The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

  My new friend from Minneapolis was impressed by our Latin jazz sound and loved coming to our gigs or just jamming in the front room with our family band.

  For the next couple of years, as we each toured and I was getting over my split from Carlos, he and I would meet up whenever we could—but always just as friends. I’d been too deeply hurt by my last relationship to even begin to contemplate another, and certainly not one with another ladies’ man and guitar player.

  The cords that had bound us from the beginning, though, gradually drew us closer. We loved the same kind of music and shared a respect for each other’s talents. We were checking each other out—seeing what the other one knew. We would jam at the house where I still lived with my parents off and on, due to touring some two hundred fifty days out of the year. I thought it silly to spend money on a place of my own for such short stays.

  We’d hang out in my bedroom—which was a pseudo–recording studio—and jam for hours. The decor reflected my growing obsession with music. The walls and ceiling were covered with various posters I’d begged, borrowed, or purchased from record stores. (I took down the one of Prince before he came.) I wasn’t really interested in posters of the standard teen heartthrobs, actors, or even pop singers. All of my posters featured musicians like Earth, Wind & Fire, Stevie Wonder, the Jacksons, Parliament-Funkadelic, James Brown, and every Motown artist you could think of. I had no idea that I myself would be on a poster in someone’s room one day. I had no desire for fame. I just loved being surrounded by the faces of all my favorites. By this time, music was far more than a hobby or a means of paying the bills. Music was my life.

  The rest of the room was all about the sound. Inspired by Pops’s office, I had my collection of LPs and a piano, bass, and guitar along with virtually any percussion instrument I needed. I’d harbored dreams of writing my own songs, so I invested in the latest recording equipment, including a reel-to-reel four-track and a huge stereo system. On days off I’d record myself and listen back—my first attempt at being more than a player. Musician friends as well as Prince often came by our house to jam for hours. It didn’t hurt that he was beautiful to look at.

  Ever the workaholic (like me), he locked himself away in studios all over the country to continue to craft material for his next few albums, most of which were destined to go gold.

  I was thrilled for him and enormously proud of my new friend.

  I, too, kept working steadily, fulfilled and happy by gigs and tours, playing whenever, wherever, and with whomever I could. I was getting more and more studio session work as well. When Quincy Jones called me in to provide percussion on a Michael Jackson song, “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough,” which would soon be the number-one hit from his Off the Wall album, I contributed the distinctive percussive sound. It was the perfect song title for my pace at the time—I wasn’t stopping, and I was nowhere near getting enough.

  We were going after a particular sound on that number, and after trying various instruments I ended up putting water into a glass bottle. Once I’d pitched the key, I tapped it with the metal beater from my triangle. If you listen closely, you can hear that exact sound.

  I’m not credited anywhere—the recording process took so long and the engineers chopped and changed around so much of it that they forgot to put my name on the record—but it was cool to be a small part of such a great song. And I was thrilled to contribute to one of Michael’s tunes. He was one of the great entertainers and had become someone I enjoyed being around whenever possible.

  Continuing to record fervently, sadly my work schedule—coupled with Prince’s—meant that we didn’t get to see very much of each other for a while. For anyone else that might have been the end of a beautiful friendship, but Fate had something else in mind.

  17. Time Signature

  An indication of rhythm following a clef

  Sometimes love has no rhyme and no reason,

  Even if we try to be cool

  At the strangest times, love can make a connection

  “NO RHYME, NO REASON”

  GEORGE DUKE

  I was a huge fan of Herbie Hancock, master of jazz funk, so getting to tour with him was a big deal for me. He was right up there on my list of greatest musicians. Herbie’s an amazing instrumentalist, and nobody does what he does with a piano. Playing that kind of straight-up jazz is beyond me.

  He and I had been on the same bill a couple of times when I was with Billy and George, and then one day in 1979 he called me up and asked me to play with him. What an honor. The first recording I did with him was for his twenty-ninth album, Feets Don’t Fail Me Now. I played the congas and was in good company with family and friends including Uncle Coke, Bill Summers, and Ray Obiedo. I went on to feature on several of his other albums over the years. One of the things that most impressed me about Herbie was his self-care regimen. He was always taking vitamins and herbs and eating really mindfully, which wasn’t the norm at all for musicians on the road, where fast food was the typical choice. Herbie ate the kinds of foods Moms would bring home from her job at the health food store. He showed me that even on tour one could maintain a healthy lifestyle.

  I was getting more exposure, and with the increased attention came increased criticism. The more I took my music into the world—out of my house and out of the Bay Area—the more I found myself faced with either outright negative reactions about being a female drummer or at least a frosty reception. I was starting to understand that a lot of folks—particularly guys—considered the music industry a “man’s world” and thought I was unusual for playing a “man’s instrument.”

  Pops was the only one who seemed to understand what I was facing, and he helped me deal with all the negativity by encouraging me to shift my perspective. “You have to let your own light shine, Sheila,” he told me. “Don’t dim it just to make the guys around you feel more comfortable.” The judgment from others had nothing to do with me, he said. He advised me to let go of any urge to explain or prove myself, and his words of wisdom helped me ignore the negative comments.

  “Just tune in to your love of percussion. Focus on playing from your heart. When your heart says ‘Go,’ you go! Learn your music and be prepared so you walk in with confidence and ease. Be on time or be fifteen minutes early. Don’t burn any bridges, because in the music business you never know when you’ll have to work again with those same people you harmed.” He was right. Whenever I played from my heart, I felt invincible. My music could speak for itself.

  I always came prepped and with a good attitude, but this often made the other musicians mad, since a lot of them were late and didn’t always come so well prepared. So they snickered in the corner or they teased and gossiped about me, trying to make me feel bad for doing the right thing and for respecting the craft like Pops had taught me.

  In addition to the general sexism, I continued to contend with directly inappropriate behavior from some of the guys. They would hit on me daily, even after I’d been clear and direct in turning them down. It was just so disrespectful. And I knew their wives! I wouldn’t have wanted my father to do that to my mother. After Carlos, that whole cheating thing was such a no-no for me. I didn’t want to degrade myself, and I made sure to go back to my hotel room each night on my own. Sometimes I’d organize a girls’ night with the background singers, but mostly we just made sure everybody was cool and stayed out of everybody else’s business.

  These men were my colleagues, and I wanted us to get along but remain professional. But for some of them, that wasn’t enough.

  It’s true that I sometimes performed with barely any clothes on, which some might say provoked them, but I saw my dress choice as my prerogative. No one ever commented on how tight the guys’ pants were or the fact that their shirts were open to the waist. But they thought whether or not I wore a bra was a hot topic that deserved lots of airtime. Backstage after a gig, the fellas would flatter me and say, “You were amazing, girl!” Then they’d offer me drugs and alcohol. Eventually
, their talk would turn to sex.

  Really? I’d think. Are you guys for real?

  My disdain wasn’t always enough for some of the men, though. One night we were leaving a venue in New Orleans, and a few of us had to squeeze into a car full of equipment because the van had left with the rest of the band. I had no choice but to sit on the lap of one of the musicians in the backseat.

  A few minutes into the journey he started groping me and made a nasty comment about what he wanted to do with me when we got back to the hotel. The others in the car laughed, but I was enraged.

  Something inside me exploded. Without skipping a beat, all of my built-up frustration from similar incidents in the past just exploded. I turned around and slapped him across the face.

  Hard.

  He was shocked to silence.

  And I was too.

  I guess I made my point, because—once he’d recovered—he apologized for what he’d said and vowed never to do it again. I accepted his apology and nodded to the reflection of the concerned driver in the rearview mirror. “It’s all good.” We sat in awkward silence for the rest of the ride, but I felt a great sense of calm come over me.

  While I hadn’t exactly articulated my point in the most civilized of manners, word soon got out about what I’d done. I’d made my point. These guys weren’t accustomed to that kind of response. Some women in the business chose to sleep around, but not me. I took my romantic relationships very seriously, and for me, physical intimacy was only for two people in love.

  It was all part of my determination to maintain my boundaries and the sanctity of my personal space. Nobody was messing with this lil’ mama.

  While working with Herbie, I was still on the lookout for other great musicians I could learn from and jam with. One night I went to the Circle Star Theater because I heard a singer named Chaka Khan was playing with her band, Rufus. I was such a fan and had studied her album closely, trying to figure out how and why they played what they did.

  My friends at the Circle Star let me backstage and introduced me to Chaka. She and I hit it off immediately. She was a party girl and her band was funky—they had such great songs and arrangements on numbers like “You Got the Love” and “Tell Me Something Good.”

  Chaka’s such an amazing singer and a downright powerhouse of a woman. Nobody sounds like Chaka. I liked that she dressed sexy while belting out her hit songs with confidence and strength. When she asked me to sit in on one of her shows, it was another dream come true. We especially bonded because she was one of the first professional female musicians I’d ever worked with who could play drums and sing.

  My new “sister” knew all about being a woman in a man’s world, although it was sad to watch her descend later into alcoholism and drug abuse. I screamed at her dealer once because he’d given her something that wiped her out so bad she became almost unconscious on my shoulder and nearly burned a hole in my jacket with her cigarette.

  “What the heck did you give her?” I yelled. “Leave her alone!” I always felt terrible when I saw her like that. I didn’t know how to help her. She was someone I looked up to, and I felt powerless when she was so weak. Even my Oakland attitude didn’t have much sway over the cunning force of alcohol and drugs. Chaka and I have stayed close, and I love her dearly. She has been clean since 2005 and looks and sounds even better now. How is that even possible?

  Music was all my friends and I talked about. “Have you heard of this band?” and “Let me play you this song” or “Watch this new pattern I came up with.” The Bay Area was still buzzing with great musicianship. A project would come along and turn into another project, and then a third. It was nonstop. I took it all on and loved each opportunity because they were all so different.

  I had a couple of boyfriends then (musicians, of course), but music remained my one true love. As far as I was concerned, it was all I really needed. If someone came along and swept me off my feet, then that would be fine, but I wasn’t going to seek anything out. I wasn’t pushing love away. Rather, I was just enjoying the healing power of music and relishing everything it provided me.

  Back then I was steadily working out what was appropriate in terms of my look and my stage presentation. I saw what Chaka got away with—often little more than a decorated bra, pants, and a bare midriff. I was still learning how to define myself as a professional musician, which also meant learning what being professional was all about. But I still had a lot of growing up to do, and my attitude wasn’t always as mature as my musicianship.

  One day I got an urgent call to play percussion in Diana Ross’s orchestra for a set of dates at the Circle Star. I was replacing someone who’d dropped out at the last minute. Ms. Ross was a personal idol of mine—everyone wanted to be her! I went to the rehearsal, where I caught on pretty quickly and never once let on that I couldn’t read the music they’d handed me. I was really looking forward to the public performances.

  As I left the rehearsal, someone from her management team told me I should dress in all black for the shows, since I’d be playing in the pit along with the rest of the orchestra. They didn’t specify anything else.

  I’d figured out long ago that my arms needed to be free or I’d feel uncomfortable. My biceps would pump up the more I played, so an outfit with sleeves that might start off loose before a show would be horribly tight by the end. I was also coming to learn that it felt nice to dress sexy. I mostly wore halter-neck tops or sleeveless blouses, some of which were see-through. That was my look.

  I turned up for the show with a low-cut halter-neck top and black pants. I was excited about the gig, so I’d called up a few of my friends to come and watch us play. When the members of the orchestra were announced, I was surprised to get a noisy round of applause, and not just from the friends I’d invited along. That was probably the first time I realized that I was developing a name for myself in the Bay Area, because this was a gig without Pops. The biggest thrill for me, though, was to be playing with Diana Ross.

  As we were tuning up, a few of my friends started waving at me and screaming my name, and I could see Ms. Ross wasn’t happy. There was a moment when I thought, Uh-oh, this could go badly.

  The show went great, though, and I did all I was asked to do and more. I was happy and looking forward to the rest of the gigs. But just as I was packing my instruments, her manager came over and asked me to wear something less revealing the following night.

  I was shocked. Sure, my top was low-cut, but not excessively so. Instead of just doing what I was asked, I adopted my default position of “You can’t tell me what to do!”—a rebellious streak I hadn’t yet shed from adolescence.

  “You hired me for my musicianship,” I told him indignantly. “I was on time. I played well. I wore black. You didn’t tell me I had to dress like a nun!”

  Then he told me, “Ms. Ross wants to speak with you.”

  Feeling like a naughty schoolgirl, I went sheepishly to her dressing room and stood right outside the open door. She sat at her dressing table, chatting to a friend. She could surely see my reflection in the mirror, but she kept me waiting for almost twenty minutes. I knew my friends were outside, and I started to get mad.

  Even though I was a lowly percussion player, I decided that it was disrespectful for her to ignore me. Finally, and with a dramatic sigh, I turned to head back down the corridor. Her musical director called me back and asked me where I was going.

  I turned and told him, “I’m out of here!”

  Diana stopped chatting and called, “Excuse me, can you come here for a second? I’d like to talk to you, young lady.” In front of her friend she let me know I did a great job, but I sensed that wasn’t what she really wanted to say. Her director grabbed me afterward and said, “Ms. Ross would appreciate you wearing something more covered up for tomorrow’s shows.”

  I was so mad I just walked off, saying, “Really? First she made me wait twenty minutes, she disrespected me, and now you want me to calm my look and play it down? Well, how
about this? I quit!”

  “Wait a minute, you can’t quit!”

  “Watch me.”

  Can you believe I walked out on Diana Ross!

  Man, I was crazy. I didn’t care who she was, or how famous. I did not like how she treated me.

  I guess I hadn’t quite fully taken on board all of Pops’s advice yet, and I’d completely forgotten the part about doing what I was told to do and remaining humble.

  Fortunately, Diana didn’t hold my youthful hotheadedness against me. Years later we were playing on the same bill at the American Music Awards and everybody was in the green room together, including Bruce Springsteen and Lionel Richie. It was so crowded that there was nowhere for me to sit. Diana spotted me standing awkwardly in the doorway and cried out, “There’s my baby! Come and sit on my lap!” So I did.

  Over the years we’ve frequently crossed paths, have many mutual friends in the industry, and have become—I’m proud to say—friends.

  18. Metronome

  A device used by musicians to mark time

  No one could speak of passion and touch her

  Touch her the way he does . . . It was him (life without love) or a life without love

  “MICHELANGELO”

  SHEILA E

  On Valentine’s Day 1982, Prince was booked to play at the San Francisco Civic Auditorium as part of his Controversy tour. Eager to see him again after a couple of years in which we’d lost contact, I bought tickets and took Connie and my girlfriend Karen, who’d been dating my brother Peter Michael.

  We watched the show from our balcony seats, screaming and hollering along with every other woman in the place. I knew all the songs; I’d bought all four Prince albums. My old jamming buddy was mighty fine and hecka sexy. The sheer spectacle of his show was amazing, and I loved everything about it.