Glow

by Rick James

  And who was that?

  A rebel, a renegade, an artist-singer-writer-producer-bandleader intent on branding my identity in the most dramatic terms. My music was about me—a man deep into drugs, sex, and funk. The more drugs, the more sex, the more funk, the more my fame would grow.

  THE BONUS

  When I think back on the part of my story when I became a superstar, I can’t help but be amazed by the culture that surrounded me. Not only was the music of the late seventies some of the hottest this country has ever produced, but the artists with whom I was in closest contact—Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye—were undisputed geniuses. And to think I could drop by their studios whenever I wanted! That access proved to be one of the great gifts of my life.

  I was always into books and remember reading about the Renaissance, when Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci had their art studios filled with students. The students were there to watch and learn from the masters. Marvin and Stevie were my masters. Going to Marvin’s studio on Sunset, for example, where he was working on his masterpiece Here, My Dear, was a trip and a half. Unlike Stevie, who worked in a drug-free zone, Marvin worked high. I Want You—his great work before Here, My Dear—was fueled by the fires of cocaine. This new thing was a more personal piece. Having married Berry Gordy’s older sister Anna, Marvin was now divorcing her in a bitter legal hassle. He told the judge that she had taken all his money and that he had no assets. The judge ordered Marvin to give her the profits of his next album. So Marvin called it Here, My Dear, and wrote the story of their marriage in something that sounded like a soul opera. He combined all his styles, beginning with his training as a doo-wopper in the Moonglows, and turned out a suite that, to my ears, was nothing short of magnificent.

  “I don’t know if it’ll sell, Rick,” said Marvin his mellow voice, “and I don’t care. If it doesn’t sell, less money for Anna.”

  The irony, of course, is that despite whatever was strained about their relationship, Anna was the one who got Marvin into the studio to work. And now, even when they were divorcing, that pattern held.

  Marvin fascinated me because he was such a contradiction between cool and crazy. No one was more kicked back and spiritual. In a second, he’d suspend whatever music he was working on to engage you in a two-hour discussion about God. He was a Christian who loved Jesus. But Marvin also believed in the devil and was convinced that in the war between God and the devil, the devil was winning. As he leaned down to Hoover up another line of blow, he’d tell you that blow was the devil.

  When his divorce was final, Marvin married Janis Hunter, the beautiful young woman he’d met when he recorded “Let’s Get It On” back in 1973. Jan was something else. She was a spiritual soul like Marvin, but Marvin had caught her up in his insane lifestyle. One day he loved Jan more than life itself; the next day he couldn’t stand her and claimed she was torturing him. I never thought he appreciated Jan’s beautiful spirit. But then again, I was an outside observer. I was a student in Marvin’s studio.

  “Hey, Rick,” Marvin said one night. “How’s Come Get It! selling?”

  “Double platinum, baby,” I said.

  “Wow. What are you going to do with your bonus?”

  “What bonus?”

  “You mean you haven’t gotten your bonus yet?”

  “For what?”

  “For a million dollars. Motown pays a half million each time you go platinum. Berry didn’t explain that to you, brother?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Well, you’re new. I guess you gotta learn the hard way.”

  “The hell I do. That motherfucker ain’t gonna fuck me.”

  I ran out of Marvin’s studio over to the Motown building, where I saw Lee Young, a high-ranking exec.

  “Where’s my bonus?” I asked.

  “What bonus?”

  “The bonus for going double platinum.”

  “I don’t know of any such bonus.”

  “The hell you don’t. I’m going to see de Passe.”

  I charged into Suzanne’s office and asked the same question.

  “I’m not familiar with any bonus plan,” she said.

  “I’m telling you right now. I am not gonna be fucked over. Get Berry Gordy on the line or I swear I’ll call a press conference and make such a stink it’ll be in every newspaper in the country.”

  I was beside myself. I thought about how Suzanne and Berry had charmed me with their slick sales manner. I thought how vulnerable I had been. I saw myself as another lamb gone to slaughter. But no; I was not gonna accept this bullshit. A million bucks was a million bucks—and I wanted mine.

  I finally got the Chairman on the phone.

  “What is it, Rick?” he asked.

  “You owe me a million.”

  “For what?”

  “The bonus plan you give every artist that goes platinum. A half million for every million records sold. I’ve sold two million, so I got one million fuckin’ dollars.”

  “There is no such plan.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Careful, Rick. I know you’re the exuberant type, but being insolent isn’t helping you any. I’ll let you talk to any of my artists directly—Stevie, Smokey, the Commodores. They’ll tell you that no bonus plan like the one you described has ever been in place.”

  “That’s not what Marvin said.”

  “Marvin Gaye?”

  “Yes, Marvin Gaye.”

  “Now I see.”

  “See what?” I asked.

  “Marvin is messing with you, Rick, ’cause Marvin wants to mess with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s Marvin. Don’t you remember the name of his record?”

  “Which one?”

  “Trouble Man.”

  When I took the story back to Marvin, he laughed his easygoing laugh. “You didn’t take me seriously, Rick, did you?”

  “I sure as hell did.”

  “Well, once you get to know me better, you’ll understand my humor.”

  Marvin’s humor became more baffling as time went on.

  It took me a long time to understand another thing about Marvin—and Stevie as well. At the very time that I came to them as a student, they were learning from me. I don’t say this to brag, but only because it’s obvious if you listen to their work after I came on the scene. If I had never showed up at Motown, Stevie and Marvin would have continued to turn out masterpieces. Their genius was hardly dependent upon me. But in the world of funk, where the groove comes from the street and the street is ever changing, the true funkmeisters—George Clinton, Norman Whitfield, Barry White—have to keep their ear to the street. Sometimes when you make it big, you lose contact with the street. And if someone like me comes in, fresh off the street, with a new groove that’s selling like a motherfucker, you pay attention. You listen to how I’m arranging the horns; you note how I’m popping the bass; you listen to my drum fills; you hear how I place my hooks in relation to my verses. Listen to some of the songs done in the late seventies and early eighties—Stevie’s “Cash in Your Face” or Marvin’s “Funk Me”—and you’ll hear something of my funk. I know their impact on me was greater than my impact on them. But I now understand that back then, as they came by my recording sessions to compare notes, they took something of me with them. And I’m glad, and flattered, and only wish I’d taken the time to do a full-length collaboration with those two towering masters.

  Royalties began pouring in. My long-held dream of getting rich was coming true. I bought a mansion in Coldwater Canyon once owned by William Randolph Hearst with a sunken living room and a dramatic fireplace that looked like it came out of Citizen Kane. I bought it with Mom in mind and flew her out to see it. When she walked through the door, tears were streaming down her face.

  “I don’t know what to say, James.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Mom. Without your belief in me, this would have never happened.”

  She gave me a huge hug. “Ca
n’t tell you how proud I am. You said you’d do it and you did.”

  “You’re the only one who never doubted me.”

  “Never did and never will.”

  “Will you give up your job now? Will you finally stop running those numbers?”

  She wiped away her tears and said, “I do admit that I’m getting a little old for that work. And now that you’ve hit the number, I think I am ready to retire. But the funny thing is that I think I’ll miss the excitement.”

  I was my mother’s son. Like her, I thrived on action.

  The action got more intense when the band arrived from Buffalo. I could accommodate all of them in the house. Most of the cats hadn’t been to L.A. before and wanted to go sightseeing before we started rehearsals, but I said there was no time. First things first—I was bringing in professional chicks to braid their hair in the Masai mode. They had to have that look.

  While Mom was with me, I never did drugs in front of her. Because she knew me better than anyone in the world, she could tell when I was high on weed or blow—which was most of the time—but she was cool enough not to say anything. Even though her work in Buffalo had been restricted to running numbers, she knew the drug culture. Her Mafia bosses were the main suppliers in Buffalo. Far as entertainers went, she knew that smoking and coking were a normal part of the lifestyle and made no judgments.

  Mom also knew that music, in addition to being art, was also commerce. Music was a commodity that had to be packaged and sold. It was about image. And with all the references to drugs and freaky sex in my songs, my image was rooted in outrageousness. In developing my second album, Bustin’ Out of L Seven, I was aware of what my market wanted. They not only wanted tight-and-right dance music, they wanted a party leader—me!—who would say, as I did on the title track, “Well, all right, you squares, it’s time you smoked. Fire up this funk and let’s have a toke. It’ll make you dance and some of everything. Everybody get high!”

  Yet drugs weren’t the whole story. Listen to “Love Interlude” and you’ll hear a gorgeous Miles Davis–flavored trumpet solo over the subtle sounds of a couple deep in romantic dialogue. “Spacey Love” also took the music to a different place; it was a fall-on-your-knees old-fashioned ballad that I wrote and dedicated to Patti LaBelle and the Bluebelles, whose far-out costumes influenced my own sense of stage fashion and whose “Lady Marmalade” was one of the baddest dance jams in the whole fuckin’ history of dance.

  The always dependable and creative Art Stewart coproduced my sophomore effort. The cats who became my horn section—Danny LeMelle and Norman and John Irving—also helped me expand my sound. I called them the Punk Funk Horns.

  Wasn’t long before I was being called the King of Punk Funk. I came up with the label because I related to the riotous spirit of English punk groups like the Sex Pistols, who had been touring the U.S. about the same time as the release of my first records. I also just dug the sound of those two words. As a distinctive moniker I thought “Punk Funk” would stick—and it did.

  Bustin’ Out busted out so big that big man Berry Gordy asked me, before I went out on tour, if I’d produce Diana Ross. She’d just done the film version of The Wiz, which was seen as something of a flop. Fans thought she was too old to play Dorothy. They wanted Stephanie Mills, who’d originated the role on Broadway. Berry knew that Diana’s career needed a restart and looked to me, the hottest writer-producer in his stable.

  I was stoked. Ross had always been Berry’s pet project, and the fact that he was entrusting her to me did wonders for my already overinflated ego. I quickly knocked out a song, “I’m a Sucker for Your Love,” designed as duet for me and Diana. She heard and loved it. The plan was to do the album quickly. Then came the memo from the Chairman. He said he was glad I’d be doing three or four numbers for Ross. Three or four numbers? My understanding was that I’d do the entire album—written, produced, and arranged by Rick James. When I tried calling Berry to discuss it, his assistant made it clear that there was nothing to discuss. Either take it or leave it.

  I left it. I figured if I was good enough to do three cuts for Diana, why not give me the whole record? When I went to Diana to recruit her help, she was, as always, extremely sweet with me.

  “I love your productions, Rick,” she said, “but the Chairman has a different vision for this record. He wants a variety of producers.”

  “Fuck the Chairman!”

  After I said those words, I realized that Diana, as Berry’s former lover, had done exactly that—which, no doubt, in addition to her great talent, had helped her become a superstar. But she wasn’t willing to fuck him again.

  The project went away. Ironically, when Ross’s new album, The Boss, came out, it was entirely produced—not piecemeal produced—by Ashford and Simpson. At the time they had more clout than me. That was understandable since, despite my breakthrough success, I couldn’t claim classics like “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “Reach Out and Touch (Somebody’s Hand).” Besides, Ashford and Simpson were the first writers I read about who used the word “stoned” in a title. Their Ray Charles hit was called “Let’s Go Get Stoned.”

  In truth, I wasn’t all that worried about missing out on a Diana Ross record. That’s because while I was cutting Bustin’ Out, I heard a Motown singer who captivated me much more than Diana. Even though she was white, she sang blacker than Diana. She had a sound and a soul that excited my imagination. If I had a future as a producer of acts other than myself and my band, this was the kind of singer I wanted to work with.

  Meet Teena Marie.

  WILD AND PEACEFUL

  Before we meet Teena Marie,” says Brotha Guru, “let me take a look at that Bustin’ Out album you got over there.”

  One of the prison guards just gave me an original LP to autograph. I hand it to Brotha Guru, who looks over the cover, which is a cartoon drawing of me breaking through a prison wall as I lead three big-busted chicks to freedom.

  “I see you got your winged leather boots.”

  “That was my trademark,” I say.

  “And this time you got a heart over your dick.”

  “Actually,” I say, “it’s right above my dick.”

  “They draw you like a superhero.”

  “It’s a cartoon, man. It was meant to be cute.”

  “So you were happy to be a caricature of yourself?” asks Brotha Guru.

  “Why not? The Jackson Five did it. After their early hits, they had their own cartoon program on TV. Since I was the biggest thing since the Jackson Five, I didn’t see why I couldn’t be a cartoon character like them.”

  “I don’t see the Stone City Band name on the cover like it was on the first album. Did the Me Monster keep you from crediting them?”

  “Why you bustin’ my chops, brotha? The only reason I didn’t put their name on the cover was that I was planning to produce their own album. It would be all them.”

  “I don’t see the logic. By crediting them here, wouldn’t that spread their fame and help their solo project?”

  “You’re not a record man, Brotha Guru,” I say. “You don’t understand these things.”

  “And what prison are you busting out of?”

  “The prison of conformity, man. The prison that had kept me from being a star. The prison that wouldn’t let me take my music to the world. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “It does, Rick. You’re a poet and poets employ metaphors. Prison is a powerful one. You use it well, brotha. You do everything well. God gave you a first-class imagination and talent to spare. I’m just looking for that moment in your career when the Me Monster took over.”

  “There wasn’t no Me Monster at this point. There was young Rick James, thirty-one years old, growing as an artist, looking to do more than produce himself. What I did for Teena Marie, I did for her—not for me. And she’ll be the first to tell you that.”

  “So when all these early hits of yours came out, your ego was under control?”

  “I ain’t
saying that. I’d been working half my life to hit it big, and when I did, naturally I tripped. Who the fuck wouldn’t? All I’m saying is that I took some people along with me. It wasn’t all about me.”

  “Tell me all about Teena.”

  One afternoon I was at the Jobete Music Company, the song publishing division of Motown, when I heard this soaring female voice come out of a practice room. It had to be one of those two-ton sanctified mamas from church. But when I poked in my head, I was shocked. Sitting at the piano was this itsy-bitsy white chick who couldn’t have been taller than five feet. She told me she was doing demos for Diana Ross and Thelma Houston. I sat down in a chair next to her and asked what music she loved the most. She said straight-up soul.

  “Sing some of that,” I said.

  Accompanying herself, she sang Etta James’s “At Last” and Aretha’s “Angel.” She did a scary version of Smokey’s “Ooo Baby Baby” and tore up Al Green’s “Love and Happiness.” The girl was more than bad; she was superbad.

  Teena had the voice of an opera singer—an incredible range and power for days. She took my breath away. Personally, she was a sweetheart, shy and polite and respectful as she could be. She told me how much she loved my music and wondered if there was any way I’d ever produce her.

  There was no way I wouldn’t. Turned out Berry had signed her some time ago and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars experimenting with producers. I heard the tapes. None of them understood her. I did. I was also amazed that a company as shrewd as Motown could waste so much money on the wrong creative marriage. Because she was white, Motown was trying to take her pop. But Teena Marie was no more pop than Millie Jackson. She had to be produced and sold as a soul act. I had no doubt she’d soar up the R & B charts. If she crossed to pop after that, fine. But there was no way black music buyers, who know true-heart singing forged in the tradition, would pass her by. White as she looked, white as she was, Teena Marie wasn’t white at all. She was a soul sista.