The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

  Pops was talking to them in Spanish, but I couldn’t understand him or what anyone was saying. I kept saying, “I’m only fifteen! I don’t do drugs!”

  Then, while Pops was being questioned, a female guard asked me to accompany her. I argued with her for a couple of minutes until she pulled out a gun and waved it in my face, repeating, “You come with me!” I looked across at Pops in terror. He asked them where they were taking me, and they showed him a room and he told me, “It’s okay, Sheila. Do as they ask.” I followed the guard and her female companion into the room, and they shut the door and informed me in broken English that they would be giving me a full-body search.

  I exploded with rage and fear. The tough little kid from Oakland fought back, yelling at them, “Oh, no, you’re not! I don’t have any drugs on me!”

  That’s when one of the guards pulled out a gun again and pointed it at my heart. There I was, separated from Pops, in a faraway country for the first time in my life, secluded in a room with strangers and a gun at my chest. As I watched in horror, the female guard stretched a surgical glove onto her right hand and informed me she was about to begin the search.

  Shaking violently all over, I began to sob. My legs buckled, and I begged her, “Please believe me! There are no drugs! Please don’t search me! Please!”

  I must have convinced her that I was telling the truth, because she looked at the other guard, spoke Spanish very quickly, and then pulled off the glove.

  Thank you, Jesus!

  She released me to join the rest of the band, who were all undergoing interrogation. I ran to Pops and refused to leave his side. I wouldn’t even use the bathroom and held it all in.

  The officials kept us for hours. They riffled through all our possessions and ripped the heels off all the treasured platform shoes we’d bought, searching for hidden rocks of cocaine. They didn’t find anything, thankfully, but they still declared that we couldn’t leave the country. They kept our equipment and told Pops he’d have to meet with a government official the next day to “negotiate” our release. Scared and confused, we went back to our hotel.

  Pops and I got up early the next morning and went to the government office as advised, but the officials refused to meet with us. They ignored us the next day too. Finally, late on the third day, they let us in and informed us that we’d have to pay ten thousand dollars to leave. Pops didn’t object and handed over most of the profit from the tour, eager to do whatever was required to get us home.

  I don’t think any of us exhaled until that plane lifted its wheels off Colombian soil. The Colombian officials kept our equipment for months before shipping it back to us, so not only did we not make any money on the tour, nobody had their instruments to play. The entire experience ruined my first big tour, and it took me a long while to get comfortable with international travel. As soon as the tools of our trade were returned to us, however, we went straight back on the road to earn the money we’d lost. And work we did. That next year flew by in a blur of gigs, but I can honestly say I loved every minute.

  What I didn’t love was having to split up with Tam when I officially left Grito to tour full-time. I really liked him, but he wasn’t the one for me and, musically, I needed to fly.

  Being in Azteca, surrounded by so many men and the vocalist Wendy Haas, was an unusual experience. Everyone was so much older than me, although I was very comfortable around them, having grown up right before their eyes.

  What was much more of a challenge was witnessing the many infidelities, especially as I knew that many of them had wives or girlfriends at home. There was a lot of drug abuse backstage, too, which had always made me uncomfortable, but I tried to ignore the negatives and focus on the positives.

  Besides, I was still so excited to be a part of the group, and I cared for them all deeply. Despite my lack of interest in joining some of their recreational activities, I still loved being with them and learning from them. I especially loved hearing their stories from the road or legendary recording sessions. I wanted to hear about the challenges and triumphs they’d faced in the industry.

  I may not have been learning anything academically, but my street-smarts IQ was shooting through the roof. In any event, the lessons I learned on the road were far more valuable than anything I could have learned in high school.

  Traveling with Pops over the next few years, we played big venues and little ones. Later on, Pops started playing tiny dive bars around the Bay Area like the Shell on Grand Lake, which had dark smoky rooms that smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. Aptly named, it was just a shell of a club.

  On any given night, there might have been three people sitting at the bar, all of them permanent fixtures. Two others might have been sitting at a table in the corner, hardly noticing our band setting up right in front of them. The place held only about twenty people and—counting the band and the bartender—there would be about ten of us in all.

  Those were the leaner years. Fame, financial security, and the validation of critics never came overnight. There were many, many gigs like that one—a far cry from the sold-out arenas that I’d had a taste of and that would come again much later.

  We made so little money that we barely had enough to eat at a fast-food joint after the gig. Our forty- or fifty-dollar fee was just enough to pay for a burger and fries or maybe some fried shrimp or chicken for each member of the band. Sometimes Pops and I wouldn’t even do that because we felt bad not going home with something for Moms, Juan, Peter Michael, and Zina. We couldn’t even afford drinks at the bar and would go to a liquor store to buy our own Hennessy.

  I didn’t understand the significance of money yet, and the low pay never bothered me. I was so in love with playing that for a while I even found it a little distasteful to be paid. “Work” to me meant something that people got paid to do because they wouldn’t do it otherwise. Playing with my father wasn’t work to me!

  He quickly set me straight.

  One night when we returned from a gig at the Shell, the whole family was at home. Moms greeted us at the door, happy to see us and to hear how the night went. My little sister, Zina, six years old at the time, ran up to give us hugs—adorable in her colorful pajamas. Juan and Peter Michael were there too, hanging out in the living room.

  As Pops and I unloaded our instruments in the garage, I casually mentioned that I didn’t care about not getting paid much that night. “Why would I accept money to do something I love?”

  Pops said nothing, but he took my hand, led me into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door to show me shelves that were half-empty.

  “That is why we get paid. If you are serious about choosing music as your career, you deserve to get paid, and you need to get paid. Never feel ashamed of being paid for doing something you love.”

  I got it.

  I was still a child in so many ways, living under my parents’ roof. And while our home was rich in joy, laughter, and love, that wasn’t enough to fill our bellies. We lived from paycheck to paycheck much of the time and still occasionally relied on welfare and food stamps.

  That night, I realized that playing music was more than a way to express my creativity and vent my frustration with the cruelties of this world. It was a means of survival. The responsibility was sobering. But in a way it also opened another door in my head.

  Suddenly I felt incredibly lucky, because I understood—unlike so many people—that my work would forever be my play too. That was a true blessing, and after that I never begrudged receiving or paying back one cent.

  Pops’s beloved Azteca didn’t go the distance, sadly, despite having released a second album, Pyramid of the Moon. The band had originally been Uncle Coke’s vision, but it grew too big—sixteen members at least, augmented by others—and there was never enough money to go round. Debts began to mount and musicians jumped ship. Columbia Records dropped the band, and then Uncle Coke left to pursue a solo career and to work with Herbie Hancock and Stevie Wonder.

  In a little over te
n years, dear old Coke would be dead at age forty-five from cirrhosis of the liver. He was still much loved, but he had become someone who was very unhappy and for whom drinking and drugs had become a crutch. One time he had asked to borrow my father’s precious timbales for a gig one day, and then he sold them to buy what he needed. My father was devastated, but—kindhearted as he always was—he forgave his little brother who’d been in the orphanage with him all those years earlier.

  As Pops said, “We grew up in an era of doing some crazy things. Some of us were smart enough to get out of it, and some were not. Coke was one of the ones who couldn’t get out of it. Eventually it was his downfall.”

  He died in 1986, on Pops’s fifty-first birthday.

  Azteca eventually disbanded in 1974, and Pops’s dream of making it big sank with the ship. Not that he had any intention of going down with it. He’d struggled all those years to make it that far, and he wasn’t giving up so easily. So he reassembled a smaller version of his Pete Escovedo Band to make ends meet. There was a bassist, a lead guitarist, me, Pops, and sometimes a drummer or vibe player.

  We were doing a gig at the Reunion Club on Union Street in San Francisco one night in 1975 when Billy Cobham walked in. I thought Billy was the greatest drummer in the world. A master of jazz fusion, he’d played with Miles Davis, James Brown, the Fania All-Stars, and all the other greats. At that time he was touring with his Mahavishnu Orchestra, and he played balls-to-the-wall drums.

  The minute Billy walked into the Reunion Club, we knew exactly who he was. He sat down, bought a drink, and listened to us play. There was me, Pops, Roger Glenn, a bass player, and Ray Obiedo. I’m not sure which drummer we used that night—the band members often changed depending on who was available.

  I was still under twenty-one and wasn’t allowed to be in the club legally, but they made an exception for me at that spot because they loved Pops’s music and we always drew the crowds. At other clubs, like Biff’s on Broadway and Twenty-ninth, the management went through that old routine of making me wait in the back during breaks.

  It was so boring back there that I wore the manager down until he finally cracked and let me stay in the main room, but with a stern warning that I was to plant myself in a chair against the back wall and wasn’t to get up unless I had to use the bathroom.

  My plan worked.

  I positioned the chair to the right of the pay phone, where I could call my best friend, Connie, and chat for most of the night. I may have been a professional musician, but I was still a teenager whose top priority was talking on the phone.

  What did we talk about? Girl stuff, probably—which guys we hoped might be at a party later that night, what we’d wear, or how we’d do our hair.

  Ray Obiedo has a cassette recording of a rehearsal we did where he and the other guys were constantly trying to get me off the phone so they could rehearse. Connie kept calling and I kept putting down my drumsticks so I could answer and chatter away, which obviously frustrated those who were trying to get through the song. Ray said that on that thirty or so minutes of tape I did way more gossiping and giggling than drumming.

  I sure was drumming for my life at the Reunion Club, though. I have to admit to feeling extremely nervous as Billy Cobham’s eyes followed my every lick. As soon as we took a break, he came over to see us.

  “I’ve never seen a father and daughter play together like this!” he told us. “You were both terrific!”

  I couldn’t believe that Billy Cobham, the master drummer and percussionist, was excited by us!

  He was super nice, really cool, and we got on so well that he surprised everyone by sitting in and jamming with us during our second set. It was such a privilege to share the stage with one of the baddest musicians around.

  After the show he asked for Pops’s phone number. He said he was going on tour but wanted to produce a record of Pops and me when he got back in September. I still remember that part like it was yesterday, the way he said “September” in that mellifluous voice of his.

  “Wow!” I cried, and clapped my hands with excitement. I could hardly contain myself. Pops smiled and shook Billy’s hand and told him that would be cool.

  After Billy left, Pops and I headed to the bar and toasted the handshake deal. “Cool, Pops?” I said, smiling. “That would be fricking amazing!”

  While driving home with him, I continued to talk about the new record as Pops kept his eyes on the road and showed no emotion. Eventually, he told me, “People say things in this business, Sheila. I’ve lost count of those who’ve said they’ll help me make it or produce an album, but they never follow up. You must learn not to get your hopes up. Let’s just wait and see.”

  Sure enough, weeks passed and we didn’t hear a thing. My heart sank a little with each new day. When two months had gone by, I’d almost forgotten about it. But then, come late September, Billy contacted us and repeated his offer. I couldn’t believe he’d kept his word. He asked us to meet him at the legendary Fantasy Records studio in Berkeley.

  I’d already been to Fantasy a few times for demos, and I’d made my recording debut there a few months earlier playing congas and percussion on Alphonso Johnson’s Yesterday’s Dreams.

  This was something else, though—this would be an album with my name next to my father’s on the cover. It would be our record. That was almost too good to be true. Better still, Billy Cobham was to be the producer, writing or cowriting many of the songs. Man, that was like having Sammy Davis Jr. produce us!

  Billy helped us put a band together, and Pops assembled an awesome crew that included Ray Obiedo on guitar and vocals, Bill Summers on percussion and vocals, trumpet player Tom Harrell, and Mel Martin on woodwinds. Mark Soskin was on piano and keyboards, while Pops and I were to play congas and timbales and a lot of hand percussion. Billy would play the drums.

  Fantasy had been going for thirty years and was the studio where Chet Baker and Dave Brubeck had recorded albums, along with Creedence Clearwater Revival and so many other of my musical heroes. Once we got set up and put on our headphones, all we had to do was wait for everyone else to get ready.

  I had never really practiced, studied music, or learned how to warm up before playing. Yet to be a drummer or percussion player you need whole body strength, and most players practice every day to keep their chops up. I never did. I was still young and in good shape. I barely warmed up to run track, so I didn’t see the point of warming up just to play a few rhythms.

  Fascinated by how Billy would prepare, though, I watched him closely. He stood in front of a snare drum with his back against the wall and his elbows pressing against it so they couldn’t move.

  Then, while still carrying on a conversation with someone, he did unbelievable rudiments. I was amazed by his control. He’d alter the distance of the strokes, but the velocity, intensity, and volume of each stroke never varied, whether the sticks lifted between his waist and his ribs or between his waist and his shoulders.

  Then he moved on to pressed rolls. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Most of my rolls were single-stroke rolls, but he’d warm up with singles, doubles, triples, quadruples, quintuples, sextuples, and hextuples. And he still casually chatted away to someone the entire time.

  I’d never seen anything like it.

  Billy’s skill and precision truly inspired me.

  I was in the presence of greatness.

  I started to hyperventilate.

  He had so many toms on his drum set, why did he even need me? Where would I fit in on a song? How could I avoid getting in his way?

  I thought I was going to be sick.

  I was more nervous in that cramped, soundproofed space with my father by my side than I had ever been on a stage. The butterflies morphed into elephants that were trampling around my insides. I became unreasonably obsessed about the red light coming on, which meant that we would be officially recording. That red light was so scary, and I tensed every time it lit up.

  Pops had his own anxieties to deal with, I’m
sure. Besides, I didn’t want to let on how freaked out I was. The only person I could think of to reassure me was Connie, so I left the room and used the studio phone.

  “You can do this, Sheila,” she told me encouragingly. “No sweat!”

  She calmed me down enough to put the phone down and get into position when instructed. As Pops and I prepared to record Solo Two, I pretended to be calm, cool, and collected, but I was far from it.

  Back then you didn’t overdub your solo. The band was all in one room and we played our solos live, right then and there. Me on congas, Pops on timbales, and Billy on drums. Wow, this was crazy!

  When Billy said, “Okay, ready? Let’s record!” the red light went on, indicating that recording had begun. That light remained so intimidating in my mind. I sat in front of my big red conga drums, stared at the red light, and tried to slow down my breathing.

  On cue, I began my solo, giving it my best and desperately hoping I wouldn’t be the one to mess up, because then everyone would have to start over. I made a mistake every now and again, but so did everyone else, so I didn’t feel so bad. My hands hurt after each day of recording because I played so hard.

  Despite all my misgivings, Billy seemed very happy with what I did. Later on, some of my favorite percussionists, including Giovanni Hidalgo, Karl Perazzo, and Armando Peraza, would tell me how much they enjoyed my playing on that album. I’m always a little surprised to hear compliments about that record because of my nerves at the time, but with Billy’s encouragement, I guess I just played raw from my gut and eventually let go to see what happened. To this day, Pops says that was the best conga solo I have ever done and the one of which he is most proud.

  Fear can be good for you sometimes.

  Solo Two by Pete and Sheila Escovedo was released with a cover featuring me standing behind Pops with my hands on his shoulders. The cover notes said: “Special thanks to Juanita, Juan, Peto, and Zina for their love and understanding; to Billy Cobham, for his creative help and direction . . . Gracias también to everyone who kept faith in us and our music.”