by Sheila E.
When Carlos told me his wife had left him, I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he had a wife in the first place. I knew it was my fault—she left because of me. I’m not sure what transpired next. I can only imagine that my mind has tried to do me a favor by pushing away the bad stuff. This is one of those chunks of time that I’ve lost, as if I blacked out.
The next time I came to, he was picking me up at the house in his Jag to take me to the Day on the Green concert, where he’d be performing. The event was part of a series organized by Bill Gra ham at the Oakland Coliseum and was a sell-out show featuring Carlos, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Peter Frampton, and the Outlaws.
I know from video footage of the concert as well as photographs from that day that I was wearing a white, tight Wild Cherry T-shirt and black pants tucked into maroon platform boots. As we wandered through the back entrance of the Coliseum, Carlos held my hand. He felt we had nothing to hide. We were a couple now.
He was still holding my hand when we entered the VIP area, and I looked to my left and spotted members of his family. My heart dropped. They stared at me with an intensity that I interpreted as pure hatred. They didn’t have to say a word; their eyes said it all. My stomach lurched. He held my hand tighter, sensing my discomfort and trying to reassure me, but the horrific reality had already crashed down upon me.
I had broken up a marriage.
I had destroyed a family.
I was “the mistress.”
It was all completely wrong. This was not the person I’d been raised to be.
Carlos seemed intent on proudly displaying our love for one another. When it was time for him to go on, he walked me to the side of the stage, sat me down on an Anvil guitar case, and gave me a kiss.
“I love you, Cho,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
He walked away.
There I was, sitting on a guitar case, suddenly on my own. My world collapsed in on itself, and as I looked within myself, the applause of forty thousand people seemed to fade, quieter and quieter with every step he took away from me. I was alone in a crowd of thousands. Silenced in a sea of cheers. In an atmosphere of open celebration, I was grieving.
It’s a different kind of hurt when you know you’ve done something to cause another’s pain, even if you hadn’t known what you were doing. Furthermore, I’d never caused that kind of pain before, the kind that has ripple effects.
Carlos eventually called me onstage to sit in. I got up reluctantly and walked slowly toward him. As he was waving me over I was drowning in ambivalence—relieved at the thought of being close to him again, but hesitant to emerge from my moment of self-reflection. I walked on timidly, my shoulders hunched in defeat. Carlos met me at the timbales, and we played together.
I always loved playing with him, but this time I gave minimally, just enough to get by. My heart was so heavy that it felt hard to breathe. I was trying to focus on the music, but the expressions on his relatives’ faces and the thoughts of his wife haunted me. It was like that moment at San Leandro High when I suddenly saw myself from another perspective. From every angle, I didn’t like what I was seeing.
I tried to enjoy the moment, sharing the stage with Carlos Santana at this legendary festival—the Bay Area’s equivalent to Woodstock. But I couldn’t let go of my guilt and shame. Even playing percussion, my reliable source of salvation, couldn’t provide me with what I needed. The song I sat in on that day said it all—“Soul Sacrifice.”
I went back on tour with George Duke during the middle of my inner turmoil and found some comfort in being away and losing myself in music again. It was 1977 and we traveled all over the US and to Europe, where I sat in with the Jackson 5 (renamed the Jacksons) in Germany. That was such a trip to hang out with those same kids my brothers and I had mimicked when we were younger. I told them what fans all my family had been: “We copied every move you guys made!”
They were sweet and humble, getting a kick out of my stories about how their band had so influenced our family “performances” in our Oakland front room. But despite these wonderful moments, I couldn’t quite escape the heartache, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to walk away from Carlos for good.
He had given me a beautiful ring that had an iridescent turquoise stone and that I’d worn on my engagement finger as proudly as if it was a three-carat diamond. Even that seemed suddenly tainted, and I slipped it off one day and put it away.
Our breakup was difficult and drawn out. We’d been together, on and off, for two years. As I see it now, we were doomed from the beginning; our very foundation had a crack in it. As much as I wanted to be happy, I couldn’t release the darkness, the heavyhearted burden I’d felt on that stage.
I had to let my first true love go.
Once I finally made the break, Carlos asked Pops to leave the band, because it was too difficult to be around him. Pops had been soaring with one of the biggest groups in the world, and he was suddenly out of work.
He and Carlos didn’t speak to each other for more than twenty years after that.
Neither did Carlos and I.
As always with me, I threw myself into work to distract myself from my heartache. From that moment on, it was like Carlos had left the planet.
The Bay Area was a very small world of musicians, though, so at times I’d inevitably wind up in places where Carlos was. Whenever he and I crossed paths, we avoided eye contact and didn’t speak.
It wasn’t until twenty-two years later, at the first Latin Grammy ceremony in 2000, that we finally broke our silence. We’d both been invited to play in a tribute to Tito Puente, who had recently passed away. My “godfather” had died after a show in New York, at age seventy-six.
I was overwhelmed with emotion already. My beautiful Tito was making music in heaven. As I walked down the corridor to the stage for rehearsal, my heart started beating a little fast in anticipation of seeing Carlos again. I adjusted my timbales and was talking to the director when I saw—or first felt—him walk onstage. We gave each other a cordial hug and said hello. I pretended I wasn’t nervous.
The performance schedule shifted, so we ended up playing the tribute without Carlos. Right after the show, however, I saw him in the hallway.
“You look beautiful,” he told me, those big brown eyes staring at me again after so many years. “And you look happy.”
“I am.”
Several years later I caught his show at Madison Square Garden. His percussionist and musical director, Karl Perazzo (my “little brother,” whom I once stole from a rehearsal room so he could join my band in another), waved me over to join them onstage. I was nervous, and not just because I didn’t have my in-ear monitors. I hadn’t shared a stage with Carlos since that Day on the Green in 1977, but Perazzo kept waving me on.
“Mama, come on!” he yelled.
Carlos’s back was to me when I started playing congas. He immediately heard the extra rhythms and spun around to see who it was. He had the biggest smile on his face once he saw it was me. Then he announced me to the crowd and gave me a nod, that nonverbal blessing for me to take a solo. I played feverishly, overcome by a sense of relief.
“Sheila E!” he kept saying to the crowd.
I stayed for another song.
We were giddy backstage afterward and so excited to have played together after so many years. Our friendship has been strong ever since.
In 2009, Carlos presented me with an award for Women in Latin Rock, along with Wendy Haas (from Azteca), Linda Tillery (who sang with Uncle Coke), and Lydia Pense (from Cold Blood). Before giving me the award he acknowledged Pops for his contribution to Latin music and Moms for being the heart of our family. I was humbled both by the award and by having it presented to me by Carlos. That meant the world.
Ours was a life-altering love, and it taught me an invaluable lesson. I vowed to never again be involved with a married man or even a man whose relationship status was the least bit complicated. I carried re
gret and guilt for many years, wishing I could take back all the hurt I caused his family.
I am eternally sorry to them.
Years later and after Carlos divorced his wife, he proposed onstage to his drummer, Cindy Blackman. When we played together again the following year, I congratulated him on getting remarried. Laughing, he told me, “I couldn’t wait for you, Cho. I guess I got another drummer! I like drummers.”
I guess he does.
And with those few words, he finally released his butterfly—his little Cho Cho San—into the big blue yonder.
16. Syncopation
The displacing of accents or beats in music
I had some problems and no one could seem to solve them
But you found the answer
You told me to take this chance and learn the ways of love,
My baby, and all that it has to offer
In time you will see that love won’t let you down
“ALL THIS LOVE”
PETE ESCOVEDO
In late 1977, I overheard Tom Coster—the keyboard player for Santana—excitedly telling Pops what had happened at the Record Plant in Sausalito that day. When the band took a break, they heard a ridiculous rhythm guitar part coming from the room next door.
“There’s this young kid,” Tom said, “and he’s playing all the instruments, he wrote all the music, and he’s producing the entire record.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
“This kid!” said Tom. “He’s doing his first album for Warner Brothers.”
“All by himself?” asked Pops.
“Yes! I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“Wow,” I said. “I want to meet him. What’s his name?”
“Prince.”
I never did make it down to the studio to meet “the kid,” but a few months later, in April 1978, I was at Leopold’s record store in Berkeley browsing through records when I looked up to see a new poster. It featured a beautiful young man with brown skin, a perfect Afro, and stunning green eyes. The word Prince was written in bold letters at the top. That was the guy Tom was talking about!
I found his album For You in the rack and immediately looked at the credits: “Produced, arranged, composed, and performed by Prince.”
The staff at the store, whom I’d known for years, let me take the poster home. Before I’d even listened to his record, I’d taped the poster above my waterbed. Then I lowered the needle onto the album on my record player, sat on the floor, and listened to it in its entirety. Tom was right. I immediately heard that funky rhythm guitar part he’d been talking about. It wasn’t only on one song, but the whole album.
I stared up at the poster and told him, “I’m gonna meet you one day.”
Fast forward to September 17, 1978, and an Al Jarreau concert at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. I was wearing my trademark platform boots, bell-bottoms, halter top, and of course no bra. I rocked my ’fro, my big hoop earrings, and lip gloss. I looked like Angela Davis, but I felt like Foxy Brown.
I stood in the backstage corridor chatting with friends. The place was jam-packed with all the great Bay Area musicians who’d come to check out the show. Back then, everyone who was anyone played the Greek. It was the best outdoor venue around. When we heard the stage manager’s announcement—“Five minutes, Mr. Jarreau”—we all rushed to find a spot on either side of the stage.
The crowd was pumped that balmy fall night. I heard a few people scream my name. “Look, it’s Sheila Escovedo!” I waved and smiled. It was fun being recognized.
When Al hit his first note, we all went crazy. School was in session. I bopped on the side of the stage, ever the student, ready to absorb all of his goodness. That’s when I suddenly spotted a man leaning against the wall across from me on the other side of the stage. I knew him immediately. He was that guy, the one in the poster on my bedroom wall. And he was staring right at me. Our eyes locked, and . . . Wow! I’m not somebody to often skip a beat, but in that moment, my heart sure did.
Only the previous night, before falling asleep, I’d stared at his poster, gazing intently at his striking hazel-green eyes. And now those same eyes, decorated with more eyeliner than mine, were staring right through me. I’d always thought beauty was an attribute reserved for women, but he was proving me wrong. I’d never seen a man so beautiful.
Oh, Lawd! Help me, my mind cried out. He is fine. And he plays guitar. What? It’s over now.
That day we exchanged no words, only eye contact. But for me, that was more than enough. I knew it was only a matter of time before we’d connect again.
The next time I saw Prince was several months later when Connie and I went to see him play live at the Circle Star Theater in San Carlos, California. This theater in the round was another of the places to be. On any given night you could go there to see artists like the O’Jays, Gladys Knight and the Pips, and Diana Ross. Since I had played and visited there so many times, management hooked me up with tickets and a backstage pass. But I hadn’t thought to ask for a parking pass, so when we got there we spent half an hour trying to find a spot, ultimately having to park across the highway since the regular lot was filled.
We were late. We ran across the highway, me pulling Connie hard as she shrieked and squealed, “Slow down, Sheila!”
“Come on! Let’s go,” I yelled.
I was so frustrated that we were missing the beginning, not only because I didn’t want to miss any of Prince, but also because as a performer myself, I really respected the totality of a show. Showing up late to anybody’s performance just wasn’t cool.
We rushed in through the backstage entrance, and as we ran down the aisle toward our seats, the music, just like his record, was slammin’. I looked onstage and I could hear him singing and playing, but where was he? Where was the guy on the poster? I couldn’t for the life of me figure out which one was him. Was he the bass player? The guitar player? The fact that he played every instrument didn’t help me narrow it down. There was a second guitar player who I thought might be Prince, but that wasn’t him, either.
And then I realized he was the guy on lead vocals singing “Soft and Wet”—that wild and crazy black man with long flowing hair, no shirt, thigh-high leg warmers, ankle boots, a short scarf, and a trench coat.
What the heck?
Not only did he look totally different from how he’d looked at the Greek Theatre, but he looked totally different, period. His look was as unique as his music, and he was killing the stage. And while his performance was mesmerizing, I began to entertain thoughts about meeting him afterward. I hoped I’d finally get to introduce myself to the man on my bedroom wall.
After the show I made my way toward the rear of the theater. I pulled back the black curtain, hoping to find somebody who could direct me to him, but that wasn’t necessary. There was his reflection night in front of me. He was looking in the mirror, slowly combing out his long, straight hair. Those perfect eyes caught mine in the mirror, and he gasped before turning around.
I stepped a little closer, butterflies dancing. I could finally introduce myself. Reaching out my hand, I began, “Hi, I’m . . .”
“Oh, I know who you are,” he said, taking my hand and holding it for longer than the usual shake. “You’re Sheila Escovedo.”
I stopped and stared at his lips. Did my name just come out of his mouth? “I’ve been following your career for a while,” he added.
Wait a minute. He’s been following me?
I guess it made sense. I’d already released my first record with Pops and had performed on multiple records for other artists, in addition to being on national tours and television shows. It dawned on me then—I didn’t need to be nervous. I suppose I was a “somebody” before he was.
“Me and my bass player, André Cymone, were fighting about which one of us was going to marry you.”
I laughed. “Oh, really?”
He told me he’d watched me play drums with George Duke on Midnight Special and Don
Kirshner’s Rock Concert.
“Oh, really,” I repeated nervously, thinking that was pretty cool.
“How much does George pay you a week?” he asked.
I told him my salary.
He paused, crestfallen. “I’ll never be able to afford you.”
“You never know,” I said. “Things could change.”
He walked me toward the dressing room and introduced me to the band. By the end of the night we’d exchanged numbers.
In the ensuing weeks, Prince and I gradually became friends. We started out talking on the telephone, and then I invited him to come over and hang out with me.
Signed by Warner Brothers as an artist and their youngest-ever producer, he never seemed to stop working. Whenever he came to town I’d pick him up at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco or at the studio. I’d proudly drive him all over the Bay Area, showing him the coolest haunts, the prettiest scenery, and my former houses and schools. We’d get sandwiches around Lake Merritt and doughnuts at the famous Colonial Bakery. Mostly, we’d chat for hours.
Unlike me, Prince was a multi-instrumentalist who had played just about every instrument you could think of from an early age. Plus, he could sing—I mean, he could sang!—and yet he had such humility about his talents.
I was in awe.
Of course I bragged to him about Pops and his band and how we kids would often sit in and play with him and his legendary friends. Prince didn’t believe it until he saw it—a father who plays timbales with his daughter and two sons. It was unheard of.
“Prince of what?” Juan asked when I first introduced him.
When Pops and my brothers saw how well he could play every instrument, they were pretty impressed. This man was a prince of music. He got along well with my family, and we welcomed him into our jam sessions. I liked that he showed so much respect to veterans like Pops.