the detail of Michael’s recall; he’d memorized the names of all the main characters.

  Michael remembered how drastically different I was from my bosses in New York City, “the guys who wore suits and regular clothes,” he said in his trademark high-pitched giggle. “You always wore ripped-up skintight jeans, and I remember you had your own thing going on in those really high snakeskin platform shoes.” Michael Jackson remembered me (Sally Field moment!), the skinny black nonconformist in one of his opening acts? He also remembered how I marveled as they performed “Dancing Machine” at sound check. I’d had a number of encounters with Michael over the years, and we’d always reminisce about the old days, but we’d never taken it to this level of microscopic detail before.

  It was strange bonding like this with the King of Pop. I was flattered and surprised at the depth and texture of his memories of that moment in our lives. And to think this was a session that almost didn’t happen.

  A FEW WEEKS BEFORE the Jackson recording session, I’d officially decided to leave the music business to become a gentleman of leisure, which was pretty precocious, considering that I was just forty-three years old. But I was in the early days of sobriety, and anything associated with show biz felt dangerous.

  One of the first steps in my exit strategy was relocating my recording operation to my Connecticut home, where things felt safe, and sticking strictly to small projects until I could figure out the big picture.

  Then I got a call from Michael Jackson’s camp.

  At the time, the King of Pop was getting beaten up in the tabloids daily. He decided to fight back with his most potent weapon—his music. When I was asked to play on the record, I politely and quickly said, “No, I’m not available,” without so much as asking about the details of the session. When they reported back to Michael, I honestly think he was shocked, which is probably why he promptly called back himself.

  You’d think a direct call from Michael Jackson might have been enough to change my mind, but I just couldn’t do it. My reluctance to play on his record had nothing to do with Michael himself. I loved the guy. I’d do anything for him—except risk my sobriety. But Michael had a bee in his bonnet and wouldn’t take no for an answer. We kept playing tug-of-war until I finally blurted out my reason. “I can’t play on the record,” I said, “because I’ve just come out of rehab and I’m still in the day program.” That seemed to catch him off guard.

  “What’s a day program?” he asked.

  “I do what I used to do when I was inpatient at rehab, but I sleep at home.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “Yeah. The studio feels unsafe to me. Too many memories of the good old days, and once I’m back in that environment, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay humble.”

  He didn’t quite get the concept of surrendering to addiction, of being afraid and staying humble. To be frank, neither did I. I was just repeating what rehab told me to do. But it was working. My careful approach had kept me drug and alcohol free for a great many months.

  We finally landed on a compromise: Michael would send a car for me. I would sit in the limo until he needed me. Then someone would send an assistant out and I’d come in and play my part. “After you approve it,” I said, “I’ll leave and head back up to Westport right away.” He agreed.

  When I arrived at the studio on the first day, after our little “remember the good old days” routine, I recorded my part and Michael approved the recording. I was starting to pack up to leave as per our agreement, when Michael asked:

  “Hey, Nile, can I talk to you a little more?”

  “Of course. Absolutely,” I said, thinking this was about more playing.

  “Let’s go over to the lounge.”

  “Cool. Should I finish packing up?”

  “Yeah, we’re finished with the part. It sounds really good.”

  I packed up my gear, said goodbye to the engineers, and popped over to the studio’s lounge.

  We chatted for a while, and to my great surprise and relief, I didn’t have a pressing urge to drink or drug in the studio lounge. I actually felt comfortable. From that point on, Michael carried most of the conversation. He continued reminiscing about the early days on the road. I could tell he missed the music, as well as the love and camaraderie, not specifically mine, or his brothers’ or his crews’ or his family’s—it was more general: He missed the adulation that he had always elicited up to that point in his life. Unsurprisingly, I sensed that he was happiest when the world really loved him and everything he did, before his personal proclivities sparked constant tabloid fodder.

  The tone of the conversation changed. His mood shifted and something happened that I would have never thought possible in a million years: He opened up to me about his dark feelings. Until that point our rap was all upbeat—typical musician laughing and joking around.

  He said gossip in the news upset him and ultimately saddened him. I was very fragile and so was he, and we connected over our mutual state of mind. It was as if we were on the bus in the early seventies, only this time the secrets we shared were far less innocent. I’d made it clear I wanted to play guitar and go home. But I was also so grateful for the fact that Michael Jackson felt comfortable enough with me to share such intimate revelations. He confided that he was having marital problems and would probably be getting divorced. This was a full year before the slightest mention of his split with Lisa Marie Presley hit the pre
ss.

  Why share this with me? I thought to myself as Michael continued to unload. Maybe because I outwardly seemed very happy and well adjusted, and he could sense that I was trustworthy. And I was feeling peaceful, both physically and mentally happy. It was almost like being high, but better. Some people call this “being on a pink cloud.” I wanted Michael to experience some of my newfound peace.

  Eventually, Michael asked me about Silver Hill’s day program. I was curious about his interest in rehab. I assumed it was just idle chitchat or a response to my portrait of the place as a chill destination for famous people. I didn’t think he was drinking or drugging at all—not with that memory recall.

  He quickly brought the conversation back to the press’s hounding him, which I’d grown tired of rehashing. I made a sincere suggestion: “Michael, if you want to come to a place where you can get away from that madness, come stay up at my house in Connecticut for a while.”

  “Diana has a house up there,” he observed, talking about Miss Ross.

  “Yes, she does, but at my house the press won’t bother you. Madonna stayed at my crib and she never had any problems at all. In fact, it was almost as if nobody cared she was there.”

  After I said those fateful words, I watched his face drop as he seemed to contemplate a vacation into insignificance. Of course I didn’t literally mean that nobody would care about him. All I meant was that my place was laid-back. But that’s not what seemed to register. I quickly realized my misstep. Not wanting the opportunity to pass, I attempted to play missionary and added, “Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, Donna Summer, Martha Stewart, Phil Donahue, Marlo Thomas, and Ashford and Simpson live quietly in Westport, too.”

  But it was too late. Whatever momentary Xanadu vision he’d had of Silver Hill’s day program had evaporated. He’d made up his mind.

  As a record producer who’s used to dealing with mercurial talent, I knew we were done. If we’d been making a record, I’d have suggested a movie, meal, or trip to the video game arcade to shake off the coming blues. But now I could feel it was simply time to go. Besides, I was still a little nervous about spending any more time at the studio than I’d intended. I didn’t feel the urge to drink, but who knew how long that would last?

  Instead of hugging it out, we shook hands as we said goodbye. His hands were unusually rough for such a gentle person.

  I never saw Michael again.

  AND SO I RETURNED by limo to Westport, alone as planned, and continued with my new life. I had my own issues. I was starting to believe that my sobriety was entirely dependent on the institution. In fact, I was so afraid to leave the day program voluntarily that they finally asked me to.

  “Nile, this is a short-term program,” said Gerrard, my Men’s Group counselor.

  “I know,” I said, “but the routine has kept me grounded and I need that.”

  “Bro, you’ve been going to the day program for more than eight months,” he said. “There are other tools to help you live life over the long haul. Try going to meetings and know that we’re always here for you in case you need to come back.”

  And with that I finally left Silver Hill to see if what I’d learned would stick.

  Over the next few months, many of my friends would die, even ones that were clean and sober. They were all young and this was shocking to me. The most shocking were my rehab friends who bit the dust, because most had been pretending to be sober. It puzzled me, because the big lesson I’d learned was that people are not supposed to judge you. You could even show up drunk at the recovery programs. You didn’t need to pretend to be sober. The idea is, you get it when you get it—or you never get it. People understand that’s just the way it is.

  I still love all my friends who choose to use drugs. One post-recovery birthday, while I was gigging in a foreign country, I reconnected with a friend whom I hadn’t seen in about two decades.

  “I have the greatest birthday present you can imagine,” she said, laying out a massive line of blow.

  In the most nonjudgmental way, I kindly refused the drugs.

  “Wow!” she said. “Somebody told me you didn’t get high anymore. But I didn’t believe it, because I remember how much fun we used to have.”

  I laughed and said, “I still have fun.”

  She apologized, then said, “Do you mind if I do some?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I only mind if I do some!”

  I continued to work on a number of projects that were basically a series of one-offs, but what I was most excited about was rekindling my relationship with Bernard and rebooting Chic. I knew Chic would never be the same again. It couldn’t be. Times had changed and I had changed.

  APRIL 1996. I was in Japan in prime cherry blossom season. The warm spring air was filled with their perfumed scent, and I was delighted whenever I caught sight of their delicate beauty. Cherry blossoms are called Sakura, and they bloom for a very short period. It is the most sacred time of the year in the Land of the Rising Sun.

  I was here being honored as JT’s (Japan Tobacco’s) Super Producer of the Year, an award that culminates in a two-hour television special that is rehearsed over a three-day series of live concerts, the last of which is shot for broadcast. I was flying high, overwhelmed by the honor of being recognized for my body of work with my very own TV show.

  I’d gathered a handful of people near and dear to me to perform at this event, which was basically This Is Your Life in song form. I had Steve Winwood, Sister Sledge, Duran Duran’s Simon Le Bon, Slash, the Crowell Sisters (a new group I’d been developing), a host of qualified sidemen whom I’d considered to be stars in their own right, and, of course, the newly re-formed Chic—with my old partner Bernard on bass.

  Although this was an homage to my past work, I believed Chic’s future was incredibly bright. This was just the beginning. Much like the Vaughan brothers, who’d come together in search of a new musical direction, our task was to figure out what Chic should be. We weren’t worried. Chic was eternally optimistic.

  During the trip certain rock-and-roll bonds were sealed for life—with Slash, Steve Winwood, and of course all of our Chic Organization alumni. “We Are Family” could have been our battle cry as we performed our nightly three-hour show with military precision. Everything just clicked, at least until the third and final show, a sold-out performance at the Budokan, which was shot to be televised.

  We’d played the night before and were better than we’d ever been, but just twenty-four hours later, things started to quickly go wrong—very wrong. Nard arrived at the dressing room feeling a little sick. “I need to lay down for a minute,” he said. “I wonder if I can get a vitamin shot to give me a boost of energy.” I told our promoter/agent and she called a doctor. He arrived almost instantly.

  After examining Bernard, he informed me in no uncertain terms, “The show must be canceled and Mr. Edwards has to go to the hospital immediately.” I didn’t hesitate. I told the promoter that we had to postpone the show and reschedule the shoot and concert. Nard was lying on the dressing room couch, but when he overheard the plan, he said, “Let me talk to the doctor.”

  Nard convinced the doctor that the show had to go on. So he got his vitamin shot, and they agreed he’d head to the hospital directly after we wrapped the show. Even the promoter, who spoke perfect English, said postponing the show wasn’t a problem. The doctor seemed alarmed. But Nard wasn’t having it. “Do you think I’d come all the way over here,” he said to him, “to let my boy down?”

  “Bernard, it’s OK if we do this another day,” the promoter said. But Nard wouldn’t budge. He said the show must go on.

  After a quick, astronaut-style nap, Nard seemed to recover. By the time the show was about to start, he was damn near the same old Nard, laughing, joking, and quoting Parliament-Funkadelic’s “Let’s Take It to the Stage.”

  This show was extra elaborate for us. We had dancers, a huge stage with opposing ramps; it was even tiered for a multiple-camera shoot, like a maj
or sporting event. Before they announced our names, Nard and I peeked out at the audience. “We did it,” he said in an emotional tone. “They didn’t come to see us—they came to hear our music. It’s bigger than we are.” He was almost crying, which was so completely out of character for him. I, however, was completely in character: “Who the hell are you, Socrates? We’ve got a damn show to do. Why is your ass getting all philosophical on me now? Let’s hit this shit.”

  A few minutes later, in a combination of Japanese and English, the announcer roared “JT Super Producer ’96—NILE RODGERS!” Nard responded with “Three, four” to the band. We came in on the downbeat and blasted off.

  Everything proceeded along brilliantly until we got to the next-to-last song of the first half, Bowie’s “Let’s Dance,” which was being performed by Simon Le Bon. During the verse the bass unexpectedly dropped out. I recall saying to myself, “Wow, that’s genius. Why didn’t I do that on the record?”

  I quickly looked back to give Nard a wink of approval, but I didn’t see him. We continued playing the song and the bass returned in exactly the right place. I wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t on stage, so I counted off the next song, Duran Duran’s “Wild Boys.” And lo and behold, there was Nard back on stage, playing along. At the end of the set, we left the stage triumphantly for the intermission.

  Nard and I met in the dressing room for a quick clothing change. While stripping off his sweaty clothes, he said, “Damn, did you see that?”

  “See what?” I replied, still trying to catch my breath.

  “I passed out.”

  “What?”

  “I passed out,” he repeated.

  “What do you mean you passed out?”

  “Remember when the bass dropped?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s what happened.”

  I was stunned. After all, the drop-out was so musical. It couldn’t have been more perfect. “I was playing one minute,” Nard continued, “and the next thing I know I’m on the floor and they’re shaking me and saying my name. When I came to, I heard where you guys were, so I joined back in.”

 

‹ Prev