by Rick James
“You and Seville will love it,” he said. “There’s a pool and a guesthouse and lofts and fireplaces made of stone. It’s at the end of a cul-de-sac and completely private. Cary Grant used to live there.”
I’d gotten wasted the night before and couldn’t think about partying—at least not at that moment.
“I can’t move, Jay,” I said.
“You gotta come, Rick. You’ll have a ball.”
“I know I will. But let me catch up with you later. Just leave the address.”
On a piece of paper Jay wrote down “10050 Cielo Drive.” He also made me a little map showing how to get there. I immediately fell back to sleep. When I woke up, Seville mentioned Jay’s party. She really wanted to make the scene. I did too, but my temples were throbbing. Usually a couple of aspirins are all I need. In this case, though, the headache wouldn’t go away. In those days it took a lot for me to pass up a party—especially one with Jay Sebring involved—but hard as I tried, I couldn’t get myself to make the trek.
“Come on, Rick,” Seville kept urging, “Jay always hangs out with the grooviest people.”
Seville was right. It would be a cool scene and a mellow time. I started to put on some party clothes when, out of nowhere, the headache returned with a vengeance and knocked me on my ass. I could hardly move.
“Sorry, baby,” I told Seville. “Something weird’s happening. Maybe this is what they call a migraine. Whatever it is, I need to lie down.”
I fell into bed and closed my eyes, and when I woke up it was morning. Here my memory gets fuzzy. I can’t remember whether it was the next morning or the morning after that when I went out to the grocery store to pick up some coffee and milk. I happened to glance down at a vending machine selling the Los Angeles Times. The headline read, SHARON TATE, FOUR OTHERS MURDERED. My heart stopped. I fumbled around and finally found the right change to buy the paper. My eyes read the words but my brain couldn’t comprehend what it said—five people had been killed in what was being called a “ritualistic slaying.” They were Sharon Tate, who was eight and a half months pregnant; Abigail Folger, heiress to the coffee fortune; Voytek Frykowski, a filmmaker friend of Roman Polanski; Steven Parent; and Jay Sebring, former fiancé to Sharon Tate and Hollywood hair product mogul. I stood there and read it again, and then again, hoping that somehow if I kept reading it the words would change, the names would change, and the story would disappear. But it didn’t. Later that day more details came in over the television. The one that hit me hardest was that Jay had been found dead with a rope around his neck. He was stabbed seven times. On the door of the house the murderers had written “Pig” in blood.
I was freaked the fuck out. I was devastated that my good friend had been killed in cold blood. I also couldn’t help but think how it could have been me and Seville. We were supposed to be there. Jay had come by to get us. Normally, I would have gone in a split second. I loved Hollywood parties. I loved Jay. It was only the headache that stopped me. Why? Why would I get a headache at that moment? Why was I spared when a good guy like Jay wasn’t? I couldn’t think of what I had done to deserve this kind of break. I couldn’t think of what Jay had done to die this kind of brutal death. None of it made sense.
The whole Hollywood community, me included, was scared shitless. It got even worse when the next night two other people, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca, were slaughtered in their home in Los Feliz, a neighborhood right next to Hollywood. The killer carved “War” on Leno’s stomach. The words “Death to Pigs” were written in blood on the wall.
Because this was a time when everyone was smoking tons of weed—a substance that sure as hell feeds paranoia—we were out of our minds with fear. Who the fuck knew who these killers were? We ran out and got heavier locks for our doors and barred the windows, and in my case, I got me a piece. I wasn’t taking no chances. If some crazed killer showed up at our crib, I’d blow his fuckin’ brains out.
I resorted to calling my mother every night. She was the most comforting thing in my life. When I told her the story of how I was almost with Jay that night, she was quick to say, “God spared your life for a reason.”
“Maybe so, Mom, but I gotta say I’m scared.”
“Who wouldn’t be, James? It was a horrible, frightening thing that happened.”
“I wanna come home.”
“I’m not sure this is the time.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you haven’t done what you set out to do. You were gonna start a band, weren’t you?”
“I was, but I got sidetracked. Stephen Stills hired Greg Reeves away from me. Greg and I were gonna be Salt ’n Pepper.”
“I’m sure Greg’s great,” said Mom, “but I know there are a lot of other musicians you can work with.”
“There are, but right now I’m not too hip on running the streets to look for musicians. The streets out here are full of killers gone crazy.”
“Killers are everywhere, James. You grew up in a city where there were killings all the time.”
“It’s different here, Mom. The crazies are crazier. They cut up people and use their blood to write secret messages. They got messages on the walls and on the sidewalks. They’re looking for their next victim. I think they’ve targeted musicians.”
“You sound like you been smoking too much.”
Mom knew me, and I loved her too much to lie.
“I’m trying to cut back,” I said.
“Try to get yourself together, son. You owe it to yourself to develop your talent. Stop smoking them funny cigarettes and start making music.”
Mom always had the last and best word. I knew she was right. As scary as it was to stay in L.A. that summer of slaughter, I remained where I was.
A week after the bloody murders, Woodstock went down in upstate New York. I watched the TV reports saying that a half million hippies had made the scene. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young were on the bill. The biggest act of all, Jimi Hendrix, closed the festival. Watching the news clips, I asked myself why I wasn’t up there. These were my peers. I heard what they were doing and knew I could do it as well or better. I saw how they were dressing and knew I had just as much style—if not more. I’m not taking anything away from Janis Joplin or Sly Stone or the Who or the Grateful Dead. They were all bad. They had their own sound and their original songs. But so did I. Yet they had found a way to get themselves out there in front of the hippie nation while I was still farting around in my little apartment.
I hadn’t become a hippie act like Santana or Country Joe and the Fish, and I hadn’t become a soul music act like Aretha Franklin or Wilson Pickett. I had fallen in the cracks of the two worlds of pop music—black and white—knowing that I could do both those styles with originality and skill.
Why hadn’t I done what I’d set out to do?
Mom had the answer. I was stoned all the time. I was too fucked-up to take care of business. I had to throw out the weed, flush the blow down the toilet, pour out the wine and the whiskey, and concentrate on what God had saved me to do—write songs, sing songs, be an artist. The only thing that was getting in my way was fear. I had to defeat the fear.
Fear’s defeat happened in a strange way. I was eating a hot dog at Orange Julius on Santa Monica Boulevard when these fine chicks came and handed me a piece of paper about chanting. It talked about how chanting relieves stress and lifts fear. I’d never heard that before. If the chicks hadn’t been so fine, I might not have paid that much attention to their solicitation, but I did. I kept the paper and the next day drove to the address on it in Beverly Hills to see what chanting was all about.
I learned it was a Buddhist thing. Cool. Buddhism was a peaceful religion. Buddhism might help me cut back on the stimulants that had been exciting my fears. In that room, the vibe was not fearful. Everyone sat on Persian rugs. The leader faced the rest of us in lotus position. We were told to close our eyes and become conscious of our breath. We were told to let our thoughts go, let them pass through us. We were told no
t to hold on to anything but simply follow our breath. And then we were told to chant. The chant was more of a sound than a word. The sound had a resonance that I liked. It helped me move from my thoughts and stay in my body. After a while I felt myself leaving my body. I looked back at my body from a place I’d never experienced before. I felt outside time and space. I just was. The chanting went on and on. Can’t say how long—maybe an hour, maybe two. When the session was over, the leader looked at me and put his hands together, as if in prayer. He nodded and smiled. I felt changed.
I felt motivated. My relationship with Seville, which had been rocky because of all my drugs, got better. I got more focused on music. I started writing and singing. My lyrics got deeper and my voice got stronger. I went into the clubs and looked for talent. I couldn’t get Greg Reeves, who was married to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young—but I was gonna resurrect Salt ’n Pepper anyway.
First cat I found was Eddie Roth, who played the shit outta the Hammond B3. Wasn’t nothing Eddie couldn’t play—any groove, any genre. Plus he blew flute good as Herbie Mann.
Second cat was David Burk on guitar. Think John McLaughlin and Al Di Meola, then multiply times two and the result is Burk. Rock and jazz were coming together back then, and Burk was the guy who blended them to perfection.
My drummer was Coffey Hall. Because I’m a drummer, I’m a hard critic on any percussionist. But there was nothing to criticize about Coffey. He could backstick on a bottle cap and do fancy rolls with one finger. Amazing chops.
Fourth member was Chris Sarnes on bass, who was simpler than Jamerson and Reeves but just as earthy. He provided that big rock bottom every group needs. His forte was simplicity. Sarnes’s thing was to keep it hot, funky, and anchored to the earth.
It was all about musical virtuosity. These boys could blow as bad as anyone on either coast. Tapering off drugs—not entirely but doing way less than before—I got my voice in great shape. The chanting helped. I was writing all kinds of original material on all sorts of subjects. I had a song called “Alice in Ghettoland” where, instead of falling down the rabbit hole, Alice falls into a trash can and winds up on the chocolate side of town dealing with gangstas and pimps. Another, called “Train Song,” had elements of Curtis Mayfield’s “People Get Ready,” a song about racial harmony. I was open to all the musical currents flowing through the country. Taj Mahal was making a splash with his hip retro country blues. It was Taj who inspired me to do Willie Dixon’s “I Just Want to Make Love to You” through a heavy psychedelic filter.
Yes, along with Led Zeppelin, was being called the next big thing in rock coming over from England. Yes had made a big splash with their debut Atlantic album, and when Salt ’n Pepper were booked to open for them at the Whisky it was a big fuckin’ deal. We were pumped. Yes was a progressive rock band, but we knew no one was more progressive than us.
We rehearsed like madmen. On opening night, in spite of all the anticipation for Yes, the audience wouldn’t let us go. We did four encores. We blew off the roof and made Yes work like motherfuckers to come up to our level. During that week, Yes guitarist Steve Howe was asking my guitarist, David Burk, for pointers. Yes drummer Bill Bruford was taking lessons from my drummer, Coffey Hall.
When Norman Whitfield came by to see us, he said, “Rick, I’m glad I chased you outta Detroit. This band is serious. This band is gonna worry Hendrix. It’s gonna worry everyone.”
Neil Young dropped by and heard me play his “Cinnamon Girl.” I twisted that song into a shape Neil had never imagined. He loved it. “You gotta meet my manager,” he said.
Enter Elliot Roberts. At the time Elliot was a super-manager, flying high with Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Roberts heard us and signed us. I knew this was the break I’d been waiting for. I had a killer band and now a killer manager. Everything was in place. Except it wasn’t.
We couldn’t get Elliot’s attention. He had bigger fish to fry. Later I learned he was chasing after the Eagles. Whatever it was, we were neglected. When I confronted him, though, he was cool. “I think Salt ’n Pepper is fantastic,” he said, “but I just don’t have the time. Let me get Bill Graham to help you.”
Roberts came through. Enter the great Bill Graham. He heard us, loved us, and booked us in his club the Fillmore West, where we opened for Jethro Tull. We were finally in the middle of the mix. This was the big time.
The start of a new decade—the seventies—and the start of a new career for me. I was fronting what I knew had to be the next big thing in rock, soul, and funk. I had it all together. When Bill had us open for Chicago, the Allman Brothers, and Boz Scaggs, all those cats gave us props. Even though we didn’t have a record deal, it couldn’t be long.
It wasn’t. Enter Phil Walden, the guy who’d made Otis Redding and then managed the Allman Brothers. Walden said he’d put us on Atlantic Records—and that’s what he did. The label of Ray Charles, Solomon Burke, Wilson Pickett, Sam & Dave, Aretha Franklin—not to mention Yes and Led Zeppelin. Atlantic was just where I wanted to be. Soon I saw myself crossing and busting up England the way I was about to bust up America.
Contracts came through and next thing I knew Tom Dowd, the famous Atlantic engineer who’d become a producer, came to check us out. He wanted to assess our sound. The world looked at Dowd as a genius, but I didn’t. He made a few suggestions that I thought were bullshit. He talked about dynamics, but, hell, Salt ’n Pepper was the most dynamic band going. Not wanting to fuck up the deal, I pretended to take him seriously. Atlantic sent us plane tickets to fly to Miami and cut our first record, which Dowd would produce. I wanted Mom to be there.
“Can’t come in for it, son,” she said. “Too busy here.”
“You can stop running those numbers now,” I told her. “This record we’re about to make is gonna be the bomb. You can kiss your money problems good-bye.”
“Ain’t got no money problems, James. That’s because I keep on working. Anyway, I’m proud of what you’re doing and I know this thing is gonna be a success.”
It wasn’t. I was happy to go back to Criteria Studios, where I had freelanced before, but Miami was the pits. Atlantic was the pits. They rented us a house with no air-conditioning in the middle of a blistering summer heat wave. They didn’t get us the equipment we needed for the studio, and when I called to complain they said that the boss, Jerry Wexler, had to approve it all and couldn’t be reached. He was on his yacht. Our manager, Phil Walden, was suddenly hard to get. We were told our advance was sent to him and yet we hadn’t seen a dime. Phil kept ducking my calls. The studio still wasn’t ready and the scorching heat got hotter.
Whoever I tried reaching—Dowd, Wexler, or Walden—was in meetings or had gone fishing. When I finally got a midlevel executive at Atlantic, I said, “Does the label want us to make a goddamn record or not?”
“Can I get back to you on that?” the guy asked.
I hung up in his ear.
I looked out on the ocean. I thought of the expression “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”
The ocean was the music business. Everyone I knew was in a ship that had left port. Everyone was sailing over a smooth sea. Meanwhile, I was drowning on dry land. I was out of patience and out of ideas.
I was back in L.A. without a nickel to my name.
MOTHER EARTH
Seville was an earth mother. We fought like couples fight—we even broke up several times—but our bond was tight. She was a beautiful person, beautiful lover, and beautiful homemaker. When she told me she was pregnant with our child, my first thought was that I’d wanted to be rich and famous before having kids. I was neither. My second thought was that new life was always a blessing. I was thrilled. I knew Seville would make a great mom. I wasn’t sure what kind of dad I’d be, but I was determined to give it a try. I didn’t take the responsibility lightly. I thanked God for the gift of life.
I needed that piece of good news to offset the blues that came with the dissolution of Salt ’n Pepper.
My hopes were dashed. I’d convinced myself that Salt ’n Pepper was gonna captivate the nation. Instead, the deal collapsed and I was staring into space. I had to gear up all over again. That takes effort. How many times can you strike out before you start believing you’ve lost your stroke?
Well, I was goddamn certain that I did have my stroke. My friends were on teams that were winning the World Series. They didn’t have anything that I didn’t have. All I was missing was a break. And yet having missed that break time and again, I couldn’t help but get down. Fortunately, Seville’s pregnancy gave me something positive to focus on—her health and the health of our child. I kept drugs out of our house and found the occasional gig to keep us in groceries. Good friends like Stephen Stills threw me some money now and then. We got by.
When our angel girl, Ty, was born, I was over the moon. I danced with joy. The first thing I wanted to do was show Mom her granddaughter. So we went to Buffalo. I can still see the joy in my mother’s eyes as she saw Ty for the first time. Mom and Seville got along like mother and daughter, and I felt safe back in a city I knew better than any other. Then came the bad news from Toronto.
Morley Schelman was dead, killed in a fiery motorcycle accident. Even though Morley and I had fought bitterly and even violently, his death hit me hard. He was a guy who had believed in my talent. At the same time, I learned that Elke had returned from Europe and was in a Toronto hospital, where she was dying from lung cancer. Another huge blow. I decided to visit her. I wanted to tell her good-bye.
I drove across the border and rushed to her side. I her told that she looked fine and would be out of the hospital in a matter of days. She wanted to believe me. She needed support. But I knew she’d never leave the hospital. She was down to skin and bones. The doctors told me that her cancer was spreading everywhere. Yet even in her frail condition, she was encouraging me. When I told her the hard time I’d had getting a deal, she said it was only a matter of time.