Glow

by Rick James

  Teena was living with her manager, Winnie Jones, and Winnie’s live-in boyfriend, Fuller Gordy, brother to Berry. Winnie’s daughter Jill would later become a protégé of Prince’s. Teena wound up in this household because her own parents, angry that she was hanging out with blacks, had kicked her out of their home in Venice. I loved that she was a rebel like me.

  We fell into a beautiful collaboration. The songs just flowed. I already had “I’m a Sucker for Your Love,” originally written for Diana. I decided to do it as a duet with Teena. Much to my delight, it became a top ten hit. Because of boss Berry’s refusal to let me produce his diva’s entire album, Ross lost out.

  I thought Teena had the poise and chops of a true diva and started calling her Lady T, a name that stuck. She inspired me to write “Déjà Vu,” a languorous ballad about reincarnation that Teena delivered with a delicately supernatural touch. Seeing that she had talent beyond singing, I also encouraged Teena to write. Her song on her debut album was “I’m Gonna Have My Cake (And Eat It Too),” which I cut with upright bass. I invited in older jazz cats so Teena could show off a whole different aspect of her vocal personality. Lady T was deep.

  Al Stewart coproduced Teena with me. I called the album Wild and Peaceful, a perfect description of the two different moods we wanted to create. The album was a major hit that produced a major new artist. Like Berry Gordy, I was establishing my own stable of artists. The idea that I could launch a singer like Teena at the same time my own career was taking off was further proof: I could build an empire.

  People have asked why I didn’t put Lady T’s picture on the cover, given that she was so pretty. I wanted to create mystery. Wild and Peaceful was a mysterious title and now Teena’s ethnicity would be a further mystery. Was she white? Was she black? Let the guessing games begin. I also knew that back in the day Berry Gordy had tried promoting one of his lovers, a white singer, Chris Clark, who didn’t get over. I figured that was because fans associated Motown with black artists. I didn’t want that prejudice to hurt Teena. Once her music was out there, I knew it would be accepted. I also figured that most listeners would assume she was black—and they did. She got over as a soul artist and when fans learned she was white they didn’t care. They were already hooked on her music. It gave me great satisfaction to know that I’d done something the Chairman himself had not been able to do—sell a white singer to a black audience. Teena would eventually find white fans, but her core audience was always black. They accepted her, as did I, as a sista. Soon, with great love, they started calling her Vanilla Child.

  Time to tour.

  Bustin’ Out had created a massive fan base, and my new manager—Shep Gordon, who also represented Alice Cooper and Teddy Pendergrass—booked me up on a four-month coast-to-coast forty-city tour. Shep won me over not only because he was the agent to big stars but because he had gone to school in Buffalo. Both reasons were dumb. Ultimately I’d drop him like a bad habit. He didn’t do anything for me that I couldn’t have done myself. Slowly I came to realize that all managers are basically pimps. They kick back and count their fat commissions while their artists work their asses off.

  I saw Teddy Pendergrass as a competitor whose solo career, after singing lead for Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, took off a little earlier than mine. Obviously Teddy could sing, and his Teddy Bear image got the chicks hot. But I never liked the guy. He thought he was God’s gift to the universe. I know I’m in no position to call someone arrogant. But the difference between me and Teddy was that I knew when I was being a cocky bastard. I could step back and laugh at myself. I had people who called me on my bullshit. I was aware of my ego-tripping. Teddy wasn’t. You couldn’t tell that motherfucker shit.

  We warmed up for our tour in Fresno, a California city with more cocaine than L.A. We stayed wired for that week and, to be honest, for most of the tour. I called it the Magical Funk Tour and it sold out everywhere. Our stage show—with the Masai image, the hard-hitting Stone City Band, the super-sexy dancers—was a sensation. When I lit up an overstuffed joint onstage, the fans went nuts. The only negative was the occurrence of near riots. Our venues weren’t big enough—the demand was greater than the supply—and at Boston’s Orpheum Theatre I watched cops beating on fans clamoring to get in. I pledged never to play places too small to hold my fans. I’ve kept that pledge.

  Back in L.A. I was exhausted but pleased. A royalty check—for $1,875,000—was staring me in the face. Best of all, I’d convinced Mom to leave Buffalo and come live with me in my Hollywood splendor. I bought a Rolls-Royce and a Jaguar and hired a staff of servants.

  “You happy, Mom?” I asked her one night when we were dining on lobster and steak in my state-of-the-art kitchen.

  “Happy for you, baby,” she said.

  “But not happy yourself?”

  “I’d be happier if I found a connection to run some numbers. In this spread-out crazy city I can’t even find a corner bar where the action is.”

  “The corner bars are way down in nigga town,” I said. “You don’t wanna be hanging out down there.”

  “Why not, James? Been doing that my whole life. I feel safer in those corner bars than I do in a big house like this where if someone broke in and I started screaming, no one would hear me.”

  “No one’s breaking in, Mom. Besides, I got me a burglar alarm and a couple of security cats who ain’t gonna let no one hurt you.”

  “I understand that, sweetheart, and I appreciate this good life. It’s just a little boring for someone who’s used to working the streets.”

  “You’re just homesick. You’ll get used to L.A. It’ll grow on you.”

  It never did.

  One night a serious earthquake rocked the house. In the middle of the night we were thrown out of our beds and ran out in the street. We thought that the roof might collapse. Standing there in her robe, Mom looked at me and said, “I love you, baby, but I’m outta here.”

  Within twenty-four hours, Mom packed her things and split.

  The aftershocks did nothing to calm my own jittery nerves. With Mom gone, I felt especially insecure. I’ve always been impulsive, and my impulses were telling me to get the fuck out of Dodge and join my mother in Buffalo. Just like that, I sold my fancy Hollywood digs and moved home. The Stone City Band, mainly Buffaloers themselves, were thrilled.

  I was rich enough to buy the baddest house in Buffalo, a place in the lily-white suburb of Orchard Park, where racists had burned crosses on the lawns of a black doctor who owned the crib before me. It was a fabulous spread, a pool, a tennis court, a separate clubhouse, the works. The Buffalo Evening News greeted me with a headline that said, CROWNED PRINCE RETURNS HOME. This was the moment when the blessed Linda Hunt walked into my life. She started out as our housekeeper but wound up running everything for me. She became more than an assistant. She became a life organizer and lifesaver—my most loyal and trusted employee.

  At first I worried that leaving L.A. might hurt my career. After all, L.A. was Motown central and the center of all pop culture. But I realized that I was big enough to live wherever I wanted. Being back in the same house as Mom was important to my peace of mind. Far as returning to Western New York, I enjoyed the benefits of being a big fish in a small pond.

  Yet I was still restless. I was eager to get in the studio and start my third record. Much as I loved Art Stewart, I figured I no longer required a coproducer. So I flew to the Record Plant in Sausalito, California, where Sly Stone had worked. My engineer, Tom Flye, had done records with both Sly and the Grateful Dead. He was just the cat I wanted behind the board.

  At the same time I put together the Stone City Band’s first album—In ’n’ Out—a mix of funk, jazz, Latin, and rock. I was using all the weapons in my arsenal.

  I found another weapon that I used unsparingly—the Pointer Sisters. I got them to sing on Stone City’s first single, “Little Runaway,” with me singing lead. They were also all over my own album. I loved those sistas, especially Ruth, who was t
all and fine like an African queen. I’d be at the console snorting blow and getting a huge hard-on just watching them sing in the studio.

  When my album was complete I knew I had at least one new monster hit—“Love Gun”—and I was right. That song became a permanent part of my repertoire. The cover of the album also became iconic. The poster nearly sold as many copies as the record. My idea was to switch from black to white. I was dressed in tight all-white high leather boots, a fancy white top, and a white cowboy hat. My hair fell below my shoulders, and in my right hand I held a joint. I exhaled defiantly. Naturally I had to call the thing Fire It Up.

  The joint sold. I lost track of whether it went double or triple platinum. All I knew was that the industry was saying that I had the Midas touch. The industry was also saying that they hadn’t seen a start this explosive since James Brown—and that I was defining the sound of music for a new decade.

  The eighties had arrived. I felt like I was racing a souped-up Ferrari with no one challenging my front position. But then I looked into my rearview mirror and saw this one sports car gaining on me. The driver was so small I could barely see his head above the steering wheel. Strange thing is that, on the advice of others, I had invited him into the race. He didn’t catch me—and he wouldn’t for a long time to come—but I never liked his fuckin’ attitude.

  He called himself Prince.

  TWO DRUMMERS

  I did all of Fire It Up in thirteen days, a feat the studio cats are still talking about. My creative output was crazy. I was on fire. I had so many songs inside me that I put down tracks for a second Stone City Band album, The Boys Are Back. When that record dropped, though, programmers started complaining that the Stone lead singer, Levi Ruffin, sounded too much like me. They didn’t know whether it was a Rick joint or a Stone joint. I had so many joints out there that the world was getting confused. But that was the kind of confusion I could live with.

  Adding to the confusion was the introduction of this new artist called Prince. Promoters had been telling me that he wanted to open for me. They said that my music had heavily influenced his. I hadn’t heard of him—this was before his “I Wanna Be Your Lover” hit big—and I asked to see him perform on tape. They were right; he did remind me of myself, only he didn’t move as much onstage. When his song came out, I loved it. Why not help a young brotha with such obvious talent?

  Our first confrontation happened down south. So far Prince hadn’t come to introduce himself to me, which was strange, since I was the cat giving him a shot. I was told he was shy. I didn’t really care—I was just curious to see what he looked like. A couple of hours before showtime I walked in the theater and saw this tiny guy sitting behind a drum set playing a groove I considered weak. He was grinning like he’d come up with the beat of life. His entourage was gathered around him, nodding their heads to his drumming like he was Tony Williams. I decided to have a little fun. My drummer had set up his kit on the other side of the stage. I went out there and took an extended solo that incorporated about six thunderous grooves at once. If Prince wanted to fuck around on drums as my opening act, he’d better understand what was coming after him.

  After watching me, he simply got up and left the stage. He still didn’t introduce himself.

  That night I was curious to see what his show was like, so I watched from the wings. I thought it was lame. He came out wearing a trench coat and heels. His New Wave rock and roll didn’t do anything for the hard-core funk fans. He hardly moved. At the end of his set he took off the trench coat and stood there in his bloomers. The crowd booed. I felt sorry for the cat.

  When I got onstage, I glanced over and saw Prince watching me. I had some trademark moves—flipping the mic and catching it backward, putting my hand to my ear as I called out my funk chants to the fans, and ending up by flashing the funk sign.

  A week later one of my musicians came to me and said, “Rick, hate to say this, bro, but that Prince cat is copping all your licks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s doing your show, man.”

  Next night I made it a point to watch him from the wings. My guy was right. Prince was emulating my mic moves like a motherfucker. He was calling out my funk chants and even flashing my funk sign. I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but because my act followed his, it looked like Rick James was copying Prince rather than vice versa.

  The bad blood got worse. My band was a bunch of friendly down-home brothas loved by everyone. His band was a bunch of snobs who never bothered to acknowledge my guys. My band was ready to kick their asses—but I said no. Let’s work this out like gentlemen.

  We had a come-to-Jesus meeting, but even that was hard to arrange. I wanted Prince and his band to come to my suite, but he insisted I come to his. I figured I’d be the mature one; I’d cave; I’d let him have his way. I went to his suite. Prince, his manager, and his scrawny-looking band were on one side of the room. My cats, looking like Masai warriors, surrounded me.

  I said, “You’re stealing my shit.”

  He denied it, saying he had developed his style years before ever seeing me live.

  I said, “Your band acts like they’re too good to say hello to us.”

  He denied it, saying his band was preoccupied with rehearsing.

  I told him I was tired of his copping my licks.

  He said they were moves I’d copped from people like Jackie Wilson, James Brown, and George Clinton.

  I said, “You’re not entirely wrong—except some of these moves are very specific to me and you’re using them minutes before I get out onstage.”

  He said he’d try to curtail that.

  I said, “Cool.”

  We left without shaking hands.

  My band reported that he hadn’t curtailed shit and kept copping my moves during his opening act.

  On February 1, 1980, I celebrated my thirty-second birthday. Prince and his crew crashed the party. I went over to his table, grabbed him by the back of his hair, and poured cognac down his throat. He spat it out and started crying like a baby. I laughed.

  “Can I ask you a question about Prince?” says Brotha Guru on one of those prison days when I’m discussing that famous Rick/Prince tour.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think you saw him the same way George Clinton saw you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Clinton saw you as the Next Big Thing so he put you off. You had the new groove. You were a threat. Maybe that’s how you saw Prince.”

  “Prince’s groove wasn’t shit.”

  “How can you say that, Rick? After all these years he’s proven to be one of the baddest brothas ever. They compare him to Michael Jackson. You can’t deny the boy’s talent.”

  I have to stop and think. Brotha Guru isn’t wrong. No matter what I might have thought of Prince in the early days, he has turned out some of the funkiest shit on record.

  “I resented him,” I admit, “but I knew he was stealing.”

  “Any more than you stole from Marvin Gaye? Or any more than Marvin Gaye stole from Sam Cooke? Or any more than Ray Charles stole from Charles Brown or Nat Cole?”

  “When did you become such a musicologist, Brotha Guru?”

  “Been loving music since before your mama ever met your daddy. And I know that in music there ain’t nothing new. There are just new combinations. You combined something that had never been combined before. So did Prince. And I suspect that, because you’re so musically savvy, you feared that he had the capacity to outdo you. So you tried to humiliate him whenever you could.”

  “That didn’t take much.”

  “Whatever it took,” says Brotha Guru, “you were eager to do it. I can understand that. I don’t blame you. We all fear the next generation coming along and unseating us. That’s human nature. I’m just pointing out your human nature.”

  “I still don’t like the motherfucker.”

  “You don’t have to. And since I’ve never met him, I have no opinio
n of his personality. At the same time, given his accomplishments, I’d have to say that anyone who doesn’t recognize Prince’s genius is something of a fool. And you, Rick James, are far from a fool.”

  “You want me to say that Prince is a genius?”

  “Don’t want you to say anything, boy. Just want you to go on with your story.”

  Brotha Guru has insight into my story, because when I saw that Prince was stealing from me, I stole from him. During a break in the tour I took his OB-X synth—he was the first to have that model—and brought it with me to Miami, where I started fooling with my new record. When the tour continued, I put the synth back on the truck. Prince never knew I’d taken it.

  At the end of the tour, I needed a break. Motown was clamoring for a new record but I decided to follow in the footsteps of Stevie and Marvin. They delivered their records in their own sweet time and I’d do the same. I was unhappy with Motown ’cause I thought my royalty checks, although large, should have been larger. I suspected they were scraping cream off the top.

  Instead of rushing back to Buffalo to crank out a new record, I took the band to Miami, where we rented a mansion on one of those exclusive keys. The Bee Gees lived next door. When Miami got too hot, we went looking for some of those trade winds that you find in the Caribbean. With my acoustic guitar in hand, I hired a captain, rented a yacht, and drifted around St. Croix to St. Thomas, St. Maarten, and Martinique. Let the suits keep screaming at me in their ship-to-shore calls and their hysterical telegrams. When Berry Gordy tried to get hold of me, wanting to know why I wasn’t in the studio, it felt good to send back a message that said, “Gone fishing.”