by Rick James
Good-bye, recovery. Hello, addiction.
Me being me, I didn’t just go back incrementally. I dived into the pussy pool, into the dope den, into the whole fuckin’ world of depravity.
A week later, Jim Brown called.
“I heard what happened,” he said. “I heard you were doing good until that sobriety party.”
“It’s the irony of ironies, Jim,” I said. “The evening started out as a celebration of me getting clean and wound up with me getting dirty.”
“Don’t matter, Rick. You proved you can do it. You had some clean months under your belt. You can do it again. I want you to come over and meet someone who I think will help.”
“Who’s that?”
“Minister Louis Farrakhan.”
I respected the minister and was honored that he wanted to meet me. I showed up at Jim’s early. The minister was warm and gracious. I could feel his positive spirit. He spoke of Allah and Allah’s ability to heal all wounds, physical and psychological. He talked about darkness and lightness and the moral polarities that we must somehow negotiate. He spoke about patience and forgiveness. He said I had to forgive myself for those many times I had tried and failed. He couldn’t have been more supportive. When our meeting was over, he hugged me like a father. He said he loved me. I said I loved him. And then I went out and got high.
Teena Marie and my sister Penny tried to reach me with reason. I kept them away. I didn’t wanna hear about no reason.
Television offers came my way, but I managed to fuck them up. The A-Team, with George Peppard and Mr. T, offered me a costarring role with Isaac Hayes, the Black Moses. I loved Isaac and loved the idea of us duetting on James Taylor’s “Steamroller Blues.” I also had speaking lines. My plan was to learn those lines, get a good night’s sleep, and show up at the set at six A.M. A kinky fox upset those plans. I wound up wilding with her. She was into asphyxiation. I dug her, but in the morning I was wasted. I messed up my lines so bad that George Peppard walked off the set.
The only reason I didn’t screw up my next TV appearance, on One Life to Live, was because it was Mom’s favorite soap opera. I sobered up long enough to learn my lines and make Mom proud. After the shoot, I flew home, where I started toying with ideas for my new album.
When Jan Gaye came to Buffalo she looked gorgeous. Her eyes were clear and her mind was sharper than ever.
“What’s that in your hand?” she asked.
“A drink,” I said.
“Of what?”
“Gin.”
“You’re drinking?”
“And smoking a little—and tooting too, if you must know.”
She looked at me like I was the Grinch who ate Christmas.
“So you’ve given up on sobriety?” Jan asked.
“Temporarily.”
Since I was the guy who had inspired her to stop drugs, I knew I was breaking her heart. But I couldn’t lie. I’d never lie to Jan.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My motivation is strong but my willpower is weak.”
“They keep telling me that it isn’t a matter of willpower. It’s willingness.”
“They tell me a lot of stuff—and it’s true. Program platitudes are great, but right now I’m enjoying my drink.”
By the time Jan left Buffalo, she had succumbed to the temptations in my house. She got loaded on blow. I felt bad, but not bad enough to stop her—mainly because we were snorting together. Much to her credit, she got back into the program when she returned to California.
“I’m not going back to that life,” she told me over the phone. “I’m not letting one slip throw me.”
That’s just what I needed to hear. If I inspired Jan the first time to get clean, it was she who inspired me this time. I went back to McLean for another month of rehab. Can’t tell you how happy I was to see Steven Tyler, who had also slipped and needed another hospital stay. Steven’s the most exuberant motherfucker on earth. Minute he saw me he jumped on my back. I carried him around the ward like he was a baby. You gotta love Steven’s enthusiasm and love for life. That love came at a time when I sorely needed it. Tyler’s the best recovery buddy I ever had. He’s the one cat who can outtalk me and actually makes those meetings fun. Half of what he says is bullshit, but his bullshit is so brilliant I don’t care if it’s true or not. I say God bless Steven Tyler.
And I say God bless McLean and the staff who put up with me again. Yes, I went back; but yes, I also went back with my rebellious questioning attitude that challenged everyone and everything. I went back to my sponsor, Chuck, who said, “Problem with you is that no one knows—not even you—how low your goddamn bottom really is. Just when you think you’ve hit bottom, the bottom gets lower.”
No truer words have ever been spoken.
“Rick, I think you need to see someone with supernatural powers,” said Chuck. “I think you see need to see this woman who’s a certified witch.”
“Chuck, do you know how many goddamn witches I’ve already seen in my life? Damn near every bitch I’ve gone with has claimed to be a witch or a clairvoyant. I’ve seen all those tarot cards and I Ching coins. I’ve been told I’d be dead at twenty-eight and here I am nearly thirty-eight. I’ve been told I’d move to Tibet and live in a cage. Then some weird Gypsy looked into a crystal ball and saw me leading an African country to liberation. I’ve been damn well told everything.”
“This woman’s different,” said Chuck. “The Boston police use her to solve cases. Her paranormal powers of perception have been documented.”
“Why even mention her, Chuck?” I asked.
“She mentioned you. She said she knew I had a friend with the initials RJ and that she needed to talk to you.”
“She wants money.”
“Everyone wants money. It’s more than that, though. There’s no way in the world she could have known that you’re my sponsee. I’ve never mentioned your name to a soul.”
“All right, let’s go see what the witch has to say.”
The witch was an extra-large Italian woman with shiny black hair. From head to toe, she was dressed in black. She had a big booming voice and a howl of a laugh. She was earthy. She looked right into my eyes. I liked her. Somehow I trusted her.
She started telling me her story. Her husband had been a criminal who died and left her and their two sons destitute. She cursed his dead soul. Then one day she heard a spirit voice telling her to bust up her favorite lamp. It seemed crazy, but she obeyed the voice. Inside the lamp was eighty thousand dollars. Since then she had kept listening to this spirit voice.
The spirit voice had directed her to meet me. In her hand was a velvet package meant for me.
“Do you know what’s in the package?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Tarot cards.”
“You’re right.”
“Where have you kept them?”
“Buried in a quiet place.”
The witch passed the first test. I knew tarot cards can’t be properly read if you keep them in your home. It’s too confusing. They require the shelter and quietude of Mother Earth.
When she took the cards out of the package, I saw they were tied in three knots. She passed the second test. Tarot cards must be tied in a certain way. She was gaining more of my confidence.
“I know you understand tarot,” she said. “I know you’ve studied the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the Secret Scrolls, and the pyramids. I know when you were trying to purge yourself of your demons you read deeply into mysticism from all cultures.”
She was right. During both stays at McLean, I had studied the occult. I’d reached no conclusions but I loved seeing how cultures dealt with the mysteries of human life and death.
She then started telling me the story of my life. She had all the specific names and places exactly right. She knew about Mom and Mom’s work as a numbers runner. She knew all about my run-ins with the law. She talked about my time in Toronto as though she had been there to witness it all. She talked about a person I h
ad worked with who went on to great fame. She couldn’t say his name but said his initials—NY. That had to be Neil Young. She also mentioned that I had been in love with a woman whose husband had died at the hands of his father and whose initials were MG. That had to be Marvin Gaye. She named my children, named many of my former girlfriends, and even named BG—Berry Gordy—as a man who would soon oppose me.
I realized that the witch could see the future, but I also realized I was not ready for that knowledge. I was afraid of that knowledge. I was afraid of the witch’s perception and wanted to leave.
“Not before I give you this,” she said.
She handed me a beautiful crystal that she claimed had extraordinary healing powers. I asked her how much money I needed to give her. She said whatever I thought was fair. She gave me her phone number and said I could contact her anytime. I got up, left several hundred dollars on the table, and told her I’d call her sometime soon. I never did. The witch knew too much.
BEGINNING OF THE END/END OF THE BEGINNING
I thought I’d stay sober forever. I thought I had it beat. I thought I’d gotten into a righteous rhythm of recovery. Call my sponsor every day. Go to a meeting every night. Write out my resentments. Make an amend. Drink water. Eat healthy. Stay in the studio. Write. And then write some more.
Had a concept for a new album I wanted to call The Flag, a serious reflection of the hypocrisy of the American empire. These were the Reagan years, when a dumb-ass Grade B actor was ruling the roost. Much as I loved Michael Jackson, when I saw him going to the White House and standing next to Ridiculous Ronnie, I nearly puked. I wrote a song called “Funk in America/Silly Little Man,” referring to our president and all the power maniacs out there with their fingers on the button. Also wrote a song called “Free to Be Me” about the freedom in recovery.
I worked like a demon and got the tracks where I wanted them. The funk was thick and was I ready to put on final vocals. Then came the shock: I couldn’t sing. My lungs weren’t working right. I flew to see a specialist in New York City, who took X-rays and called me into an office.
“Have you ever smoked cocaine?” he asked, knowing damn well that the answer was yes.
“I have.”
“A lot, I presume.”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Are you still smoking?”
“Cigarettes, doctor, not cocaine.”
“The effects of the cocaine are still there. Smoke it again and you’ll permanently lose your singing voice.”
That’s all I needed to hear. The good doctor scared me shitless. I threw away my cigarettes, rented a fifty-foot yacht, and sailed the Caribbean from the port of St. Maarten. I wanted clear sea air to fill my lungs. Even running into my buddy Jimmy Cliff on that trip didn’t break my sobriety. The ganja smelled mighty sweet, but the clear sea air was sweeter. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to sing. I took my guitar along and wrote songs under the light of the low-hanging moon. I brought along ladies who loved me in all sorts of wonderful ways. We said yes to sucking and fucking, no to smoking and coking. The trip put me back $100,000—the gas bill alone was $30,000—but it was worth it. I needed this newfound peace of mind to contend with the news that greeted me on dry land.
Motown didn’t like my song concepts. They thought it was too serious. They wanted another “Party All the Time.” My point was that I’d already done that. I wanted to go forward. They wanted me to go back. This was the same shit Berry Gordy was telling Marvin when he did What’s Going On. Berry said it was too political, and politics and music don’t mix. Motown had no social conscience, just a money conscience.
At the same time, Motown was trying to steal the Mary Jane Girls from me. Some of the girls had gone behind my back and told all kinds of untrue stories on me. The press depicted me as some kind of Svengali. Meanwhile, I was the cat who put the group together, gave them their sound, and turned them into stars. Now Motown was looking to snatch them from my production camp.
I ignored all this by going into the studio and, with my Caribbean-cleansed voice, putting my vocals on The Flag. I cut my hair for the cover shot, which had me looking sober. No gimmicks, no half-naked chicks. Then, without telling me, Motown released “Sweet and Sexy Thing” as the first single—the most obvious party cut off the record. I loved the groove-and-grind of that song but didn’t think it really represented what I was going for. I wanted “Funk in America/Silly Little Man” as the first single.
Things got ugly between me and Motown. I’d always had a good relationship with Berry. I saw him as a cordial cat. He usually had time for me to air my complaints. Since we were fighting on two fronts—the Mary Jane Girls and the promotion of my own material—I figured I deserved a hearing. But Berry went MIA. I got word that he wanted me to work through his underlings. Well, fuck his underlings. His underlings were saying that I technically owed Motown another album when I felt I had damn well honored the contract and could go wherever I wanted. The underlings warned me they would sue. Then sue they did. I sued them back. I claimed they stole millions of dollars in royalties from me—and I also sued them for trying to steal the Mary Jane Girls.
The lawsuits were on and poppin’. They’d go for four, five, maybe six years. I stopped counting. I fell into depression and back into drugs.
In this epic period of endless legal battles, there were some good moments. After assuring me that black farmers would benefit as well as whites, Willie Nelson had me perform at a Farm Aid concert, where I reunited with Neil Young, jammed with Taj Mahal, and hung out with Dennis Hopper. During the show I called President Reagan an asshole. I got criticized for that remark but didn’t give a shit. President Reagan was an asshole.
Not long after, I was sitting at a booth across from Reagan at Chasen’s, the famous Beverly Hills celeb hangout. Someone introduced him to me, saying, “Mr. President, meet the King of Punk Funk.” Reagan just smiled. His eyes were vacant. He didn’t say a word. I said, “You know my cousin, Congressman Louis Stokes.” Reagan still didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with this idiot smile. An idiot was running our country.
But look who’s calling someone an idiot. My idiotic reasoning was that I was actually cutting down on blow by doing what I called baby basin’. That’s smoking coco puffs—cocaine mixed into cigarettes. All this in spite of the doctor’s warning. For the next several years I found myself sliding on a downward slope. I still got invited to high-profile parties and the occasional orgy, but the invitations weren’t what they used to be. I had some stylish girlfriends and could still gig when I wanted, but my power was definitely on the decline. I wouldn’t record for Motown and Motown wouldn’t let me record for anyone else.
My Me Monster was reinforced by my long string of girlfriends—Catherine Bach, who played Daisy Duke on The Dukes of Hazzard; Ola Ray, who played Michael Jackson’s girlfriend in the video for “Thriller”—the list went on and on. I liked them. They liked me. Maybe they loved me. Maybe I loved them. Who knew?
“Get out of L.A.,” Mom said when she called from Buffalo. “Come home. You were doing okay in Buffalo.”
I went home for a week or a month but always wound up back in Hollywood. I told myself I wanted to be close to my lawyers and stay on top of my legal issues. That was a lie. I just wanted to be close to the edge.
Geoffrey Moore, son of James Bond actor Roger Moore, hired me to produce him. He was a nice-looking kid with a decent voice. He gave me money that I badly needed. He let me live in his luxurious guesthouse with its own two-car garage. He was dating Farrah Fawcett behind Ryan O’Neal’s back. I was dating Merete Van Kamp, the internationally famous model who’d starred in the movie Princess Daisy. I was living in the middle of a Hollywood soap opera, and I was loving it. I was loving going down to Jack Nicholson’s club, Helena’s, and picking up the newest tallest skinniest hippest most beautiful majestic models from Milan or Paris and taking them back to the Moore mansion, where the after-parties never stopped. From there we might go to Richard Perry’
s crib in the hills, where the combination of good weed and willing women was irresistible. Richard was a premier producer who’d done the Pointer Sisters, Carly Simon, and Leo Sayer. He was also a chick magnet of the highest order.
Maybe if I heard a tape of my jam sessions at the China Club during this period I’d be horrified. Maybe I wasn’t singing and playing as good as I remember. At the time, though, in spite of the drugs, I felt that those jams with Chaka Khan, Nile Rodgers, Elton John, John Entwistle of the Who, Chris Squire of Yes, and the Tower of Power horns were some of the most exciting musical nights of my life. Those jams kept my creative juices going.
One night at the China Club, Herbie Hancock and I were getting tipsy on another kind of juice—tequila—when we decided to get onstage and see what we could do together. I was feeling no pain when suddenly I felt nothing but pain. Damn if I didn’t fall through a hole in the stage and break three ribs. An ambulance rushed me to Cedars Sinai; the next day the party continued at the hospital on the celebrity floor, where they stocked champagne in the refrigerators. The female guests kept coming through and the morphine shots kept me high as a kite. Recuperation continued in Palm Springs, where a friend put me up in his spectacularly modern all-glass home in the middle of the desert that looked like something out of Architectural Digest.
Her name was Tanya Hijazi. When I met her she was seventeen, around the same age as Janis Gaye when she first met Marvin. I’d written that song “17” about a model I had met, but Tanya was different. She came to the Moore guesthouse, where I was staying with another chick. The minute I met Tanya I felt serious vibes—vibes that made me put down the pipe. Usually I passed the pipe to a woman who attracted me. I wanted her high as me. But I didn’t want Tanya high. I just wanted her, yet I didn’t make a move. We simply sat on my bed and talked for hours. Something about the sincerity in her voice, something about the sweetness in her eyes, something about the innocence of her personality—I was straight-up smitten. In the world of jaded Hollywood, she wasn’t jaded at all. She lived with her mom. She didn’t curse. She didn’t badmouth anyone. She was pure.