by Tina Turner
The evening was off to a funny start when we left the hotel. Fans on bicycles followed our car all the way to the theater, hoping to persuade me to sign autographs. I managed to do one or two, a struggle since my stroke, then passed through the crowds surrounding the Aldwych.
I was so surprised when people stood and applauded as I walked into the theater. I felt a little shy because all I could think of was Why are you applauding me? I’m not the one who’s going to be onstage! Ultimately, I understood that the audience was telling me “It’s your life and tonight we are celebrating it.” There was not one empty seat, and I was happy to see some familiar faces in the house, from Rod Stewart (looking every bit the gentleman rock star) and Mark Knopfler, to our dear friends from Switzerland.
I sat down, trying to prepare myself mentally and emotionally for the show. Lights down, curtain up, and then came the sound I know as well as my own breath—Nam-myoho-renge-kyo—the Buddhist chant that is as much a part of me as my name. The first number, “Nutbush City Limits” (which, you remember, is the song I wrote), got the show off to a rousing, foot-stomping start.
How strange to see the people in my life as characters—Mama Georgie, my grandmother—love that you’re with me tonight! My mother, my sister, my children, Rhonda, Roger, and, of course, Ike. And Erwin, my husband, the character onstage and the real man sitting beside me, ready to squeeze my hand at my first sign of discomfort.
No matter how many times I’d imagined the various scenes in my mind, there was no way to anticipate the experience of watching my life performed onstage. I felt the substance of every word, yet entire scenes and whole songs passed by in an instant. Some moments stood out, one especially, because, in retrospect, it turned out to be a major turning point in my life—the first time I imagined a world without Ike.
Listening to “River Deep—Mountain High,” I realized that it is more than just a song for me: it’s an anthem. When I started working with Phil Spector, and heard him say, “Just the melody, Tina,” I saw that there could be another way of singing—another way of living. I didn’t know it at the time because I couldn’t see into the future, but I came out of that collaboration transformed, with a taste of independence, an unaccustomed sense of self-worth, and an audience in Europe, where they embraced the song that America didn’t know how to appreciate. After that song, a line was drawn. Never again would I settle for Ike’s way, because I knew better, and I wanted more.
“River Deep—Mountain High” was a high point in my life, and it’s a high point in the show, imaginatively staged by Phyllida and powerfully performed by Adrienne. I was transported and I think the rest of the audience was, too.
I think people were most curious about how I would react to the scenes of domestic violence that are an integral part of my story. Even I wondered how they would make me feel. I can tell you that thinking about the past still has the power to give me bad dreams. I still haven’t seen the movie What’s Love Got to Do with It. My feelings about Ike were raw and unresolved when the movie came out and I’ve never gone back. Would I have an easier time watching the musical?
The last time I’d contemplated my past I was in a clinic in Switzerland, sitting in a chair covered in antiseptic plastic and hooked up to a dialysis machine. I was uncertain about everything—my health, my future. But, at the opening in London, I watched my past unfold from the comfort of a plush velvet seat, the best in the house. I’m in a different place now, literally and figuratively—a different seat, and a different state of mind.
It’s my story, but it’s not me. When something bad is happening on the stage, it can’t hurt me.
So I sat there and enjoyed it from afar. People expected me to cry. Instead, I was sitting there laughing. It wasn’t funny, but it was strange, uncanny, you might say.
I practically did a double-take when Kobna Holdbrook-Smith came out onstage as Ike. It was as if Ike had come from the grave and stepped into that boy’s body perfectly. Not only did he look just like Ike, he behaved just like him, too, with his exact speech and mannerisms. That’s why I reacted so unexpectedly.
I have finally accepted my past, and I’m very happy that I can even laugh about it every now and then. I’m proud that my legacy is in such good hands. So much talent, energy, and heart is on that stage. Adrienne’s transformation from a naïve country girl to a powerful woman is a sight to behold. And the end of the show is pure magic. “Tina” walks to the front of the stage, speaks directly to the audience, and announces that there’s more to come. Then she leads a full rock band into an electrifying encore, just like I always closed my concerts. In a split second, Adrienne and Tina become one.
When the opening night audience heard the introductory chords to “Proud Mary,” men, women, and even critics jumped to their feet and stayed there. I felt like I was back in the sanctified church. Everyone had the spirit, singing, clapping along, swaying to the beat. The applause continued when Adrienne led me to the stage to greet the people. I felt overwhelmed by their love and goodwill. And I had a special message for them.
Looking at Adrienne with admiration, I told the audience that now that I had found my replacement, I could truly retire. And I meant it.
Looking at Kobna Holdbrook-Smith, but seeing Ike, I told them, “I forgive him.” And I meant that, too.
Before I spoke my final words, I thought about the evening, about the long road I traveled from Nutbush to this theater in London—all that I went through, from the beginning of little Anna Mae, all the way to here. And I thought, I am blessed.
Like the sweet and spunky child in the show, I had entered the world unloved, but I went on.
I lived through a hellish marriage that almost destroyed me, but I went on.
I faced disappointment and failure because of gender, age, color, and all the other obstacles fate placed in my path, but I went on.
I found happiness with Erwin, but as you now know, I almost lost everything . . . until love saved me. And still I go on.
My parting words to the audience that night—and my parting words to you—express the way I feel about the story of my life. Remembering the old Buddhist expression, I said, “It is possible to turn poison into medicine.”
I can look back and understand why my karma was the way it was. Good came out of bad. Joy came out of pain. And I have never been so completely happy as I am today.
It took every bit of strength I had to get through my son Craig’s memorial service. The worst thing any parent can experience is the loss of a child. (Personal collection)
AFTERWORD
* * *
CRAIG RAYMOND TURNER 1958–2018
“Hello, dear. I just want to hear your voice and that laugh of yours.” I smiled when my son Craig said that to me because we always joked about how he called me “dear.” Who calls their mother “dear”?
Our conversation didn’t seem remarkable at the time—just the usual mother/son telephone catch-up. It was late June. Craig was in Los Angeles. I was home in Zurich. We were looking forward to his upcoming visit in August, when we planned to celebrate his sixtieth birthday. There were nights when we’d settle in for a really long conversation, sometimes watching an entire movie while we were on the phone (and making funny comments the whole time). But this wasn’t one of them.
Craig told me that he’d met a woman who made him feel like he hadn’t felt in years. “Mother, I’m really happy,” he said. I was so pleased for him because I worried that he spent too much time alone. He also said that he was on his way to a chanting meeting, which was another positive thing. Chanting opens up the mind, the heart, and the spirit. In closing, he added, “You know you give me courage. You give me really good advice.” Our affectionate words and casual banter seemed absolutely routine, making what happened just a few weeks later all the more shocking . . .
July 3, 2018, promised to be a really good day. Erwin and I were celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary and I felt strong enough to travel to Paris to attend my friend
Giorgio Armani’s fashion show. My recovery after my kidney transplant had been so difficult, so up and down, that I welcomed the chance to do something lighthearted. We had dinner with friends and spent the evening laughing and talking. By the time Erwin and I got back to the hotel, I was tired and ready for bed.
Erwin checked our messages and played one from our accountant regarding Craig that began with: “Turn off the speaker.” He did, then disappeared into the next room to listen alone. And I thought, Oh, what’s Craig gotten himself into now? I figured that he’d wrecked the car, or was in some bit of trouble like that.
But when Erwin came back, he was clearly shaken. He told me that Craig was dead. Not from an accident, the one thing a nervous mother always imagines. No, my son had committed suicide—he shot himself. I heard Erwin’s words, but I didn’t really understand their meaning. I froze. This can’t be true, I prayed. I don’t remember what happened next. What I thought or felt. There were tears and cries of disbelief. A stabbing pain in my heart. A night of raw emotion. And then questions, endless questions. Why, why, why?
I’ll be honest with you. I’m certainly trying to be honest with myself. Craig was a troubled soul. I can still see him as a little boy, no more than two or three, wanting so badly to sit with me when I came home from a tour, but being told by Ike to go to his room. I’m sure in his little mind he didn’t have any words to explain how much he wanted his mother, or his sense of loss, when I couldn’t be with him. It wasn’t my choice. It was the way we made our living. And of course, just when he got used to having me around, it was time for me to leave, and that meant being alone again. Mother always gone. It didn’t matter if he stayed with my sister, my mother, or a trusted sitter. Craig didn’t want them: he wanted me.
I think these memories stuck with Craig throughout his life. When he got older, and I was performing on my own, I tried to keep him close, even taking him on the road with me. But Craig had trouble fitting in because he wanted to be his own boss. I think that’s when he began drinking. Eventually. he started attending AA meetings and he seemed to find them helpful. Unfortunately, his feelings of loneliness and insecurity always came back.
When Craig visited me in France, and later in Switzerland, he’d get quiet and sad when it was time for him to go back to Los Angeles. He’d say, “Here comes that feeling again,” meaning loneliness. Whenever he brought it up, I tried to be supportive. I’d tell him “Okay, darling. If you feel that way you have to do something about it—find someone, live with them, marry them. You have to try to forget what happened in the past. Your life is changing now.” I wanted him to remember how my life changed after I left Ike, how everything got better. He told me he was working on it and I believed him.
I thought he was making progress, especially after he said he was happy with his new job, his girlfriend, and his home, which he had just redecorated. Why, at this point in his life, did the darkness take over? Maybe he had gone back to drinking—apparently there were empty liquor bottles in the house when he died. Maybe that’s what made him pull the trigger. I didn’t even know he had a gun. I asked my younger son, Ronnie, where it came from. The terrible irony is that it belonged to Muh. She kept a gun, and when she died, Craig took it to his house and held on to it for all those years. I guess he thought he might want to use it one day.
I was shocked by the amount of planning that went into his suicide. The thought was there. Then the preparation. Then he did it. He wrote notes—he said that he loved me, he left instructions for his funeral, and he made bequests.
I arranged for a small, private service in Los Angeles for family and a few close friends. I didn’t want anything public, with press and spectators. I wanted to remember Craig as he was, not focus on the way he died. The room was filled with beautiful pictures of him, with his easy smile, and gorgeous white flowers. Craig served in the navy after he graduated from high school. Because he was a veteran with an honorable discharge, he received full military honors at his funeral, including the presentation of the American flag and the playing of “Taps.” I was so moved by these tributes and I kept thinking how proud he would have been to be honored that way. We ended the memorial by going out on a boat to spread his ashes at sea, just as we did for my mother and my sister. I threw a single rose into the water as my final goodbye.
I wanted just a few of Craig’s things to remind me of him. His glasses—because I always teased him about the funny way he wore them on his nose. And the pictures he took whenever he came to visit me. I’m going to make a little shrine in my chanting room so he can be with me during my quiet times. I’m still trying to keep him close. He was fifty-nine when he died, but he’ll always be my baby.
I know I’ll get through this, somehow. I’m strong. I wish I could have passed on some of my strength to Craig, or that he could have found it in himself.
But what I really want is to hear my son call me “dear” again.
Here we are, the happy couple, cruising the Mediterranean on the Lady Marina, and celebrating our engagement. (Personal collection)
My painful memories of failing at the board at the Flagg Grove School have been transformed since the building became the Tina Turner Museum—turning poison into medicine. (Mauritius Images)
Can you find me? I’m in the second row, a happy member of the basketball team at Carver High School in Brownsville, Tennessee. (Personal collection)
I’m so serious in my high school graduation picture, which was taken in St. Louis in 1958. I remember feeling very grown-up in my sweater and fitted skirt. (Personal collection)
My sister Alline (left), my mother, Zelma (center), and me (right), looking happy and sophisticated in the late 1950s. I had just started singing with Ike. (Personal collection)
The Ikettes—Robbie Montgomery, Jessie Smith, and Venetta Fields—all smiles and legs. We had such a good time together. (Getty Images)
My first publicity shot with Ike in 1960. I was pregnant with our son Ronnie at the time. (Personal collection)
Gowns look glamorous, but it’s really hard to dance in one! After I wore this elegant evening dress at a show in Dallas in 1964, I ripped it open to the knee so I could move. (Getty Images)
Boys being boys . . . Craig (left) and Ronnie (right), playing and posing in our house in Los Angeles in 1962. (Personal collection)
A classic portrait in 1964 with one of my early self-styled wigs. (Getty Images)
My musical revelation—in the sound booth at the Gold Star studio, recording “River Deep—Mountain High” for Phil Spector in 1966. (Getty Images)
Sitting with Phil Spector, who looks like quite a dandy in his vest and pocket watch, plotting another take of “River Deep—Mountain High.” (Getty Images)
A funny studio shot that was used for the cover of Get It—Get It, an album we recorded in 1966. (Getty Images)
Las Vegas, with the great Sammy Davis, Jr., in 1968. (Getty Images)
Our family portrait in 1972. (Getty Images)
I’m proud Tina, holding our 1971 Grammy for “Proud Mary,” Best R & B Vocal Performance by a Group! (William R. Eastabrook Photography)
Performing with Ike in London in 1971. (Getty Images)
Ann-Margret and I had so much fun filming her television special in London in 1974. (Archive Rhonda Graam)
On my own and feeling wonderful in this dress designed by the one and only Bob Mackie for my new solo act. (Harry Langdon)
It was funny the way everyone called me an “overnight sensation,” when I had been working since I was a teenager, but I was thrilled to celebrate my new success with this Rolling Stone cover in 1984. (Cover photo by Steven Meisel from Rolling Stone dated October 11, 1984. © Rolling Stone)
“Tonight,” the magical duet I sang with David Bowie on the Private Dancer tour in 1985. (Getty Images)
The night everything changed—after the fateful show at the Ritz, with David Bowie, Keith Richards, and tennis star John McEnroe, in 1983. (Bob Gruen)
Mick Jagger and I alwa
ys knew how to play onstage. This is right before he teasingly pulled off my leather miniskirt—one designed by my friend Azzedine Alaïa, no less—and shocked the Live Aid audience in 1985. (Getty Images)
Up close and eye to eye with Mick Jagger at Live Aid. (Getty Images)
Holding on to my three Grammys for dear life at the award ceremony in 1985. What’s Love Got to Do with It? won for Record of the Year and Best Female Pop Vocal Performance, and “Better Be Good to Me” won for Best Female Rock Vocal Performance. (Personal collection)
I loved the way I looked as Aunty Entity in Beyond Thunderdome, my Mad Max experience in 1985. (imago stock & people GmbH)
Singing “It’s Only Love” with Bryan Adams during our 1985 tour. (action press)
With Mark Knopfler, the musical genius behind the song “Private Dancer,” in 1986. (Getty Images)
Looking a little naughty and nice on the cover of Private Dancer. (Alamy, Capitol Records)