by Rick James
The legal wars were the last thing in the world I wanted. Those wars had nearly done me in. Besides that, I had nearly spent all the Motown settlement money and was on the verge of going broke again. I was counting on that $850,000 to sustain my lifestyle. Now Benny fuckin’ Medina was telling me I’d have to abandon my spiritual music for something sexy and street.
I didn’t know what to do. In the Bible, Christ told one rich guy to give up all his worldly possessions; he also told his disciples that it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get to heaven. Maybe I was meant to disown this world of dope and flesh, money and fame. Maybe this was the final crossroads. Stick up for God and stick it to the record execs. The record execs had no idea what my soul required. They merely wanted profits. But I had read Mark 8:36, which says, “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul.” I didn’t want to lose my soul. I wanted to do the music I wanted to do.
And yet I caved. I submitted to man, not to God. I wanted the money more than integrity. As much as I loathed Benny Medina, I submitted to his demands. In essence I said, “Give me the check and I’ll give you the music you want.” Plain and simple, I sold out. And within a month of changing up those lyrics and rewriting those tracks, I broke up with Lisa, cut off communication with Liz, and was back sucking the glass dick.
WONDERFUL/HORRIBLE
You blame Benny Medina?” asks Brotha Guru when I tell him the story of how I turned from God.
“I blame the system,” I say.
“The system that made you rich? The same system you embraced since you first tried to get a record deal?”
“I wanted to use that system to do God’s work.”
“Aren’t there dozens of Christian labels you could have approached? Isn’t gospel music a big business as well—an entire system of its own?”
“I’m sure it is, but I didn’t know it.”
“And chose not to learn it.”
“I had a deal with Warner.”
“And wanted that Warner money.”
“I already told you that I did.”
“So it’s not the system that did you in. You used the system’s insistence that you honor your contract as an excuse to go out and get loaded again.”
“Damn right.”
“It was either one thing or the other. Heaven or hell.”
“I could never get in heaven, not with what I’d done. So I chose hell.”
“Willingly,” says Brother Guru.
“Free will is a motherfucker,” I say. “It’s a setup for the devil to grab your ass and keep you in his grip.”
“I don’t see it that way, Rick.”
Brotha Guru always has a different way of seeing things. He likes to put a different spin on the ball.
“What does it look like to you?” I ask.
“You wanted to see how far down you could go. For a hot minute you felt the joy of what it was like serving the higher power. But then when you saw an out, you took it. You saw a chance to serve the lower power. In a weird way, I think you felt more comfortable in the devil’s playground. The devil had you convinced that’s where you really belong. You believed his lie that said you didn’t really deserve to be anywhere else.”
I have to accept Brotha Guru’s words because they closely correspond to exactly what I was feeling at the time. I did want to test the limits of evil. In the battle between the spirit and the flesh, the flesh clearly won. Wasn’t even a close contest. To think otherwise would be bullshit. I was through bullshitting myself. If I was meant to be Satan’s servant, then I’d go ahead and worship the motherfucker. Besides, Satan was offering what I wanted most: crack and pussy.
Under the influence, I went back and rewrote the songs and called the record Wonderful. The circumstances under which I cut those tracks, though, were horrible. I was back to my old tricks, and the songs themselves—“Sexual Luv Affair,” “So Tight,” “In the Girls’ Room,” “Love’s Fire”—were soaked in smoke and sex. The one hit off the record, “Loosey’s Rap,” is about a “freaky thang who’s exotic, erotic, and X-rated.”
I did everything that Warner wanted; I gave the label the tried-and-true Rick James. I wanted their bread; I wanted the biggest album of my career. For the album cover, I had my designer custom-sew a flowery suit and cape with matching wide-brimmed hat. With a wink to Prince, the basic color of the cover was purple. Around my neck I wore two symbols—a diamond-crusted cross and a diamond-crusted twelve-step triangle surrounded by a circle with “Rick” written at the bottom.
The album reached gold but never made it to platinum. I was disappointed. Some writers said that certain tracks, like “Loosey’s Rap,” were reminiscent of Prince. That hurt me to the quick since I was still convinced that Prince got his shit off me—not vice versa.
I did a second Warner album they never bothered to release. The label didn’t think it measured up. That kind of criticism threw me into a deep funk. I was told that both my fan base and my creative powers were dwindling. Cats like Richard Perry tried to lift my spirits. He did a compilation called Rock, Rhythm and Blues comprised of jams from back in day reinterpreted by artists like Chaka and Mike McDonald. Perry had me sing “This Magic Moment” and “Dance with Me,” old Drifters hits. I loved doing them and, for a moment, thought maybe I could get back my glow back.
When MC Hammer came out with “U Can’t Touch This,” I had to sue him to get writer’s credit. He didn’t merely sample me; he used the hook and heart of my song. I won the suit and wound up making a lot of money, but that took a lot of time. “U Can’t Touch This” was one of the biggest hits of all time and, ironically, won me my only Grammy for best R & B song, an award I shared with MC and Alonzo Miller. I liked the recognition, but that didn’t keep my spirits from sinking.
Seeing how far I was falling, friends rallied around me. Jan Gaye, who was successful in sobriety, valiantly tried to get me back into the twelve steps. Jim Brown practically kidnapped me. He had the Muslims talking to me; he had the reformed Crips and Bloods talking to me. Lisa and Liz kept calling me and speaking of grace. I heard all these people. I thanked them all. But I stayed loaded anyway.
Then came word that Mom was dealing with terminal cancer. I didn’t want to hear that; I didn’t want to believe that; I tried my best to hide from that fact. I flew Mom out to L.A. but wouldn’t let her in my bedroom, where the windows were covered with aluminum and the crack pipes were on full display. Sometimes we’d talk in the kitchen and sometimes in the living room, but to be honest, I avoided her. Even though I had sent for her, the reality of seeing her sick was too much for me.
One night she came to my bedroom and knocked on the door.
“I know what you’re doing in there, James,” she said. “You ain’t hiding nothing from me.”
I knew she knew, but I still didn’t want her in.
“I know you, son. I know you’re trying to kill yourself so you can die before me.”
Those words penetrated my heart like an arrow. She was right. I was trying to OD so I wouldn’t have to face her death.
“Can we talk about it, James?” she asked.
I cracked open the door.
“I can’t, Mom, I can’t talk, I can’t look at you, I can’t look at myself. All I can say is that I love you.”
“I love you too, son, but I’m not doing you any good in L.A. I’m going home.”
I didn’t try to stop her. That’s how we said good-bye—with the door barely cracked open. No kisses, no hugs.
With Mom gone, there was nothing to keep me from descending into the lowest level of hell. That meant orgies. That meant sadomasochism. That even meant bestiality. I was the Roman emperor Caligula. I was the Marquis de Sade.
Beyond the crack, I was ingesting seven or eight Halcion a day. I was losing my memory and walking around in a hypnotic state. I was in that state when Tanya—the woman I loved so deeply—came to rescue me. She said our love would save us. Our
love would set us free. I wanted to believe her, but I also wanted her to share my pipe. If I couldn’t raise myself out of this circle of hell where I was dwelling, I wanted her to join me there.
And she did. She succumbed to the madness that surrounded me. The madness was nothing short of murderous. The details are foggy, but one woman brought another woman to our crack den. She looked like a hooker and I wanted her. Within fifteen minutes of meeting, we were fucking on the floor. She not only loved fucking, she loved crack, she loved having her pussy eaten and loved eating pussy herself. She had come to the right place.
She stayed for many weeks. She was part of the sex circus that had become my life. When she left she went back to her pimp, who was pissed that she hadn’t brought him any of my money. He beat her and burned her with a pipe. She came back to us looking half-dead. Out of the kindness of her heart, Tanya drove her to the emergency room in my Jaguar.
That night I had a funny feeling that we were in trouble. For the first time in months, I decided to clean up my place—vacuum the carpets, dump out the drugs and all the drug paraphernalia. That same night the cops—some thirty of them—broke down our door and put shotguns to our heads. Tanya was hysterical. I was cool. I’d seen it coming. The officials had written down the license of my Jag when Tanya brought the chick to the ER. They claimed that it was me and Tanya who had beaten her. We were charged with assault. My bail was a million; Tanya’s was set at seven hundred fifty thousand.
We spent a week in filthy county jail doing a hard detox. On the eighth day I was able to post bail for both of us. That’s the day Penny called to say that Mom was dying. The court let me fly to Buffalo.
When Tanya and I arrived, the whole family was gathered around Mom’s bed. Even my brother William, still serving a jail sentence, was there. He stood in shackles, a guard on either side of him.
I asked if everyone would leave so I could be alone with my mother. They granted me that courtesy. Even though Mom could no longer speak, her eyes said that she recognized me. Her eyes began to tear before she drifted in and out of consciousness. I felt that the evil of my life had somehow brought all this on. Because I had turned my back on God, God was punishing me by taking my precious mother. I began sobbing like a baby. Tanya came in to comfort me. She whispered that it was time for me to leave. I reached down, took Mom’s rosary, and hung it around my neck.
A few minutes later, as I sat in the waiting room, word came that Mom was gone. I went back to see her, kiss her forehead, and speak one more time the words “I love you.” Her face had a peaceful expression, and I knew she’d gone to a better place.
The funeral was huge. The press came looking for me. Paparazzi were everywhere. I was too broken up to speak. Cousin Louis Stokes delivered the eulogy. I was lost in a fog of grief. Mom was gone—the person I loved most in the world. The person who’d seen me come up from nothing and go back to nothing. How I hated that on her last trip to California I was too cracked out to leave my bedroom! How I hated that I had disappointed her! All that faith she had in me—and what I did do but squander my talent! I knew she was a forgiving soul, but the shit I’d done went way beyond forgiveness. “So,” said the demon inside me, “you might as well do some more.”
THE BLOOD ROOM
Before the room with the blood splattered on the walls, before the busted mirrors and shattered furniture, the vomit stains on the clothes that had been ripped in a moment of madness, the crack pipe burns on the couch, the half-eaten food rotting on the floor—before all this, the aftermath of a seven-day binge—there was our last-gasp rehab.
Our lawyers had said the obvious—we needed to be clean for our court date. We went to different rehabs—Tanya’s was in the Valley, mine was at the beach—though I flipped out and had to be restrained. I couldn’t stand to be away from Tanya and demanded she and I go through rehab together. The lawyers thought that might impress the judge. I got my way and we were both sent to a facility in Marina del Rey. On our first night a friend came to visit. He replaced the batteries in his beeper with rocks and got us loaded. Tanya got too high and flipped out. She was put in the psych ward for thirty days. From there the two of us went to a clean-living house, where we managed to stay straight.
Before our trial came up, I took Tanya and her mom on vacation to Maui. On our way to meet her mom at LAX, Tanya and I decided to stop at the corner of Argyle and Yucca, a hot Hollywood spot for dope deals. We wanted to buy some rocks and get blasted before the plane took off. We stopped at the corner when the boys jumped out and provided curb service. I bought eight rocks for about eighty bucks. Just as we pulled away from the curb, a couple of guys jumped out of their car and headed our way, their guns pointed at our heads. I guessed that they were plainclothes cops. Tanya began crying hysterically. She didn’t want to go back to jail, and neither did I. So before the guy reached our car I turned my head and swallowed all eight rocks.
They took the car apart and didn’t find anything.
“I know you bought something,” one of the cops said. “I saw the transaction.”
“I was just comparison-shopping,” I said. “Just checking on prices. I didn’t buy a thing.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
And with that, the cops took the car apart again. When nothing showed up, they had to let us go.
Hawaii was cool and we were finally able to relax. No drugs. This marked a new period of sobriety. We learned that Tanya was pregnant, another motivation to stay clean. The birth of our son, Taz, was one of the great events of both our lives. Taz was my third child. While I had been too crazed and self-absorbed to stay really involved with my first two kids, I was determined to break that pattern with my third. I wanted to be there for him. He was, after all, the manifestation of the great love Tanya and I shared. We had to do better for him. We had no choice.
Or did we?
Some months after Taz’s birth, Tanya and I broke up. We decided that the love between us might be too powerful. The love was so strong it was toxic. When we were together, our combined spirits yearned for not only excessive physical passion but the insane passion of the pipe. We had to stay apart. We couldn’t stay apart. We’d break up to make up and wound up in hotel room after hotel room, swearing we’d never see each other again, swearing we’d never leave each other again, swearing that we’d find a way out of the heavenly hell that was the domain of rock cocaine.
This pattern continued for months. Tanya became pregnant again, thus strengthening our bond. We wanted to celebrate and figured the best way was to rent a suite at the St. James, an art deco hotel on Sunset that symbolized the refined taste of old Hollywood. We would be refined; we would be restrained. For a few short hours we simply enjoyed the luxurious surroundings. Then the crack man called. Did we want a delivery?
No.
Yes.
No.
Well, why not?
The crack man arrived with a large supply. Thus began the weeklong deluge. We became happy, sad, sane, crazy, crazier, and craziest. A man came to see us. Probably a dealer. I can’t remember. He sat across the room from me as I sucked up the crack. I started seeing him as Satan. I saw terrible evil behind his eyes. I sucked up more crack and suddenly he looked like God’s only begotten son. His aura was all sweetness and light. He had a halo around his head. I pictured him playing a harp. I asked him to pray for me. When my request confused him, I suddenly saw the evil again. The halo was gone. He was there to rob and kill me. I kicked his ass out. That happened with not just him but many others who came by to see us as we slowly but surely tore apart our luxurious suite at the St. James hotel.
The visitor who helped bring me to my absolute rock bottom was a woman I’ll call M. This was the bottom I had been reaching for, a bottom so low, so demoralizing, so absolutely destructive that not even I, with my conniving sense of survival, could dig my way out of it. This was the bloody tragic bottom that sponsors and counselors had been predicting for years. This was what I had been looking for
, living for, dying for—the single act that would let me and the world know that I had come to the end of my rope, certain proof that I was beyond any and all redemption.
I saw M as someone with business sense. I saw her as someone who could facilitate my fucked-up half-baked notion of starting a record label. She entered our suite as an angel surrounded by light. After an hour or so of her disagreeing with me about my business plans, I saw her as a devil of darkness. Tanya began arguing with her as well. Their argument became vicious, then violent. She kicked pregnant Tanya in the stomach. M swung at me. I punched her face and proceeded to beat the shit out of her.
The beating I gave her was brutal. I have no excuses. I was bigger and stronger and I unmercifully unloaded on her. When I came to my senses, I helped her off the floor. Blood was everywhere. Her eyes were blackened. Her skin was bruised. She looked like she’d been run over by a truck.
“Sorry,” was all I could say. “I got some more rock if you want some.”
I offered her the peace pipe. She grabbed it and sucked it up like it was her mama’s tit. And for the next two days, she, Tanya, and I smoked our brains out. Thanks to my ample supply of crack, we rebonded. It was as though the violence never happened.
When we finally left our suite at the St. James and went to Agoura, where Tanya’s parents were living, we crashed. I felt like I could sleep for a hundred years. Can’t say how much time passed before Tanya woke me and said, “M’s on the phone.”
“What does that bitch want?” I asked.
“You talk to her,” said Tanya.
“I want what’s coming to me,” M said when I got on the phone.
“I’ll give you what’s coming to you, bitch,” I said.
“I could have died up in there. I can bring assault charges—and don’t think I won’t.”
“No one asked you up to our suite. No one told you to smoke our shit. No one told you to attack my old lady. Bring up whatever charges you want.”