by Rick James
I’d been told that Prince had this habit of going to other artists’ concerts and leaving early in order to disrupt the show. To undermine his undermining plan, I gave his four front-row seats to Rod Stewart, Rod’s wife Alana, Tina Sinatra, and her boyfriend. When Prince arrived with his entourage, Alana, a gutsy chick, told him to kiss her ass. The little prick had to split. I got a good chuckle out of that.
While I was laughing at Prince I could well have been laughing at myself. I could laugh at a guy who, standing on the top, was about to hit bottom. I could laugh at someone who had all the control he wanted over his professional life and no control whatsoever over his personal life. I could laugh at a cat with less self-control than anyone in the universe. And yet I wasn’t laughing. I was chasing—and catching—drop-dead beautiful soap opera actresses who, in their fictitious soap operas, didn’t have nearly the drama I was creating in my real life.
At the end of the tour I experienced shock and outrage when I looked out in the audience and saw little girls sticking out their tongues at me like snakes. They couldn’t have been older than thirteen. They’d gyrate sexually and even pull up their tops to reveal their small budding breasts. It wasn’t that they disgusted me; I disgusted myself. I was disgusted by how my music was prompting young girls to do this kind of thing. I felt deep and shameful guilt. I’d always reasoned that the message in my songs was directed at adults. I didn’t think how it was corrupting some youth—girls young enough to be my own daughters. I vowed that if this was the influence I was having on these kids, I would never tour again.
That moment of moral self-recrimination, though, wasn’t enough to get me to change my lifestyle. I still found myself devouring women as obsessively as I devoured blow, bouncing from one crazed celebrity party to another, living off of adulation, pride, chemical-fueled ego, flying so fuckin’ high that nothing except the news of a tragedy could make me think that maybe I should quit laughing and figure out how to stop self-destructing.
The call came on April Fool’s Day 1984. It was from Jan Gaye, the one woman I could have loved forever but the woman whose heart had been given to another.
“Marvin’s gone,” she said.
“How do you mean ‘gone’?”
“Dead.”
“How?”
“His daddy shot him.”
“What!”
“It’s the truth. He’s dead. Tomorrow was his birthday. He would have been forty-five.”
The pipe. I knew that Marvin had been on the pipe.
When Jan had called, I was in the middle of basing. So I put down the freebase pipe I was smoking and swore I’d never touch it again.
My pledge lasted nearly twenty-four hours.
Fear is not sobriety’s friend. After hearing about Marvin, fear was all over me—fear for my dear friend Jan and the welfare of her children; fear that I, addicted to the same shit that turned Marvin’s brilliant mind to madness, might go mad myself; fear that I didn’t have the guts to look cold-blooded reality in the face. On the day after Marvin’s death, all this fear got me to go back to the thing I both feared and craved the most—the devil’s dick.
I had OD’d a couple of times in L.A. but was able to keep that secret. After those episodes, I easily found a Dr. Feelgood who prescribed pain pills to get me back on my feet while keeping me loaded in a legal way. The streets of downtown Beverly Hills are lined with the fancy offices of dozens of Dr. Feelgoods. They’ll give you whatever you need, especially if you let them take a picture with you to hang in their reception area. My Dr. Feelgood used to give me song lyrics, hoping we’d collaborate. His lyrics sucked but his pain pills were strong. Those were the pills that eventually led me back to the best pain pill of all—the pipe.
After Marvin’s death, rather than go north to recovery, I went south to collapse. I went on a wild binge. The result was that I OD’d at home in Buffalo—something that had never happened before. They rushed me to the hospital, where I was told to stay for several weeks. The thought was that I’d get a head start on recovery if I stayed confined.
I didn’t want to stay confined. I wanted to get back out on the street.
“Don’t you think you’ve hit bottom?” Jim Brown asked me on the phone from L.A. He was concerned for my life.
The answer was no. I knew I could get farther down, and—don’t ask me to explain it—I wanted to get farther down.
“Isn’t there anyone who could knock some sense in your head?” asked Jim.
The answer was my mother, but I had kept her from coming to the hospital. I didn’t want her to see me like this. But I’m guessing it was Jim who called her. I’m guessing it was Jim who told her that she was the only one who could convince me to stay confined.
By the time Mom arrived, I’d been in the hospital for a full two days and was going stir-crazy. I had to get out. In fact, I was already dressed in my street clothes and was on my way out the door when Mom walked in.
“Where do you think you’re going, James?”
“I’m outta here, Mom.”
“You just got here.”
“Forty-eight hours is all I needed to get my strength back.”
“You look terrible, son. You need to put on that hospital gown and get back in bed.”
“Sorry, Mom. My energy is taking me somewhere else.”
“I don’t wanna hear none of that mumbo jumbo crap. Your energy is what got you in here in the first place. Your energy can wait. Your body’s got to heal, boy, and it ain’t gonna heal if you keep feeding it that dope poison.”
“I don’t need no more dope,” I lied. “That’s not why I’m leaving. I’m leaving ’cause there’s nothing more these doctors can do for me.”
“I talked to the head doctor and he don’t agree with you. He says you need rest and after that you need some rehabilitation facility.”
“He’s saying that ’cause he gets a cut of the money I’ll have to pay that facility. All these rehabs are rackets.”
“What difference does it make to you if he does get a cut? All you should care about is getting well. I’ve talked to a lot of people who say that rehab is a good thing. You read a lot of stories about big stars getting off dope by going to those places.”
“Mom, there’s no use arguing with me. I’m not staying here.”
“You’re not walking out that door, James.”
“Mom, don’t make me push you out the way.”
“If you’re gonna leave, that’s what you’re gonna have to do, son.”
I couldn’t believe what I did next—I pushed my mother out of the way, pushed her so firmly that she fell to the floor. My beautiful little mother was lying on the floor. Thank God she wasn’t hurt. When I went down to pick her up, she held up her hand.
“Don’t touch me, James. Just get outta my sight. You’re my son and I love you, but you’re stubborn and willful and I just pray that one of these days you’ll stop serving Satan and start serving God.”
I felt awful. How could I have knocked my mother to the floor? I felt guiltier than at any time in my life. I never forgave myself for what I’d done. But those feelings didn’t stop me from going out, buying an ounce of cocaine, and freebasing that shit for two straight days. When it was all smoked up and I was coked out of my mind, I prayed for my death. Death didn’t come, but something else did—new ideas for songs.
STORM WARNINGS
After my habit got to the point where I was shoving my own mother out of the way so I could get to the dope man, I decided I needed to talk to an addict who’d gotten cured. I wanted someone I could relate to—a musician I respected. I thought of Ray Charles, because there’s no one I respect more. I arranged the meeting through Ray’s best friend, Quincy Jones, who said, “He won’t give you a lot of time, but you won’t need a lot of time. Brother Ray says what he needs to say quicker than anyone.”
I flew to L.A. and went straight to Ray’s small office building on Washington Boulevard right in the middle of funky town. They ha
d me go back to the studio, where the lights were out and I couldn’t see my way in. When Ray heard me stumbling around, he said, “Switch is on the right.” He was working alone, so naturally he didn’t need any light. He was seated in front of his twenty-four-track console, doing his own engineering. I was amazed to watch his fingers flying over the dials and knobs. His voice was booming over the speakers.
“Hey, Rick,” he said. “Q said you wanted to ask me something.”
He was friendly, but I could see that he was in a hurry. I was clearly interrupting his work. I jumped right in, telling him what a hard time I was having giving up blow.
“I don’t know nothing about no blow,” said Ray as he took sips out of the biggest coffee mug I’d ever seen. “Tried cocaine once and it didn’t do shit for me. Heroin was my thing. And the only reason I stopped was because it was either that or go to jail.”
“Wasn’t it hurting your work?”
“I hate to tell people this, Rick, but I cut all my big hits when I was high. I’m not saying they wouldn’t have been bigger hits if I had done them sober, but they were pretty goddamn big hits anyway. Dope kills people every day of the week. Dope ain’t nothing that I’d recommend to anyone. Dope cost me a fortune. I had to spend all sorts of money on high-priced lawyers to solve my legal problems brought on by dope. But no, sir—dope never slowed down my writing, my singing, or any of my shows. Some people need to write and sing no matter how high or low they may be. I’m one of those fools. I don’t say that with pride, because it would have been easier to give up dope if dope had ruined my career. But if you’re a fool like me, Rick, and you can work when you’re loaded, you’re gonna have a hard time giving it up. I know that ain’t what you came to hear from me, but I’m giving it to you straight, son. I been there.”
I thanked Ray for his time and left. On my way out, I saw one of his assistants washing out Ray’s mug in the little kitchen area. I was curious, so I stayed to watch her fill half the mug with coffee and the other half with gin before adding five heaping spoonfuls of sugar.
“How many of those does he drink a day?” I asked the lady.
“Oh, about one every ninety minutes,” she said.
I couldn’t help but relate to Ray, especially when back in Buffalo I left the hospital only to get high, and then only to find myself writing again. It was crazy that my addiction wasn’t killing my music, but Ray had explained why. Some of us can work fucked-up, and some of us can’t. Ray had also explained how my ability to work fucked-up was no blessing. In many ways, the notion that I could do my art fucked-up only fucked me up more.
There’s another factor. One of Ray’s hits, “Let’s Go Get Stoned,” was about getting high. But hell, at least two-thirds of my hits had to do with dope. Dope was not only the content of my life, it was the content of my songs. Dope was interwoven into everything I did.
I was high when Motown called and said they needed another album from me. At that point I had three songs, hardly enough for a new record.
“Fine,” said Jay Lasker, Motown’s old-school president and one of Berry’s many minions. “We’ll put out a greatest hits and not give you a cent.”
“I don’t have to remind you, Jay—I get a million dollars a record.”
“Not if there aren’t any new songs. Your contract lets us put out a greatest hits without giving you an advance.”
“Do that and I’ll never record another motherfuckin’ thing for Motown again.”
“Then what do you want?”
“A million dollars for three new songs you can stick on a greatest hits.”
“That’s crazy. You think I’m going to give you three hundred thirty-three thousand dollars for each song?”
“Yes, I do.”
And yes, I was right. Motown paid me the cool million and I delivered the songs.
The one that hit big on the R & B charts, “17,” was the most personal. It was based on a torrid love affair I had with a seventeen-year-old model in New York. Here’s the story:
“Seventeen” and another young model fell into a crazy ménage with me. It went on for months. We were kicked out of the best and worst hotels in New York City. The whole thing was a blur of bliss. In the middle of the madness, Debbie Allen, a dear friend, called and insisted I go to her show on Broadway.
“I can’t,” I said as I looked over at these two naked beauties on either side of me in bed.
“You can. And you will. I’m sending a limo. Come tonight.”
I went but was so drained from all the fucking and sucking that I slumped over and fell asleep during the show.
Afterward, Debbie dragged me into her dressing room and slammed the door. She threw me into a seat and actually sat on top of me so I couldn’t move.
“You’re killing yourself,” she said. “You’re throwing your life away. You can’t even stay awake to see a friend’s show. Do you know how pathetic that is, Rick? You’re looking at someone who loves you and cares about you, someone who knows you’re a serious artist with serious ideas and serious talent. Yet all you do is get high and have sex. Don’t you realize that sex is just as much an addiction as cocaine? Don’t you see how blind you are to all the things sapping your soul?”
All I could say was, “Please get off me, Debbie.”
“Only if you promise to change your ways.”
“I promise.”
I broke my promise later that night.
In breaking that promise, though, I came up with “17,” the story of the affair with my honey model. In addition to lyrics that spoke about how she was “sexy sexy sexy” and “almost jailbait,” I also wrote about her “glow.” That wonderful young woman had an incandescent glow and helped me reignite the glow that had once shone brightly inside me.
Something else helped bring me back from the darkness of depression that followed my OD in Buffalo: Eddie Murphy.
Eddie’s a comic on and offstage. His upbeat personality always kept me on a natural high. That’s the only kind of high Eddie was interested in. He didn’t have any of my dope habits. Like me, Eddie loved funky music and wanted a career outside stand-up comedy and movies. He wanted to sing—and I encouraged him. He had a good voice with the ability to imitate all sorts of singers, including me. He also had a great feel for funk.
When Eddie first approached me to produce him, I was off on a base binge and never responded. So he went and sought out Prince. After that, he called me again.
“I’d love to work with you, Rick,” he said.
“What happened to Prince?”
“He made me uncomfortable. I didn’t like the way he sat there and looked at me. I’m not working with him.”
That was music to my ears. There wasn’t anything I’d rather have done than write a hit for Eddie—and stick it in Prince’s ear.
We decided it was best to work in my home studio in Buffalo. Eddie flew in during the dead of winter. I had my entire fleet of six cars drive to the airport to greet him. I wanted him to feel like royalty. I personally drove him back to my crib in my Rolls. We started gossiping like old ladies, to the point that I got into a little fender bender.
“Hope that isn’t an omen of things to come,” said Eddie.
“Don’t worry, bro,” I said. “I’ll be driving you all the way up to the top of the charts.”
Because I respected Eddie for not drinking or drugging, I stayed clean during our working session. (Well, not entirely clean. I did smoke some weed and drink some wine.) First day we got hit by a killer blizzard that kept us inside. We both loved the fact that we were cooped up in the studio.
With snow piling up outside, we got busy in a hurry and worked nonstop for days. Eddie was a dream to produce, a real pro. The only challenge was finding his true voice. He could imitate Michael Jackson and Al Green to a T. But getting him to relax was the key. When he kicked back I finally heard the true Eddie. He had a good high tenor.
I came up with a story based on a chick Eddie knew in New York who liked to
party without him. I called it “Party All the Time.” The track was a motherfucker, and vocally, Eddie killed it. I put my own voice on some of the refrains ’cause I thought it’d help us get airplay.
When Eddie left Buffalo he thanked me graciously. He said he was having Stevie Wonder produce some tracks as well. Given Stevie’s genius, I was sure one of his songs would be picked as the first single. When the album was completed, Columbia had a huge listening party in a fancy Malibu beach house to choose the single. Turned out “Party All the Time” was the cut that got the crowd dancing—and it was released first. Went number one all over the world. Beyond the toughness of the song itself, the release did something else for me. It got my ass on MTV.
I’d been fighting those MTV bastards all this time, and while I’d helped other acts get their videos played, they still refused to air mine. Eddie changed all that. He shot the video to “Party All the Time” at Electric Lady, Jimi Hendrix’s studio in Greenwich Village, and Eddie insisted that I get lots of camera time in my producing role. At the time my hair was dyed red. Some friends said I stole the show from Eddie. I didn’t. It was his singing and performance that sold the song. It was also the fact that Eddie was going to host the MTV Video Music Awards that finally got them to put one of my productions in rotation. A little later MTV aired the Mary Jane Girls’ “In My House” video. I hadn’t kicked down the door yet, but it was starting to open.
If that door was opening, the door to my bedroom was closing. After “Party All the Time” went to the top, months passed—maybe years—before I went out in sunlight. I became a vampire—sleeping all day and hitting the base pipe at night. I had my bedroom windows covered with aluminum foil so not a single ray of sunlight could get through.
If I came out at all it was only to fly down to New York, where I found those two model chicks and fell back into the ménage à trois. That meant another week or two of drug-induced stupefaction.