by Rick James
“Can you come back and visit me tomorrow?” I asked her.
“I’d love to. I love talking to you.”
True to her word, she returned and we spent the entire day just talking. No getting high. No sex. Just two souls getting to know each other.
Strange, but after that second day I let her go. I didn’t call her, I didn’t pursue the relationship. I’m not sure why. Maybe I didn’t want to corrupt her. Maybe it was something like my feeling for Princess Elizabeth, only chronologically reversed. The princess was much older than me and Tanya much younger, but in both I saw beautiful human beings deserving of something better than the dark life I was living.
I met Tanya during the period when legal warfare with Motown had me on edge. I was trapped in a position where even if I did make new music, there was no way to put it out. All the majors wanted me, but until my battles with Berry were over, no one would touch me. I needed to concentrate on resolving the disputes and getting back to work, and the last thing I needed was the distraction of a serious love affair.
And yet “love” was the word. More than a light infatuation, more than a slight curiosity, it was love that I felt for Tanya. In spite of that love, I withdrew. I went back to Buffalo, back to my mother and the security of her always-calm presence. Surprisingly, Tanya came to visit me there. I was touched but also alarmed. We still hadn’t made love, I still hadn’t introduced her to the pipe, and I still hadn’t declared my true feelings for her. I wanted to avoid a deep relationship, yet I was overjoyed to see her.
My daughter, Ty, was in Buffalo at the time. Ty was the same age as Tanya. How would they handle that? They handled it well. They met; they got along; they had no problems relating to each other.
How would I handle that? My love interest was the exact contemporary of my daughter. On one hand that made me feel strange. It gave me pause about pursuing the relationship with Tanya. But on the other hand love is an ageless thing. When you fall, you fall.
I was falling. I still kept the pipe away from Tanya, but we did make love. She wasn’t a virgin but she also wasn’t experienced. I wasn’t into teaching her the fine art of fucking. I used her inexperience as an excuse to stop the affair before it started. I couldn’t take on someone this young; I couldn’t take on a student. I sent her back to Hollywood. She left with no hard feelings. She said she loved me. I was about to say I loved her but I stopped myself. Inside my heart, though, I spoke those words. I knew that I loved her deeply.
The next time I flew out to L.A. I saw Tanya at a club. She had changed. She no longer looked innocent. Her hair was teased; her makeup was heavy; her outfit was over-the-top provocative. She’d gone Hollywood. I hated to see that. I knew that wasn’t her true nature but I still restrained myself from getting involved.
Then came the call from a friend saying that Tanya had moved to Las Vegas. The thought of her working in Vegas hurt me. But my head was in charge; my head was saying let her be.
My head was also saying that I needed money. The lawsuits had stopped my income flow. My savings had been squandered on drugs. So when Merete Van Kamp told me that her new boyfriend, some rich old Frenchman, was willing to give me fifty thousand dollars to write and produce three songs on her, I agreed. I promised her boyfriend that if she came to Buffalo to record, I would concentrate on music, not sex. I gave him my word that I wouldn’t fuck her.
Merete wasn’t interested in my keeping my word. She wanted me, and it didn’t take long to bring out my freak. We got fucked-up on drugs and did it on my living room floor. Two animals in heat. I felt guilty. Not only was I going behind her old man’s back, but it was her old man who was financing me. I called the cat in France and confessed. He said not to worry. He understood the situation. He couldn’t have cared less.
When we finished the production, which wasn’t half-bad, Merete flew back to Hollywood. I realized that, beyond the music and the drugs and the wild sex on the floor, I had deep feelings for her. I’d see her again, but our love never blossomed. The love that did blossom, though, was the love I felt for Tanya. I thought of her during the day and dreamed of her at night. What was she doing in Vegas? Why wasn’t she calling me? Shouldn’t I go out there to see her?
Time was flying by. Years had passed without a new Rick James product in the marketplace. The lawyers kept doing what lawyers do—building up their hourly charges on all sorts of bullshit. When I asked for them to explain their bills, I never understood a fuckin’ word they said. But what choice did I have? I had to pursue these suits so I could be free from Motown. I couldn’t give up. I also couldn’t stop believing that the fates had turned against me. I started feeling like a victim. I couldn’t face the fact that I and I alone had created this situation. It was easier to blame someone else. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was look in the mirror.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
As I approached the year 1988 and my fortieth birthday, I didn’t want to take stock. I didn’t want to admit that I was broke. I didn’t want to remember that I gave my brother Roy power of attorney after my second stint in rehab because I no longer trusted myself with money. I didn’t want to believe Roy when he said all my funds were exhausted. I didn’t want to accept the fact that he—and most everyone I knew—would give me no money, believing that it would go for drugs (as it surely would have). I didn’t want to see myself as a man living off women. And yet I was.
To keep up with my legal bills, I sold my Rolls and Excalibur. I desperately wanted to maintain my image, but that wasn’t easy. I was living at a fancy French-style hotel in Hollywood where the management was about to kick me out because of unpaid bills. What would homelessness do to my image? I had to turn to women friends.
With her income from modeling and money from her rich French boyfriend, Merete paid up my hotel bill in L.A. when the management threatened to throw me out. Eventually Merete moved me into her hillside mansion while Frenchie was back in Paris. There were maids and butlers, and although broke as a bum, I was still living like a king.
My next enabler was a wonderful woman I’ll call Madam Fine. She might have been a few years older than me, but she looked younger. She was a lifesaver. At the time I was suffering from cocaine dick. That’s when blow makes an erection impossible. Months had passed since my last hard-on. Madam Fine changed all that. In her beautiful presence, I was good to go. And we went for hours.
Madam Fine was also a brilliant businesswoman who’d gained financial independence by virtue of her shrewdness. She had two daughters—sixteen and twenty-one—and was even a grandmother. I called her “Ma” and she called me “Dad.” We became obsessed with each other. We’d get high and fuck in dark closets. We’d get kinky crazy for days on end. Madam Fine spent so much time with me that she eventually lost her business. But that didn’t stop her. She talked her way into a big-time corporate gig, making sure to take care of me all the while. I’ve known hustlers my entire life, but none as classy as Madam Fine.
I was on the outs with my brother Roy because I thought he was withholding my money. I was on the outs with my sister Penny because she wouldn’t loan me a dime. I got so mad at Penny that I pushed her down on the ground, just as I had shoved Mom. I was fucked-up when I did it, but that’s no excuse. Being high brought out a devil in me, but being high and broke brought a double devil.
Back in Buffalo, there were only three people I felt I could trust—Mom; Linda Hunt, my loyal assistant; and Mildred, my cook. These women would never leave me, no matter how down-and-out I might be. They were bottom-line protectors. It did get to the point where I couldn’t pay Linda and Mildred, but they stayed anyway. Mom kept saying that soon the legal nightmares would be over. She said it was just a matter of patience.
After years the suit was resolved and I had won, at least in my mind. I’d beaten Berry Gordy. Motown was offering me a huge settlement. In a matter of minutes, I’d gone from poor to rich. First thing I did was take Mom out for a lavish Christmas dinner. It was the time of year to co
unt my blessings.
I paid off the world—the ladies I’d borrowed from as well as my attorneys, whose bill was a cool half million. I broke out of my relationship with brother Roy. I decided family and business didn’t mix. I also decided that I needed a vacation.
Flew down to Coconut Grove and checked into the Mutiny, a hangout for international drug dealers. The hotel was about to close down for good and honored me as the last guest. Even after the official closing, they let me stay. I sent Madam Fine a first-class ticket to meet me, and for three days in the swanky Presidential Suite we fucked and doped our way into nirvana.
From nirvana I went to New York to visit the label chiefs who had been courting me. I started off with Clive Davis, supposedly the smartest of the lot. When I was shopping the Mary Jane Girls back in the day, Clive had passed. He didn’t hear any hits. I reminded him that he’d been wrong. He reminded me of all the hits he had scored—everyone from Janis Joplin to Barry Manilow. He also went on about how he had made Whitney Houston into a superstar. Strange, but all this time I thought it was Whitney’s voice that made her a star, not some stuffy executive sitting behind a desk. The problem with Clive was that his ego was bigger than mine—and that’s pretty fuckin’ big. Sure, he told me how great I was, but his praise for me went on for five minutes; his recitation of his own accomplishments went on for nearly two hours. I couldn’t take it anymore. I lost it when he was deep into a monologue where he claimed to have personally picked every one of Air Supply’s eight top-ten hits. Fuck Air Supply. I got up and left.
Next I met Bob Krasnow at Elektra, another cool character who wanted me on his label, but it wasn’t until I met Mo Ostin at Warner that I found the kind of father figure I needed. Mo was the opposite of Clive. No ego at all. He didn’t need to talk about himself. He wanted to hear about me. What concerns did I have about signing with Warner? My main concern was Prince. Warner was Prince’s label and I was afraid they’d give him more attention than me. Mo assured me that wouldn’t be the case. They’d give me all the promotional muscle I needed—and then some. They were completely committed to reviving my career and putting me back on top. When I asked him if he was worried about my reputation as a drug taker, he said no. He told me that he saw me as the kind of artist who always put his art first.
“I made a lot of hit records for Motown while I was on drugs,” I said.
“Give me half the number of hit records you gave Motown and I’ll be thrilled.”
That’s all I needed to hear. Mo was my man. I walked out of that meeting with a guarantee that Warner would pay $850,000 an album. For all the shit I’d been through, I could still demand big-time bread. Besides that, they were reviving their Reprise subsidiary, the label that put out Jimi Hendrix’s albums. I was honored to have my name associated with Jimi.
On my own, I had stopped basing. I was still smoking a little weed and snorting a little blow, but nothing compared to the past. I wanted my energy focused on making hits for Mo, who assigned Benny Medina as my A & R man. I’d known Benny when he was at Motown and had no problems with the brotha. Later, I’d have nothing but problems with the brotha.
Lisa Keeter was a sweet girlfriend of mine from back in the day in New York City. She was a fine white chick from down south. She described her mom as a serious Christian and her dad as a redneck. For a long while I was certain that she was the woman of my dreams and even proposed to her. She said that her father, seeing she was about to marry a black, would kill me first. I said I’d find a way to charm him; I told Lisa that he’d wind up hugging me and offering me a cup of coffee. “Not in this lifetime!” said Lisa.
Later in my lifetime, after I’d worked with Eddie Murphy, gone through my dark and dismal lawsuit, and fought my way back, I reconnected with Lisa. In spite of my pledge to stay off the pipe, I had a couple of slips. I was already late in completing my first Warner record and feared that my dope addiction was, once again, about to take me down.
Because Lisa was always a friend, I called her to voice my fears.
“You need to talk to Mom,” she said.
“I called to talk to you, Lisa.”
“I’m happy to talk to you all night, Rick, but Mom can help you. She really can.”
“Put her on the phone.”
Lisa was right. Liz, Lisa’s mom, had the power. She had the power of Christ. She spoke with such love and conviction that I felt my hard heart softening. She quoted scripture that said every bad thing I had done—every terrible sin, every evil wrong—could be washed away by the blood of the Lord. I could be forgiven. I could have all the guilt that weighed on me like concrete blocks lifted by the miraculous grace of God. Why was I fighting God?
I had no answer, so I kept listening to Liz. She explained that God wasn’t interested in punishing me. God was interested in saving me. This was so different from the God I had learned about as a little boy in Catholic school. That God frightened me. Liz said that the real God loved me.
“This is the good news of the gospel,” said Liz. “The good news of Christ. The bad news is all over. It’s over if you accept Christ into your heart.”
This was only the first of many conversations I had with Liz. The others were even better. I started praying, I started calling out the name of Jesus.
Miracle of miracles, my burden was lifted. I felt renewed, felt light, felt that I had, in fact, been forgiven. I read the Bible from start to finish. I studied the Word. I bought concordances that explained especially difficult passages. I read about the life of Christ. I came to see that he was the ultimate guru, a teacher who was God incarnate, a teacher whose message was love for all. Marvin Gaye had often spoken of Jesus and so had Stevie Wonder. But I’d been too high and haughty to really listen. Now I was ready for the transformation I had long sought.
Hardly a day passed that I didn’t speak to both Liz and Lisa—Liz for spiritual direction, Lisa for a romantic reconnection. I invited Lisa to visit me in Buffalo, and she did. I told her that the desire to get high was no longer there. I also told her I thought it more appropriate if we slept in separate rooms. She understood. I also told her that I wanted to go to North Carolina to speak with her mom in person. She reminded me that her dad was a bigot, but I reminded her that I already knew that and was convinced he’d embrace me.
Lisa and I flew to North Carolina, where—praise God!—my prediction came true. Her dad hugged me and even offered me a cup of coffee! He had seen how his wife had brought me to Christ. His prejudice had melted in the same way as my crack addiction. God’s love was overwhelming everything.
Liz was an even more powerful instrument of God in person. She took me outside, where, seated on their patio, we prayed. We thanked God for my deliverance and healing. She suggested I go to church with them and I gladly accepted. It was an integrated congregation, something I’d never seen before, where the Holy Ghost was strongly present. Folks were waving and shouting, crying and stomping. It was a beautiful thing. Most beautiful of all was speaking in tongues. Many people in that church had the gift. I wanted the gift. Congregants laid their hands on me and prayed that I’d be given the gift. I shut my eyes tight and felt something electric passing through me. I felt fantastic, but I still could not speak in tongues. Because speaking in tongues is proof that God is truly inside you, I couldn’t wait for that experience.
That night in my hotel room I kept praying for the gift. Must have prayed for hours. Discouraged, I finally went to bed, only to be awoken by some joker in the next room rambling so loud in a strange foreign language that he’d startled me awake. I was about to call security to bust him but I realized that the joker had been me. I’d been given the gift. Praise the holy name of Jesus!
I praised God, I proposed to Lisa, Lisa accepted, and suddenly I was the happiest man on earth.
I flew back to Buffalo to complete work on my album. I took Lisa and her parents with me for inspiration. The tracks flowed. The melodies poured out of me like fresh water. The lyrics seemed to be written
by God Himself. The lyrics were all about the glorification of God. Lisa, Liz, and Liz’s husband all wept when they heard the songs. I had no doubt that this was my best work. God had come into my life and now I would bring God into the life of others. Spread the Word. Spread the blessings. Spread love.
Benny Medina, representing Warner, came to Buffalo to hear what I’d done. At that time Benny was especially powerful. The Will Smith sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel Air was based on his life. Benny was one of the show’s producers. He was also Mo Ostin’s golden boy. He sat in my studio and listened to every song. When the music had played, he said one word, “cool,” before getting up to leave.
“That’s all you have to say?” I asked.
“Let me think about it and get back to you.”
Two weeks passed before he called from L.A.
“Warner doesn’t want that album,” Benny said. “That album is not Rick James.”
“What are you talking about, man? That album is Rick James, the Rick James who’s on fire for the Lord.”
“That’s not the Rick James we signed and promised eight hundred fifty thousand an album.”
“This is the album God wants me to make.”
“God isn’t paying you. We are. And we don’t intend to give you a cent if you don’t give us some music we can sell. We didn’t sign a gospel artist. We signed a secular artist—one of the sexiest secular artists who’s ever sung. If you want to collect your advance, you’re gonna have to deliver secular music. Short of that, it’s back to the legal wars.”