by Rick James
Linda was incredible. A free spirit. A beautiful mind. A mind-blowing body. She liked getting high and getting down as much as I did. We posed topless for a photograph that showed up everywhere. We didn’t care. We were doing our own thing in our own way. It was a love affair that I hoped would last. It didn’t.
At Caesars Palace in Vegas, Diana Ross introduced me as the King of Punk Funk. The Rockpalast show in Essen, Germany—the one I already told you about—was televised around the world and being called the biggest triumph of my career.
What more could I do?
Produce the Temptations—that’s what. They were reuniting with some of the original members and calling their new album Reunion. The Chairman asked me to write and produce a song for them. He also wanted me to sing on it. The idea that the Temptations needed me to boost their appeal was music to my ears. What a thrill! For the first time, lead singers David Ruffin, Dennis Edwards, and Eddie Kendricks would be on the same record—plus Otis Williams, Richard Street, Glenn Leonard, and my man Melvin Franklin.
When we recorded the song “Standing on the Top” the studio was filled with celebrities. Jim Brown, the great running back, who’d become a close friend, dropped by, as well as Berry Gordy and Timothy Hutton. I gave the Tempts their harmony notes and wrote the vocal arrangement. For all I had done, I still couldn’t get over the idea that I was directing the Tempts. I didn’t see it at the time, but the lyrics were prophetic. I wrote, “Standing on the top there’s no place you can really go but down, down, down.” If you read between the lines, the story is really about the fall of a superstar. Ironically, the song was a hit, bringing the Temptations back to the spotlight and magnifying my own stardom, even as I predicted my downfall.
On a conscious level, I saw my power increasing, while my subconscious saw it decreasing. My power was enough to take on MTV’s racist policy in a campaign that I consciously conducted through the press. Everywhere I went I denounced their policy. In every interview I gave, I called them out. I named names—especially one asshole executive who had it out for me. When he heard me bashing him, he made sure to play the video of my rival—Prince—and keep mine off the air. That’s how “Little Red Corvette” blew up so big. It was MTV’s way of shooting me the shaft. But MTV was on the wrong side of history. It wasn’t just the pressure of my mouthing off to the press. It was the fact that in 1982 Michael Jackson had released Thriller, and there was no way they could keep those videos off the air. Columbia, Michael’s label, gave MTV all kinds of shit. I credit them with helping to break down the color barrier. But I know that I did my part. I called those bastards racists every chance I had, and I don’t regret that for a minute.
Because I was increasingly being seen as the Super Freak, I felt a need to be taken more seriously. Granted, my stuff didn’t carry the intellectual or spiritual weight of Marvin Gaye, but I was a sincere and deep artist. I didn’t want to be dismissed as superficial or fleeting. It took a while for the critics to come around, but when they did I couldn’t help but feel satisfaction. When Street Songs was put into a special edition years after its initial release, Craig Werner, a professor of African-American studies at the University of Wisconsin, wrote, “In the summer of 1981, no one was keeping the faith with more fire than Rick James. Invoking Miles Davis and John Coltrane as well as James Brown and Sly Stone, the fiery funk sermon he preached on Street Songs provided a frontline report from the blues-haunted streets of black America while opening a jazz vision of a new and better world.”
Reading that shit made me feel good.
In the summer of 1982, Marvin Gaye finally found his way back onto the charts. “Sexual Healing” proved one of the biggest hits of his long career. By then Marvin had gone from Hawaii to England to Belgium. He’d been in exile for two years, and during that time, he and Jan finally divorced. I took that as a sign that Jan and I could finally be together—and we were, for a time. She no longer worked for me but would come to see me at the Chateau Marmont or at my home in Buffalo. There was never a time that I didn’t love Jan’s company. And there were many times when we discussed marriage. I’m not sure why it didn’t happen. She certainly understood me as deeply as any woman I’ve ever known. And I certainly appreciated her intellect and beauty. Maybe it was because Jan was a little too sane for me. Maybe I needed a crazier life than the one she wanted. After what she’d gone through with Marvin, she needed less chaos, not more.
It also didn’t help that one time when Jan was staying with me in Buffalo I received word that Linda Blair was coming to visit. I had my people move Jan into a room down in the basement. I didn’t want Linda to know that Jan was there, and Jan was cool enough to let me pull of the charade. I know Jan wasn’t happy about that—what woman would be?—and I was always grateful to her for not busting me in front of Linda.
The player played on. The chicks kept arriving and leaving. One chick was a brainy English major at the State University of New York at Buffalo. I was convinced her real major was giving head. She had a PhD in blow jobs. She also loved poetry. She kept reading “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot, which said, “In the room the women come and go, speaking of Michelangelo.” She told me that she wanted to change the poem to “In the room the women come and go, looking to snort Rick James’s blow.”
By then it was more than snorting. My bottom line in Buffalo had become base. Idiot that I was, I was certain freebase was setting me free even as it was imprisoning me. For a long while I was happy when I was high. I knew about certain jazz musicians who had lived long and productive lives high on drugs. I figured I was one of them. I was different from your average addict. My body could take it. My mind could absorb it. I was special, I was invincible, but I was also crying myself to sleep every night. I’d wake up in a panic over the nightmares haunting my unconscious. In those dreams I saw images of children who looked like me. I dreamed of children falling into a sea of fire, children being struck by freight trains and chased down by vicious wolves. These were my children, and every time I tried to help them, I was stopped. I was impotent to do a fuckin’ thing.
When I awoke, I realized I had to do something. I sprang into action, but not even the best detectives could find Seville. I must have gone through six different agencies when something wonderful happened. A friend had a daughter who went to a ghetto school in the San Fernando Valley outside L.A. That girl said her schoolmate claimed to be Rick James’s son. I immediately hired a detective to go to the school and photograph the boy. When I saw the pictures I was looking at myself. Seville had, in fact, given birth to our son. I had two children and I needed to see them. By then my brother Roy, a lawyer, was working with me. I told him to find Seville and forge some financial settlement that would let me see my kids. I wanted them to fly to Buffalo so that Mom and I could see them together. At that moment, I knew I’d need Mom by my side.
Roy did it. Seville agreed to send Ty, eleven, and the boy she had named Ricky, nine, to see me. I counted the days until their arrival. Mom and I got to the Buffalo airport a full hour before they were due in. I kept watching the clock, kept looking out on the runway for the plane to land. I worried that it might crash and with it all my hopes and dreams.
It didn’t. The plane landed safely. I stood by the door as the passengers entered the terminal. At the sight of a young black girl holding hands with a little boy who seemed to be her brother, I rushed over to them and hugged them both. They looked shocked.
“Who are you?” said the voice of a large black woman who was standing behind them.
“Their father.”
“The hell you are. These are my kids and their dad is back in Burbank. Get out of our way.”
I had hugged the wrong kids!
I stood back with Mom and waited awhile until the right kids finally came through the door. They were both gorgeous. Their eyes were bright. They had the glow. Ty was a poised young lady. Ricky was a handsome young man. I introduced them to their grandmother, who showered the
m with kisses. We went home, where I had gone to great lengths to prepare a boy’s bedroom filled with sports for Rick and a girl’s bedroom filled with flowers and dresses for Ty. Even though I tried hard to buy their love with all sorts of presents, they were too cool to accept them. They had beautiful manners and strong values. Seville had raised them right.
It took a while before they went from calling me “Mr. James” to calling me “Daddy,” but I understood. It was a shock for all of us. I saw that Ricky drew beautifully; he had real talent as an artist. Ty wrote beautifully; I knew she’d be a poet. These two precious blessings had walked back into my life and given me new hope. When they flew back to their mother I felt that Ty, Ricky, and I had developed a close bond. I wanted to make sure that bond was never broken. I wanted my children to become as much a part of my life as my music, my women, my drugs, and my career.
In that regard, I failed miserably.
PART FOUR
BREAKING DOWN
COLD BLOODED
When one of the cats in Stone City saw the cover of my new album, Throwin’ Down, he said I looked like a freaky funky Aztec warrior. I was photographed wearing animal-skin shorts, studded leather boots, and open-toed black sandals. In my left hand I was holding a big battle shield. I was ready to take on the world. That was my attitude. “Dance Wit’ Me” was a huge R & B hit off Throwin’ Down, proving that my star status was more potent than ever.
Defiance continued to define me—even though I’m not sure what the hell I was still defiant about. Hadn’t I already proven everything that needed to be proven?
Brotha Guru talks about how we’ve got to give our defiance up to God, but I wasn’t ready to hear that kind of talk when I was standing on the top.
“Defiance doesn’t need a reason or even a target,” says Brotha Guru. “It just is. None of us want to be told what to do.”
“Do you know Jim Brown?” I ask the good brother.
“Never met the man, but I hear he’s a good cat.”
“The best,” I say. “Jim talks a lot like you. He’s a man of reason and a man of God. He was coming around the studio when I was cutting Throwin’ Down. He knew I was basing and he knew ‘throwin’ down’ was my code expression for smoking cocaine. He told me flat-out that I was destroying myself and about to destroy my career. I love Jim. Ain’t no one I respect more. But I was defiant—even in the presence of a soul as gentle and wise and Jim.”
“That’s the thing about defiance,” says Brotha Guru. “It wipes out any trace of humility. And without humility, our spiritual life is fucked. A spiritual life is based on submission to something outside of ourselves.”
“I understand, brotha. But you gotta understand that when I was cutting Throwin’ Down I was also putting together other acts and helping other artists.”
“That’s great. And I’m sure those people remain grateful to you. But in the end, weren’t they extensions of you?”
“I wasn’t thinking that way at the time.”
“How were you thinking at the time?”
It wasn’t enough for me to outsell my idols, like Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, and Smokey Robinson. Wasn’t enough to produce and bring the Tempts back to the top of the charts. I needed to outdo Berry Gordy. Berry had the Supremes—well, I’d have the Colored Girls, named after that line in Lou Reed’s great “Walk on the Wild Side.” In forming the Colored Girls, I wanted to reinvent the image of a girl group. I wanted four chicks—a Valley girl, a classy vamp, a leather queen, and a Rick James bitch.
But then I made a foolish mistake: I talked about my concept with Prince’s manager, and the next thing I knew Vanity 6 was out there parading around in their lingerie. That motivated me even more. I saw it as another chance to outdo Prince.
Even though the Colored Girls required my grooming and training, they were great to begin with. Joanne “JoJo” McDuffie sang sexy lead. She was a female version of me. Kimberly “Maxi” Wuletich was a white chick who played the part of a dominatrix. Candice “Candi” Ghant was the classy vamp and Cheri Wells the Valley Girl. I personally picked out their costumes, gave them their moves, and sent them to the famous vocal coach Seth Riggs, who helped build their chops. Mom didn’t like the name Colored Girls. She said to call them the Mary Jane Girls instead, a label that went well with my image. I agreed, and soon four new stars were born.
We shot their first two videos in Buffalo, where Mom helped put the finishing touches on their costumes. Both songs—“Candy Man” and “Boy”—were hits, along with “All Night Long,” whose groove turned out to be one of the most-sampled I’ve ever done.
They opened for me on the Throwin’ Down tour and caused a sensation. Unlike Ray Charles, who said that to be a Raelette you had to “let Ray,” I didn’t want to blur the boundaries. I was their mentor and father, not their lover. On tour, I had them under lockdown. Didn’t want other cats messin’ with them, not while they were working with me. They needed to concentrate on the show.
My franchise widened when I also wrote and produced two albums for a fine singer named Val Young, who’d sung backup for George Clinton and for me on Street Songs. Also got Motown to sign a blazing new tenor player, Bobby Militello, who I’d heard at his brother’s club in Buffalo. To help Bobby further, I got Lenny White from Return to Forever to play on his album and called it Rick James Presents Bobby M: Blow.
I also wanted a doo-wop group in my stable. I knew that high tenor Bunty Hawkins, who sang background for me, could sing dynamite lead. After auditioning hundreds of cats in Buffalo I chose four to harmonize and, with Mom’s help, gave them an image out of her era, the forties and fifties: slicked-down process do’s, vintage wide double-breasted suits, stingy-brim hats, two-toned gator shoes. So I named them Process and the Doo Rags. I flew in Cholly Atkins, the famous choreographer to the Tempts and the Miracles, who taught them their steps. Eddie Murphy came to their opening at the Cotton Club in Buffalo and liked ’em so much he put ’em on his tour when he was selling out arenas. I showcased them in L.A. and got ’em a deal at Columbia. Their debut album, Too Sharp, got rave reviews.
I was sponsoring artists other than myself. I was going out of my way for new talent. I was helping my friends when they needed a hand. I was doing my best not to stay loaded. I was trying to own up to the responsibility that comes with power in showbiz.
In a surreal moment at the Grammy Awards in 1983, with Grace Jones by my side, I announced to an international audience the winner of the award for Rhythm and Blues Vocal Performance, “Sexual Healing.” As Marvin came onstage to accept the award, my mind was swimming with thoughts. I hadn’t seen Marvin since I’d gotten involved with Jan. I wondered if he’d take a swing at me. If so, I was ready. My fists were clenched. I also wondered if he’d make some cutting remark. But Marvin could not have been more charming. He gave a beautiful speech. Turned out that this was his first Grammy. Unbelievable as it might sound, What’s Going On, Let’s Get It On, I Want You, Here, My Dear—none of his masterpieces had ever won. Understandably, he was a happy man that night. Before he left the stage, he whispered in my ear, “She gave me the happiest years of my life.”
When I called my new album Cold Blooded I wasn’t talking about my personality. I didn’t see myself that way. I was warm-blooded. I was a guy who needed other people. I also needed other people to need me. No, “cold-blooded” was a description of the music. “Cold Blooded,” which turned into a number-one R & B hit, was about my steamy affair with Linda Blair. It was about how Linda could freeze my blood. The title might also have referred to the fact that Linda had an abortion. She told me that it was our child but gave me no voice in her decision. I call that cold-blooded.
I wrote and recorded my album in the state-of-the-art recording studio I’d put into my home in Buffalo. I was mindful of doing something because Quincy Jones, a cat I respect, told me it was time to switch up my shit since everyone and his mother was biting it off. I was the most copied artist out there. Having my own studio gave
me time to reflect and experiment. I knew I had to slim down the sound, make it more economical and striking. Having a new guitarist—Kenny Hawkins, the brother of Bunt, the Doo Rags’ lead singer—was a blessing. Kenny and my new keyboardist Treadwell came up with some blistering tracks. Danny LeMelle and Tom McDermott also helped sculpt a leaner and meaner instrumental attitude.
“U Bring the Freak Out” was the follow-up hit to “Cold Blooded.” The third smash was a ballad that I wrote and sang as a duet with Smokey Robinson, “Ebony Eyes.” Like Marvin and Stevie, Smokey was a man I deeply admired. Wasn’t easy for me to find the authority to produce his vocal. It was easy for Smokey, though, because, for all his genius accomplishments, he’s a humble cat who allowed me to direct the whole operation. I’ll always love him for that.
Cold Blooded contained the first rap I’d ever written. It was delivered by Grandmaster Flash’s Melle Mel, Scorpio, and Rahiem and called “P.I.M.P. the S.I.M.P.” Then I went from the street to the bedroom and asked my buddy Billy Dee Williams to read my romantic rap over “Tell Me (What You Want).”
I wanted the cover to be as different as the music. Enough with the thigh-high boots! I wanted something more soulful. After a dream in which I saw a pyramid, I decided to use that image behind a photograph of me. I saw the pyramid as a symbol of racial unity. I later learned that the image was the logo for twelve-step recovery. I had no idea at the time. At the time I was spending five thousand dollars a week on freebase.
The Cold Blooded tour was my biggest yet. The Mary Jane Girls tore it up and so did two new dancers I hired—a brotha named Bobby Sepheus and a beautiful sista called T. Bobby. When we hit L.A., we were the hottest ticket in town. The Universal Amphitheatre had been sold out months in advance. That’s where I got word Prince was coming to the show.