by Rick James
“You’ll be one of the biggest stars in the world,” she said, putting her hand to my cheek.
“I love you, baby,” I said.
“I love you too.”
Those were her last words to me. When I returned the next day with another bouquet of flowers, they told me she was gone.
Sickness was everywhere. Seville’s mother was seriously ill in L.A.
“I’ve got to get out to California to see her,” said Seville. “Ty and I will come back to Buffalo as soon as my mother gets well.”
I stayed in Toronto. The scene was dead except for a couple of clubs. I sat in with some groups and made some loose change. My heart was heavy. Elke was gone and so were Seville and Ty. One night at a club I was singing the straight-ahead Bobby Bland/B. B. King twelve-bar blues when I locked eyes with a chick named Kelly. Kelly was prettier than pretty. The girl was gorgeous—big brown eyes, full lips, crazy body. She waved me over to her table. Turned out to be Canadian English with an enchanting accent. She was deep into brothas and black music. She was deep into me. That night the heavens came down as we loved until daylight. We loved all that week. By then I knew good pussy, but this was another category altogether. Kelly and I went beyond the physical. Our shit was metaphysical. It took us all the way to Mars and back.
I was torn. I loved Seville and our baby, but damned if I didn’t love Kelly. I stayed in Toronto for nearly four months while Seville was caring for her mom. All that while the thing with me and Kelly was getting deeper.
I was getting guilty. I told Kelly about Seville. Because Kelly was such a cool chick, she said, “We need to stop. We need to do what’s right.”
I agreed. It was tough but necessary. When Seville’s mom improved, Seville and Ty came to Toronto. I decided to stop the lying and confess. I told Seville about me and Kelly. Then Seville told me that she also had had an affair. We were both hurt and pissed.
“This isn’t working,” said Seville.
I agreed.
We tried for a couple of weeks but the tension was too much. Our relationship was crashing all around us. We were fighting like alley cats.
“This isn’t good for the baby,” said Seville.
“It isn’t good for anyone,” I said.
“I’m going,” said Seville, “and I’m taking the baby with me.”
I had no arguments. I had no alternative plans. Seville left with Ty. More regrets, more confusion.
One thing was clear, though. I still wanted Kelly and Kelly wanted me. We fixed up an old Victorian house and moved in together. Kelly got my motor going. She motivated me to get back on my hustle. I started writing songs again. We went out to clubs. I identified different musicians I thought might be able to bring off my ideas. Most importantly, I found a rich, party-loving, music-loving lawyer who spotted my talent and was willing to back me in a band. This time I was gonna flip the script and do something different—and bigger.
As I planned my next move, two musicians had a big impact on me—Marvin Gaye and Miles Davis. Marvin and Miles were both experimenters. They were bold pioneers willing to go places no one else had gone before.
Marvin had come out with “What’s Going On,” a radical departure from the singles he’d been doing with Whitfield. First of all, he put himself in the pilot’s seat. He produced the thing himself. He cowrote all the songs. And he also created a concept album rather than a bunch of disconnected singles. He told a long story of a cat who comes back from the fucked-up war in Vietnam and tries to adjust to the fucked-up big-city black ghetto. Marvin laid it all out—politics, drugs, religion, even ecology. Later he told me Berry Gordy didn’t want to put it out ’cause it was too controversial. Marvin told Gordy to get fucked; if it wasn’t released, he’d never record for Motown again. Gordy backed down and—just like that—the producer-driven era was over. Soon Stevie Wonder, taking Marvin’s lead, would be producing his own albums. The whole thing—Marvin’s gutsiness, Marvin’s vision, and Marvin’s sweet funky music—was an inspiration.
Miles had started fooling with electronic instruments in In a Silent Way. For a straight-ahead jazz cat working in the purist jazz world, that was a brave move. But with Bitches Brew he kicked in the doors. He introduced serious funk and rock into the mix. The shit was free-form as a motherfucker, and I loved it. Miles also had the taste to include virtuoso cats like Wayne Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Chick Corea, John McLaughlin, Jack DeJohnette, and Lenny White. The riffin’ over those polyrhythms blew my mind. I felt like Miles was saying to us artists—musicians trying to figure out our next move—“Go for it.”
I went for it. I told my party-loving lawyer that I wanted to do something big. I wanted a big band. I wanted to paint on a large canvas. To realize the sounds in my head I needed lots of players. I’d loved big bands in every era, starting with the first time I heard Benny Goodman play “Sing, Sing, Sing” with Gene Krupa on drums. I loved Dizzy Gillespie’s big band and I loved Gil Evans’s big band—especially his records Out of the Cool and Sketches of Spain, which he wrote for Miles. For a minute Monk had a serious big band. And of course I loved rock bands like Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears. Soul bands were also my thing, especially Tower of Power, who had just put out East Bay Grease. And naturally I never stopped learning from Tower of Power’s main inspiration, James Brown. The Godfather was the grease, grit, and guts of groove-centric R & B.
In short, I wanted horns and reeds and a rhythm section that could burn down the barn. I needed money, and lo and behold, the lawyer coughed up the dough. He saw the fire in my eyes and was willing to bet on my talent. I started writing. I quickly hired the right cats. I quickly found my sound. Influenced by Marvin, I had songs like “Mother Earth” that concerned protecting the planet. I had a thing called “Country Girl” that rocked hard in a Blood, Sweat & Tears mode. “Don’t You Worry” had a rock vibe that I knew would worry Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Besides the killer music we made, I’d also come up with a killer name for the band—White Cane.
Knowing that I’d never get a deal from Toronto, I convinced my backer to fly me, Kelly, and the band to L.A., where we could showcase for the music biz moguls. We hit the ground running. We smoked the city, tearing up club after club until a label boss finally came up with the mean green.
When we scored a $250,000 advance, I couldn’t help but be happy, except for a funny feeling I had about the label, MGM. Mike Curb, who signed us personally, ran it. When I went to Curb’s office there were all sorts of pictures with him and his other big act, the Osmonds. There were also photos of him with that asshole Richard Nixon, one motherfucker I couldn’t stomach. I got the idea that Curb was a card-carrying Republican. First thing he said was, “I love your music, Rick, but you’ll have to change the name of the band.”
“Why?”
“It’s promoting drugs,” he said.
“What drugs?”
“Cocaine.”
“Cocaine is spelled C-A-I-N-E. We’re C-A-N-E. ‘White cane’ is talkin’ ’bout sugarcane. We’re sweet as sugar.”
“I don’t think so, Rick.”
“Well, Mike, I know you’re the boss of MGM, but I’m the boss of White Cane. So either you’ll take us with our name or we’ll find someone who will.”
Sensing we were about to break wide and not wanting to blow an opportunity to make big bread, Mike caved.
“White Cane is okay,” he said, “long as you have no songs promoting drugs.”
I wanted to say I had lots of songs promoting pussy, but I decided to shut up. I’d won the battle. The next battle had to do with the producer. I didn’t think we needed one. Mike did. This time I caved. Even though I knew what the band had to do in the studio better than anyone, it was Mike’s dime.
Jimmy Ienner was Mike’s producer. I didn’t like the guy. I didn’t like his toupee and I didn’t like his plastered-on phony smile. I called him “the Tooth.” He bragged about his big success with the Raspberries. I wasn’t impressed. To my way of thinking, he had only
the most superficial understanding of the three elements that made White Cane so good—jazz, funk, and rock.
I was glad when the Tooth took us to Village Recorders, one of the best studios in L.A., but I was horrified when he started producing. He massacred our music. He found a way to deconstruct what it had taken us months to construct—a full-bodied sound with layers of close harmonies over in-the-pocket grooves guaranteed to keep the party going all night. I fought with the Tooth all night. Ultimately, because I didn’t have control, I lost. I was excluded from the mixing process and at one point barred from the studio. When the record came out, the trades said White Cane had potential but that the production sucked. The trades were right.
Curb tried to boost sales by having us tour with B. B. King. B was super-hot with his first crossover hit, “The Thrill Is Gone,” and it was an honor to open for him. I loved B, a beautiful man who treated me like a son. One night I asked him whether if I called my mother, a big B. B. King fan, he would talk to her. He talked to her for fifteen minutes. That made me love B even more. Yet for all the goodwill between B’s band and mine, for all the excitement of our live tour, the record itself bombed big-time. Not only did the production do us in, but the production costs ate up our advance. When it was over, I was left with nothing. Curb dropped us, White Cane disbanded, and I was broke.
Kelly and I hung around L.A., where I tried to keep the band together. Without the support of the label, though, I couldn’t do it. I looked around and saw that soul music was all about Donny Hathaway, Roberta Flack, Al Green, and the Chi-Lites. I saw Bill Withers, who I loved, and understood his brilliant marriage of folk and soul. I could have done that. I thought of going to Philly, where the O’Jays and Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes were turning out smashes for Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff. I could have done that as well. Neil Young had a huge hit with “Heart of Gold.” I could have gone with his group if he had asked me. On the rock side, the Crosby, Stills & Nash–style America had “A Horse with No Name.” I could have done that. I could have done all this shit, but I didn’t do any of it. I heard all the sounds that were making stars. I knew all the stars who were making money. I had what they had—musical vision, originality, stage presence, a voice, a look. Except that I had been denied—over and over again. How long could I put up with defeat? Subsisting in another crummy Hollywood apartment with a clogged toilet and peeling paint, at age twenty-four I asked myself a question for which I had no answer.
What the fuck am I gonna do now?
PASSAGE TO INDIA
So far this has been a tale of three cities—Buffalo, Toronto, and L.A. I’d been running back and forth between those places, looking for a way to get over. L.A. had always proved to be a dead end, Buffalo was always dead period, and Toronto seemed to yield the most. Toronto was the only place where my talent was really recognized.
It’s no surprise, then, that Kelly and I fled to Toronto after the demise of White Cane. Kelly’s parents weren’t pleased that we were still together—they didn’t like the idea of their girl going black—and tried to break us up, but the love was too strong. The love bonded us in all ways—even our forays into scamming the system.
I was disgusted with the music business. I didn’t see how I could put together a better band than White Cane. If White Cane couldn’t cut it, fuck the whole thing. There were other ways to make money, especially in Canada, where the bankers weren’t all that vigilant.
Our first scheme worked for many months. Kelly would dress up in her sexiest outfit. When she walked in the bank, every loan officer hoped that she’d come his way. Their eyes were popping and their dicks were hard. When she chose the lucky guy, she’d tell him a sob story—her mom died, her dad got cancer, her brother broke his neck. She’d tell him how she had just started a new job with a decent salary and her boss would be glad to testify for her. She’d give the loan officer our home number and I’d answer the phone in the whitest voice since Richard Nixon. I’d pretend to be the boss and sing her praises to the sky. Time and again she scored the loan. Soon we had enough bread for a car and a cool apartment. After a few months, we foolishly overdid a good thing and Kelly got popped. She avoided jail but was told she’d have to start repaying those loans.
What now?
Drugs were always a good source of income. And in Toronto in the early seventies hashish was the drug of choice—especially black hashish from Nepal. Two friends of mine—I’ll call the white Tom and black Jerry—had made serious bread smuggling. They talked about the cheap price of hash and coke in India and its trouble-free accessibility. These cats weren’t exactly Einstein. If they could do it, I figured I could, too. If we skipped the country, it was also a way for Kelly to get out of all those loan payments. Besides, I’d never been to that part of the world. I wanted the adventure and I wanted the money. Kelly was game, and after securing our passports, we were off.
Another world. Another culture. Another look, feel, and smell. The streets of New Delhi were thick with humanity. Beggars were everywhere, while cows, considered holy, walked around like they owned the city. If you hit a cow, even by mistake, the consequences were grave. My first impression of India was fat cows, thin people, and unbelievable poverty. I’d grown up in the ghetto; I thought I knew about poverty. But American poverty ain’t shit compared to what they got in India. Kids eating out of garbage, frail old ladies falling over dead in the street, men crapping in the alleys, the taste of dirt always in your mouth.
I was amazed and also cautious. I was a black cat traveling with a white chick and didn’t want to fuck with Indian law. As best I could, I kept a low profile. Being streetwise, I figured I’d find my way around, long as I was patient.
I didn’t have to be. No sooner had we checked into a hotel recommended by Jerry than the bellboy who carried up our bag asked where we were from.
“Toronto,” I said.
“Do you know Jerry?”
“A black guy?”
“Black as night,” said the bellboy in extremely good English.
“He’s my man,” I said.
“Mine too.”
Turned out the bellboy was Jerry’s connection. We were off and running. I gave him a bottle of Scotch and he took me to the hotel drugstore, where the druggist locked the door and brought out a big glass container of pharmaceutical cocaine. The shit was fantastic, and only thirty U.S. dollars for two grams. I was quickly falling in love with India.
As is often the case in the world of drugs, one thing led to another. Through the bellboy and druggist we met other dealers who hooked us up with big quantities at low prices. We were always high. Something about the exotic nature of that city kept us horny. We fucked like crazy. We also felt a spiritual vibe that’s an essential part of India. We met a relative of Ravi Shankar who sold me a sitar and gave me lessons. I loved the axe. We traveled to see the Taj Mahal. I saw it just as the sun was setting. We’d just had a blast of hash and were feeling this incredible high. When we laid eyes on this otherworldly monument, both Kelly and myself had tears in our eyes.
Strange to think, but the other huge impression that stayed with me from India was the music of Barry White. His first album had come out, and believe it or not, they were playing it in a lot of the underground clubs Kelly and I discovered during our dope-buying forays. Much as I loved the sitar, I got to say that it was Barry White who haunted me throughout my travels in India. Like me, Barry was an arranger. He had a musical vision that required a big sound. Not only reeds and horns, but strings as well. He took what Isaac Hayes, Curtis Mayfield, and Marvin Gaye had started—orchestrated funk—and took it to another level. He elevated the shit. When I heard “I’ve Got So Much to Give” and “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More Baby,” I knew Barry was the next big thing. He had a theatrical excitement in his music that was good for dancers and just as good for listeners. Sometimes they mix up Barry with the disco craze, but I didn’t hear it that way. Disco was formulaic. Barry was original. Disco was superficial. Barry wa
s deep. Barry had his Love Unlimited girl singers and his Love Unlimited Orchestra. He was the kind of maestro I wanted to be—a brotha capable and confident enough to do it all. It was strange to discover the magic of Barry White in the mysterious country of India.
In New Delhi, I was confident enough to hide my big-ass haul of hash in a dozen pair of boots. I cut off my hair to look like a nerdy student. The officials bought the look and, although I was sweating like a motherfucker, we eased on through customs, got on the plane, and with a couple of vials I kept in my coat, snorted all the way to New York. The situation at Kennedy airport was tense. Governor Rockefeller was passing strict antidrug laws. Get caught with more than an ounce of blow and go to jail for life. We smiled our way through customs with my stomach silently screaming all the way.
In the city, given the nervous drug vibe in New York, I sold our hash for half of what it would have brought a month earlier. No one wanted to get caught holding big quantities. I was eager to get to Buffalo and see Mom. It had been too long. Kelly stayed in Manhattan.
Reunion with Mom was warm and wonderful.
“Got a surprise for you,” I said.
“Seeing you is surprise enough.”
“Add five thousand dollars to that surprise.”
I opened a suitcase stuffed with bills and handed Mom the cash.
“Where you’d get this?” she asked.
“You really wanna know?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask.”
“India was profitable.”
“You said you went over to learn some new instruments.”
“That’s true, but I also made a connection.”
“You made a drug run, son?”