Glow

by Rick James

  “You’re clear,” he said.

  Silently I said, Thank you, Jesus.

  Back in Toronto, Kelly and I settled down at our cool town house. That close call with customs gave me a feeling of invincibility. I could pretty much get away with anything. I had some bread, I had some new ideas for songs, and I had my wife back. What could go wrong?

  Sexual loyalty was not my strong suit. One morning I arrived home at eight A.M. after a wild night. I had found me a pair of bitches who were flying their freak flag high. I was willing to fly high myself, and the ménage à trois was something I wouldn’t soon forget.

  Kelly wasn’t in her bed so I figured she’d gone shopping. To get the pussy juice off me, I took a long shower and then fell into bed. When I woke up it was four P.M. and Kelly wasn’t back. I made some calls but still couldn’t find her. Slept alone that night and next morning woke up alone. Still no Kelly.

  Her call came two days later.

  “Where the fuck you been?” I asked.

  “You got no right to ask me that,” said Kelly. “You wander off when you wanna and never think twice about calling me.”

  I couldn’t respond because Kelly was right. What she didn’t know was that I had even screwed a couple of her girlfriends—or maybe she did know. In this conversation I decided the best thing was to keep quiet.

  “I’ve had it,” Kelly said. “I’ve gone back to my ex.”

  She’d gone back to him before. One of those times I’d gone over to his place and kicked his ass. But I didn’t see myself doing that again. Even though I loved Kelly, I couldn’t help but realize that I’d been too heartless with her for too long.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” was all I could say.

  “Sorry won’t do it, Rick. This time I’m gone for good.”

  I knew she meant it. I knew she wasn’t coming back. And for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I felt myself falling apart. When I tried to write songs, I couldn’t. I thought I’d compose a sad song about losing Kelly, but the blues were too strong to let me work. I wouldn’t even call it the blues. I’d call it hard-core depression. I thought I’d use dope to kill the pain, but the dope got me even more down. I thought some wild pussy would change my mood, but I couldn’t fuck. My dick wouldn’t get hard. That had never happened to me before. Talk about depression!

  I moped around the house. I stared into space. I thought back on my life and all I saw was failure. Marvin Gaye had done the soundtrack for a film called Trouble Man that should have been my movie. He had a hit, “I Want You,” that was burning up the charts. My friend—you could even say my mentor—Norman Whitfield was producing Rose Royce, who’d broken through with “Car Wash,” an across-the-board smash. Neil Young was a big solo artist. David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash were touring the world. All these people were making monster progress and I was still on my ass.

  Aside from buying and selling Colombian cocaine, I hadn’t done shit. My music had gone nowhere. I felt like it never would. I felt like I should call Mom, but I knew that Mom would say what all moms say: that it’d get better, that I had to have faith, that God had given me this talent for a reason. I didn’t want to hear those words because those words would only make me feel worse.

  I didn’t want to do anything except sit around and sleep all day. When I woke up, I put Bobby Blue Bland on the box singing about “Stormy Monday but Tuesday’s just as bad.” I smoked hash until I couldn’t see straight. Then I’d go out and stuff myself with some greased-up funk food and go back to sleep.

  If I picked up a bitch to try to raise my spirits, she got pissed when I couldn’t raise my cock. I went through all my blow. I went through all my money except for enough to buy me a pistol. I wanted to end the agony. If music couldn’t bring me out of this, if dope couldn’t do it, if sex no longer excited me, what was the point of living?

  There was none.

  I loaded the pistol and put it on the kitchen table.

  I stared at it for hours.

  I took it in my hand and put it against my temple.

  I felt the cold steel against my skin.

  All I had to was pull the trigger.

  I wanted to. I wanted out.

  YOU AND I

  Brotha Guru is all caught up in my story.

  “Why didn’t you do it?” he asks me. “Why didn’t you kill yourself?”

  “I was chicken shit.”

  “Are you saying, Rick, that a braver man would have shot his brains out?”

  “I’m saying that I didn’t have the guts.”

  “What do you think takes more guts—to face death or to face life?”

  “Both take guts.”

  “I agree. So you had the guts to go on living.”

  “If that’s how you see it, Brotha Guru.”

  “I see you as a classic narcissist who couldn’t imagine a world without you in the middle.”

  “Is a narcissist someone who’s just egotistical?”

  “More than that. It’s someone who can’t view the world from any point of view other than his own.”

  “Then aren’t we all narcissists?” I ask.

  “Some are more extreme than others.”

  “I wouldn’t argue that I’m extreme.”

  “Narcissism can drive you to do things other people can’t.”

  “So it’s not a bad thing?” I ask.

  “I’m not judging it and I’m not judging you,” says Brotha Guru. “I’m saying that narcissists have their own strategies for survival. They have their own way of breaking through crises.”

  “That night when I put the gun to my head, I wasn’t breaking through,” I say. “I was about to break down.”

  “There’s a thin line between a breakdown and a breakthrough, Rick. A very thin line.”

  In Toronto in 1977 at age twenty-nine, I walked that line. I did put the gun down, and I did manage to climb my way out of the depression. In fact, in the aftermath of my almost-suicide I did experience a major breakthrough. Funny, how you can go from near self-destruction to self-confidence in just a few weeks. In my case the medicine was music and Mom.

  I went to Buffalo, where I knew my mother’s company would do me good. She was all positive energy, and positivity was just what I needed. I also needed my friend Tony, the drummer. He also helped me out of the Dumpster. He had a happy-go-lucky personality and a key contact with a cat named Aiden Mow from South Africa who played great George Benson–style guitar. We started writing together and suddenly I was alive again. The grooves brought back joy. The songs had a spirit that made me feel that there was something good inside me, something I needed to share. I just needed to get up and dance.

  “Get Up and Dance” was the name of the tune Aiden and I wrote. When Tony heard it, he flipped and said we’d have to go in a studio and do it right. I went back into the dope-selling business long enough to get the dough to make the record. Amazingly, Tony got Randy and Michael Brecker. Randy played trumpet and Michael tenor. They were brilliant jazz cats who wrote R & B horn charts better than anyone in the world. With the Brecker brothers both blowing and arranging, we went into a twenty-four-track studio and killed it. I sang the shit outta the song. We knew we had something hot that the world had to hear. Rather than go the usual route, we had enough bread to put it out on our own.

  That’s when I started Mood Records. I put a moon on the label because I dig astrology. We opened an office and found a distributor, and suddenly we had a hit. It went number one in Buffalo, Rochester, and Syracuse. The record stores in Western New York couldn’t keep it in stock. On WUFO and WBLK in my hometown, it was all you heard. Finally! A fuckin’ smash!

  Only one problem: the distributor wouldn’t pay us until we delivered a whole album. I wanted to argue with the distributor but Mom, who knew her way around that world, was quick to say, “The distributor is hooked up with the same guys who run the numbers.” The distributor was mobbed up as a motherfucker. We had a red-hot hit but no bread coming in.

>   I didn’t know what to do, but Tony did.

  “We’re naïve to think we can do this without a major,” he said. “So why don’t we cut a whole album and then sell it to a national label? That’s the only way.”

  I agreed. I also knew that the way I was writing, it wouldn’t be long before I had enough songs for an entire album. That’s because I was composing at Mom’s. Her home cooking did me wonders—not to mention her supreme confidence in me. When I got a dozen songs, we rented a studio in the countryside outside Buffalo that had been built in a barn by Spyro Gyra, the jazz fusion band, who had yet to release a record. Spyro Gyra’s career and mine would take off at roughly the same time.

  Disco had taken over the market, and for any artist who wanted to do dance music, disco couldn’t be ignored. If you call Barry White, Peter Brown, or B. T. Express disco, then disco was cool. But the truth is that most disco was derivative dribble. It was the same shit over and over. Van McCoy, with his “Hustle,” was something else; Van was creative. “Disco Duck” was not creative. I never wanted to be a disco star. Disco artists had a short lifespan and besides, routine disco bored me. Disco lacked surprise and spontaneity. At the same time, disco was commercial. And having flopped so many times before, I was gung-ho determined to have commercial success. I knew I couldn’t ignore disco if I wanted a hit.

  That’s why the first song I wrote for this new album, “You and I,” had a disco intro. But I quickly moved off that groove to something funkier. My background arrangements were influenced by Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side,” when he talked about how “the colored girls go doo da-doo da-doo.” When I wrote the lyrics, I was thinking about Kelly, who, although living far away, was still my wife. “You and I” are essentially Kelly and Rick. At the end, my concluding riffs were very Funkadelic, even operatic.

  The other tunes came quickly—“Mary Jane” was about my love affair with pot. I wrote the song on a Fender bass. Peter Tosh was much on my mind. Once I got in the studio, I added an unfinished rock piece as an intro. Then I added flutes and, toward the end, broke it down to reggae. That rhythm guitar ain’t nothing but a James Brown thang.

  The third song I wrote was “Hollywood.” I knew it was prophetic. Even though I had said that I hated Hollywood, and even though Hollywood had burned me more than once, I knew Hollywood was my future. I knew I’d wind up there. I saw “Hollywood” as a seminal song that described my undying dream of fortune and fame. It was written for Mom, who never stopping believing in my dream. Writing all these tunes reignited that dream. And though I needed the stability of my mother’s home to anchor me, I had no doubt that the ship would soon be sailing.

  Sgt. Pepper was on my mind. I studied that album. One of the cool things about the Beatles was how they emulated other groups they loved—the Beach Boys, the Everly Brothers, even the Marvelettes. I did the same thing in putting together what I saw as my funk/dance masterpiece. I had snippets of the masters I admired most—Holland-Dozier-Holland, Barry White, Marvin Gaye, the Isley Brothers, Isaac Hayes, James Brown, Norman Whitfield, even the Italian producer Giorgio Moroder, who wrote for Donna Summer. When the album was sequenced the lead-off cut was “Stone City Band, Hi!” an unapologetic nod to George Clinton. He might not have helped me find a deal, but I couldn’t deny that the motherfucker was funky as Satan himself.

  My songs were not simple or small. They contained a lot of elements and required a band. In that regard, my vision—beginning with Salt ’n Pepper and going through White Cane—had not changed. Sure, I saw myself as the star lead vocalist. But I wanted a star band, with its own identity. Barry White had his Love Unlimited and I’d be damned if I didn’t have my Stone City Band. It wouldn’t come together until my album was complete, but I was already planning it while I was still in the studio.

  Half of that first album was cut in Spyro Gyra’s barn in the woods and the second half at the Record Plant in New York. Once I saw how good it was going, I decided to pour even more money into the project. I hired Shelly Yakus, a famous rock engineer, and found myself recording at the same time and in the same building as Bruce Springsteen and Aerosmith, who were in adjoining studios.

  There were limos lined up outside and groupies hanging in the lobby. They weren’t for me but I knew soon they would be. At one point Steven Tyler poked his head in and asked if he could hear what I was doing.

  “Sure thing, man,” I said.

  I was an Aerosmith fan. I loved “Dream On” and their version of “Walkin’ the Dog.” Far as I was concerned, Tyler was a black soul singer. And Joe Perry, the guitarist, was a master riffer. He created rock as raw as the Stones.

  When Tyler heard “You and I” over the massive studio speakers, he started dancing like James Brown. “This is the fuckin’ bomb!” he shouted over the music as he pulled out a big bag of blow and a long bowie knife. He dipped it in the blow and scooped up what looked like two grams. He tooted it up and asked me if I wanted some. Hell, yes.

  I didn’t snort up quite as much, but enough to wire me to where I was feeling like I could stand toe-to-toe with the great Tyler.

  We kept taking hits off that knife.

  “So this is what it’s like to make it,” I said.

  “Yeah, man. And there ain’t no doubt you’re making it. Your shit is bulletproof.”

  With the cocaine dripping down my throat and my music blasting into Steven Tyler’s ears, I never felt more confident.

  “I’ll see you up there, Rick,” he said before leaving.

  By “up there” I knew what he meant. Far as I was concerned, I had arrived even before I got there.

  I worked like a demon in that studio for the next eight weeks. When I left, I had what I wanted—eight killer tracks that expressed exactly who I was: a singer/funkster/writer/composer/arranger who could dirty up the disco vibe without succumbing to its silliness. I also had the perfect name for the album. It said exactly what I wanted to the public to do: Come Get It!

  With drummer Tony by my side, I flew to L.A. to shop it. My attitude was simple—I’d go with any label except Motown. In the past, I’d gotten nowhere with Berry Gordy and his minions. Why would it be any different this time? I had my sights set on Warner Bros. or Atlantic, RCA or Columbia. Motown would not be part of my mix.

  Tony and I checked into the Continental Hyatt House—called the Riot House by rockers—on Sunset. After cruising the Strip that first night, we started setting up meetings. We had a couple in a building on Sunset just east of Vine that housed several prospective buyers. We were in the elevator going up to our first meeting when a cat recognized me.

  “Rick James?” he said.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Jeffrey Bowen. I met you during the Mynah Birds days in Detroit.”

  “Oh yeah, man, I remember. What’s happening, Jeffrey?”

  “I’m still a producer at Motown. You still singing?”

  “Singing eight songs on this tape I’m holding in my hand.”

  “That’s great,” said Jeffrey. “Would love to hear it.”

  “Motown won’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It ain’t the Motown style. Besides, other than the Commodores, y’all are cold as ice.”

  “Can’t argue with you, Rick. But that’s why we’ll respond sooner than anyone.”

  “How soon?”

  “I’ll play it for Berry today and have an answer for you tomorrow morning. Long as you don’t play it for anyone else.”

  “So you want an exclusive?” I asked.

  “For twenty-four hours only.”

  “What do you think?” I asked Tony.

  “Waiting a day won’t kill us.”

  Next day there was a knock on my door at the hotel. I was fast asleep. I fell out of bed, looked through the peephole, and saw Bowen.

  “Open the fuckin’ door,” he said.

  I let him in. He was all smiles. “I love your album. Berry loves your album. Everyone at Motown loves your alb
um.”

  “Am I awake or dreaming?” I asked.

  “I got something that will wake your ass up,” said Jeffrey.

  That first fresh hit of the day was always the best. Now both my eyes were open and my brain was working. Jeffrey Bowen started talking a mile a minute about the big plans Motown had for me. They were convinced I was the Next Big Thing.

  The blow had me excited, along with the news that Motown wanted me. But I also thought that I should get a bidding war going. If my shit was so hot more than one label would want me.

  “I ain’t sure, Jeffrey,” I said. “I think I’m going to shop this tape.”

  “You said we had an exclusive, and besides, your partner Tony is already meeting with Suzanne de Passe.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Berry Gordy’s chief lieutenant.”

  “Tony didn’t tell me anything about that.”

  “Well, he’s in her office right now.”

  I got dressed and went with Jeffrey to see de Passe. She was a pretty light-skinned sista with the no-nonsense manner of a high-powered exec. Jeffrey said Gordy considered her a genius. After my buddy Bobby Taylor discovered the Jackson 5, de Passe was the one who signed them—and fashioned the story that Diana Ross had discovered them. Jeffrey said that helped the Jacksons break through. De Passe was apparently brilliant at breaking acts.

  No doubt she was a smart chick, and I was curious to meet her. She got down to business immediately. She told me that Tony was messing with my deal. He was trying to manipulate the situation so he could have control over me. I was shocked, but when I confronted him later on I saw that Suzanne had told the truth. I was grateful to her for having alerted me. It took a while to cut things off with Tony, but, with Suzanne’s help, I did it. I hired a lawyer who negotiated the final contract with Motown and wound up with a fat bonus and a favorable ownership position on the publishing of my songs.

  Suzanne said something else that at first took me aback.

  “Your songs are terrific, Rick,” she told me, “but you need to rework your material with a seasoned producer. They lack the right finishing touches that will turn them into surefire hits.”