by Rick James
“I don’t agree,” I fired back. “They’re smashes just the way they are.”
“Look, Rick, this is your big chance. You have nothing to lose by going into the studio for another few weeks with someone you trust.”
I’m impetuous. I’m headstrong. Lots of times I’m convinced I know it all. But when someone as savvy as Suzanne de Passe tells me to rework my material, I have to give it some thought.
About this same time I happened to drop by Marvin Gaye’s studio, its own self-contained building on Sunset and Hudson, a few blocks west of the Motown offices. Marvin had to maintain his own space, separate from everyone else. I respected that. I liked going over there, not only because Marvin was so cool, but because he always had killer blow. It was there where I met Art Stewart, Marvin’s engineer and the man who had produced Gaye’s current hit, “Got to Give It Up.”
I loved that jam. It was Marvin’s sly reply to disco. Marvin didn’t like to dance—he wasn’t comfortable shaking his ass—so he wrote a song about the anxieties of a wallflower. The groove is so strong that it finally gives him the guts to go out there and cut a rug. Meanwhile, the feeling is loose, like a blue-light party in the basement. Art had the cats in the studio beating on juice bottles. When Don Cornelius from Soul Train wanders in, you can hear Marvin shout out, “Hey, Don!” In some ways it mirrors the beginning of “What’s Going On,” only with a lighter flavor.
Knowing that it was Art Stewart who put the production together, I was naturally interested in the brotha. He turned out to be an Aquarius like me, but unlike me, he wasn’t the kind of cat who had to take charge. Art was mild-mannered and modest. Most of the producers I’d met—including Holland-Dozier-Holland and Norman Whitfield—couldn’t stop talking about themselves and their hits. They had to let you know that they were the power behind the throne. Not Art. He just did his work, and he did it with a flair I’d never before seen in the studio. He was subtle—a slight suggestion for bringing up the horns here, a hint to change the bass line there. Art was just the man I needed. He saw that my ego was big enough for the two of us. Art could just kick back and be my chief adviser.
When I told Suzanne that I wanted Art to go in the studio with me and help resculpt and reengineer Come Get It!, she was all smiles.
“You couldn’t have made a better choice,” she said.
Late one night Norman Whitfield came by the studio when Art and I were at the tail end of the project.
“Hey, Rick,” he said, “hear you finally got it together.”
“Listen to this jam and tell me what you think.”
I played him “You and I.”
When the song was over, he said, “Smash.”
“Thanks, man.”
“You definitely got a sound. That’s the first step. Now you gotta take the second step.”
“What’s that?”
“You gotta get a look.”
A SOUND AND A LOOK
Whit was right. I had to concentrate on my image. If I had been smarter, I would have also concentrated on Kelly, since she’d come back into my life. During the period I was refining Come Get It! with Art Stewart, Kelly had shown up in L.A. I was thrilled to see her. Our love hadn’t died, and this time I was determined to give our relationship the attention it required. She was full of forgiveness and I was full of good intentions, but in the end it turned out that I was full of shit. In the fever of preparing Come Get It!, I got carried away, left the studio late, and wound up with a couple of wild chicks. They sensed that I was on the verge of being a superstar and were eager to sign on as groupies. I should have known better, yet didn’t. Justifiably, Kelly was disgusted and flew back to Toronto. I could have chased after her—and maybe I should have—but my mind was so focused on making this record work that no woman, not even Pam Grier, could have competed with my music.
I remember the moment that I learned I had a hit. I flew to Washington, DC, for a promo appearance. My brother Roy, who had a high-powered job as a lawyer, was living there. We had a great reunion. I was glad to see him doing so well, and when I told him that I was on the verge of breaking out, he seemed happy but held back his excitement.
“I’m pulling for you, bro,” he said, “but you’ve been so close so many times before I don’t wanna jinx it by congratulating you too soon.”
He was right. He told me that on a Monday, the day that “You and I” was being released. There was no guarantee that it would hit. That Friday, Roy and a friend took me to a party given by some straitlaced government officials. Next to them, with my long hair, earrings, black leather pants, and red boots, I looked like Freddy the Freak. I didn’t give a shit. Marvin Gaye, who’d been raised in Washington, told me it was the squarest town in America. What surprised me, though, was when the party got under way, those suit-and-tie squares started snorting coke and smoking weed like fiends. I was happy to see that even the U.S. government cats liked to get down. I got my high on and was having fun when the host tapped me on the shoulder and said I was wanted on the phone.
I became a little alarmed. Who the fuck could be calling me? No one knew I was here. Might have been the drugs, but paranoia set in. I trusted my brother, but maybe someone had used him to set me up. As I went into the bedroom to take the call, my heart started hammering. A couple was on the bed making out. He had her panties off and was about to eat her pussy. My presence didn’t disturb them in the least.
“Hello,” I said.
“Rick James?”
“That’s me.”
I can’t recall the guy’s name, but he said he was from Motown and that “You and I” was the most added single of the week. It was number one in Atlanta and was selling like hotcakes up and down the coast. “At this rate it’s gonna be number one, not just R & B, but pop.”
I had no idea how in hell this Motown exec had found me at this party. I also didn’t care. The chick being serviced by her boyfriend was screaming in ecstasy. No matter how good she felt, though, she could not have felt better than me. Better than pure cocaine, better than dripping-wet pussy, better than anything—the fact that I had a certified hit record was the best news I’d ever received. In this instant I knew my life was changing forever.
Back in L.A., I thought about Whit’s suggestion. I needed a look. I found that look when I went to a concert by Babatunde Olatunji, the incredible Nigerian drummer. I’d met him in New York but had never seen his full show. Man, I was blown away—not only by his polyrhythmic genius, but by the theatricality of his presentation. He had at least two dozen people onstage. His dancers were out of sight. They had the amazing hairstyles of the Masai. They wore animal hair woven into their own braids, creating long extensions twisted in fabulous shapes. Backstage, after greeting the master and asking him about these hairstyles, Olatunji was gracious enough to introduce me to the woman in charge. She gave me a brief history of African coiffures. The idea of the Masai was to assume the power of the animals whose hair you wove into your own. That’s all I needed to know! I had the woman come to my place before the troupe left town. She spent all afternoon putting in extensions, beading, braiding, and weaving my hair with the hair of wild animals. When she was through I looked in the mirror and couldn’t help but feel strong. I looked like a Masai warrior. I made no apologies to anyone for this look. I was about to walk through the American music-making money jungle, so I sure as hell better have the attitude of a warrior.
I flew to Buffalo to show Mom the new look. She loved it. She understood that, more than ever, I had to stand out.
“Baby,” she said, “you finally got it all together. Can’t tell you how proud I am.”
“You gonna give up your job?”
“I better not, honey. Better hold on to it a little longer.”
“The song’s already a hit, Mom.”
“I know that, James, but it’ll take a while before those big checks come rolling in. Besides, my job keeps me busy. I’ve got to stay busy.”
“I want you out in California
with me. I hate for you to have to spend another winter in Buffalo.”
“I’ll be out there before you know it.”
Before I knew it, my buddy Prez and I were at Eduardo’s, an Italian nightclub in Buffalo that had a disco night every Saturday. The big dance hit was Parliament’s “Flash Light.” It had been on the charts for a while. When the deejay dropped it, the dancers got busy. But when he followed it with “You and I,” the dancers went crazy. They started hooting and hollering. The deejay let ’em know I was in the house. The dancers came and got me and started carrying me on their shoulders like I was a football coach who had just won the Super Bowl. I had left Buffalo in handcuffs and returned as a hero. As Marvin said, “How sweet it is!”
The same week another friend, Icky, asked me if I wanted to go to a Kiss show.
“Fuck no!” I said. “Why would I wanna see a cheesy band like Kiss?”
“They say those guys put on a great show,” said Icky. “You might see something you like.”
Icky broke down my resistance and turned out to be right. Kiss blew me away. Their music wasn’t shit, but their stage presentation was the bomb. All that black leather, those high boots, those face masks, the lighting—those cats knew how to create a dramatic look. Their look was as important as their songs, maybe even more important since to my ears they were just playing generic rock and roll.
Kiss hammered home the importance of high drama. They understood that in this arena you can’t be over-the-top. Kiss’s attitude was, if you fly your freak flag, fly it high. The color of that flag was black. The dominant color of the Kiss show was black—black leather, black backdrops, black everything. Kiss was all about maximum impact. If you went to a Kiss show, you’d never forget it. I decided to design my show with the same goal; I wanted my fans to remember my show for the rest of their lives.
Maximum impact meant a big band. I needed horns, reeds, rhythmic variety, and the best dancers on the planet.
I decided to build up my band in Buffalo because Buffalo was where I had originally built up my own musical strength. I needed more than a strong band behind me; I needed a strong family. I centered that family on Levi Ruffin Jr., a brotha I knew since childhood. He had married his grammar school sweetheart Jackie, who sang background with us. They had three kids, were beautiful people, and provided the stability I needed. Oscar Alston, a killer musician, gave me the bass bottom I needed. For a while I thought about playing bass myself in the band, but I decided I needed the freedom to stalk the stage. The Hughes brothers—Lanise and Nate—were whizzes on every percussive instrument you can name. My first keyboardist was Ramadon, who carried on in every style imaginable, and my first guitarist was a bad white boy named Allan Symanski. As time went on, the personnel would change. Danny LeMelle, who could blow tremendous sax as well as write his ass off, became an integral part of my operation. Tom McDermott was another monster guitarist. I loved all these guys. They knew me and could express everything I wanted to say musically. In fact, I saw the Stone City Band as an extension of myself. Some artists can tell their stories through the simplicity of their voice and voice alone. My stories, though, were never that simple. I needed the blast of a band—a cold-blooded band of brothas to help me get my message across.
That message also had to be illustrated on the cover of my album. Before the release of the single, I had been wondering about what that image should be when I ran into my buddy Calvin Hardaway, Stevie Wonder’s brother, at Stevie’s studio. It was a couple of years after Stevie’s Songs in the Key of Life, probably the biggest album in his career. Steve was saying how Berry Gordy was bugging him for a new record—but no one could rush Stevie. No artist has ever been more in touch with his muse.
“What do you tell the boss when he’s insisting on your next product?” I heard someone ask Stevie.
“I tell him to wait,” was Stevie’s simple answer.
He was fooling with some new material that would eventually wind up on Hotter Than July. We were both deep into Bob Marley, who influenced Stevie’s “Master Blaster (Jammin’).” The difference between me and Stevie, though, was that I smoked beaucoup ganja while Stevie never touched the stuff. Maybe that’s what gave him the clarity to write a ballad like “Lately.” Hearing him sing that song made me realize that there are other ways to tap your inner muse than resorting to chemicals.
A night in Stevie’s studio was always stimulating. Adding to the excitement was Calvin’s girlfriend, Valerie, a wonderful designer. When I began talking about cover art concepts with her, she had ideas of her own. Together we came up with the notion of me wearing high black boots with silver lightning bolts running down both of my legs.
“That’s sexy,” said Valerie. “But you also want to show your heart.”
With that in mind, my top was custom-made in the form of a red rhinestone heart. We hired a gorgeous model in a provocative baby-blue outfit, her breasts barely covered. She reclined on the floor, her back arched, her eyes focused on me as I reached down to take her hand. I wanted to look like a hero. But not to grab all the glory, I also put the name “Stone City Band” on the cover right under mine.
Everything about Come Get It! was right—the music, the package, and the historical moment. Disco had peaked, and even though my stuff had a disco flavor, my extra layer of funk made all the difference in the world. There was an edge that I gave disco—even a danger—that was new to the game. And man, did it pay off!
Once the album was out and selling strong, my second single, “Mary Jane,” was released. Industry insiders were predicting that it would outsell my first.
That’s when I got an invitation to hang with the Man Himself. In the lingo of Motown, the Man was the Chairman, Berry Gordy Jr., the seat of all power and the source of all wisdom. Not only did he ask me to his home for lunch, he was gracious enough to send a car for me. Me being me, I naturally had to smoke a joint on the way up to his Bel Air mansion. As we climbed high into the hills of the most expensive neighborhood in the world, I got high myself. The gate opened and we rode another long stretch until we reached the main house. Security men stood around conspicuously, and I couldn’t help but notice they were white. I was ushered into a fabulous book-lined room that looked like the private study of an Italian prince. A white butler asked if I wanted anything. I said white wine. The wine was brought and I waited another ten minutes. No problem. If anyone was entitled to make a grand entrance, it was Berry Gordy. When he finally walked into the room wearing a white linen Sergio Tacchini leisure suit, I thought of that moment in The Wizard of Oz when the curtain is pulled back and, expecting to see an overpowering monster of a man, you see this little-bitty bashful guy.
It had been years since Berry had signed me and the Mynah Birds in Detroit, and we spent a few minutes laughing about those days. He couldn’t have been more charming.
“You’re doing great things for this company, Rick,” he said in his unusually high-pitched voice, “and we appreciate it. We’re lucky to have you on the label.”
“I’m lucky to be there . . .” I wasn’t sure what to call him so I said, “Mr. Chairman.”
He laughed and said, “Just call me Berry.”
I knew artists who had claimed Gordy had fucked them many times over, and I knew other artists—like Smokey Robinson and Stevie—who credited him with making them stars. Any way you looked at it, though, the Chairman was a heavyweight and even a genius. Not only did he write hit songs for Jackie Wilson, he’d discovered more talent than any executive of his generation. On top of that, he was a black man who retained ownership of his empire in a white world.
When I told him that it was a pleasure seeing him again, I meant it.
“If there’s anything else I can do for you, Rick,” he offered, “just let me know.”
“I love the promotional push Motown’s giving me,” I said. “But it wouldn’t bother me if you could have your guys push even harder.”
“Glad you brought that up that, Rick. That reminds
me that I have to make a call.
“Rebecca!” Berry called out to his secretary. “Get Dick Clark on the line.”
The Chairman spoke on the speakerphone so I could hear both sides of the conversation. Seemed that Clark had requested Diana Ross for his TV show. Berry was calling to say he could have Ross—if I was on the show as well.
“Anything you want, Berry,” said Clark. “I know Rick James has a big hit and I’ve heard he’s a real talent.”
“A major talent,” Gordy said, underscoring it.
“Consider it done.”
In a two-minute phone call, Berry had secured my first national TV appearance. The next day, though, I learned that there was a stipulation—I could only bring two background singers and would have to sing to tape. In my book, that was fuckin’ karaoke! I couldn’t be separated from my band, especially on my national TV debut.
I called the Chairman to see if he’d call Dick again.
“Sorry, Rick,” he said. “This is a funny town. You have to know when to call in favors. Call too often and you’re suddenly out of favor.”
I had a feeling that Berry was referring to both my call to him as well as my request that he call Dick again. In any event, there was nothing I could do. I went to the show with my two background singers. I wore a little miniature Coca-Cola bottle around my neck that held a good supply of blow. In the dressing room I dipped in and got wired. Then, after a huge fanfare intro, I performed “You and I.” Between that and my next number—“Mary Jane”—Clark did a long interview with me. He was wonderful, sweet and relaxed, one of the nicest cats I’d ever met. His questions were gentle and genuine. The interview went well except for the fact that my nose started running. I started sniffing and wiping myself until it had to be obvious to Dick and a million viewers what was really going on. Dick didn’t seem to mind. I’m sure he’d seen this shit a million times before. The viewers didn’t care either. After all, this was the end of the seventies, when the cocaine culture still ruled Hollywood. Tooting a fat line—in a music exec’s office, in the studio, or at practically any party—was as acceptable as drinking a beer. It was all part of a world in which I was being recognized as a guy with the gumption to be exactly who I was.