The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

Prince hit that stage singing, dancing, playing piano and guitar. I think he could play something like thirty instruments in all. He was so talented, and at the time there was nothing like him or his show around in terms of the lighting, stage presence, songs, and showmanship.

  He was on fire, and watching him made me feel starstruck, nervous, and excited all at once.

  Afterward, I talked my way backstage as usual, which wasn’t so hard to do since most of the crew and security knew me. As I walked down the long hallway toward his dressing room I tried to play it cool, but inside, my butterflies were all aflutter. My head was buzzing with images of his performance, and his music was still ringing in my ears. I couldn’t wait to see him again.

  It was difficult not to blur the line between being a fan and a friend.

  I spotted him backstage talking to his musicians, just like before, and—once again—our eyes locked.

  Smiling, he said simply, “Wow!”

  “It’s been a while,” I said, feeling unusually bashful.

  We hugged, we caught up, and we acknowledged it had been far too long since we’d seen each other. There was that familiar sense of intimacy and the immediate ease that comes when you feel connected to someone. Words are secondary, and it’s the being together that becomes paramount to the talking.

  I felt like I’d known him for a thousand years.

  Trying to snap myself back into normal social etiquette, I gushed over his performance and told him I was “awestruck.” He thanked me sweetly, but his eyes just kept on boring into me like he was staring into my soul.

  I was so fascinated by what he was doing musically and so proud of him, but because we hadn’t seen each other for so long it was almost like I didn’t know him at all. We had to start our friendship all over again.

  Apart from anything else, he looked completely different. His hair was very short this time. He wore tight black gymnastic pants straight to the ankle with stirrups at the bottom. They were high-waisted and sexy, and he wore a big white shirt open to the waist. He looked strong and handsome and his cologne was—well—his own natural musk.

  Now it was my turn to have the bigger crush, but I had no idea where that might lead because Prince was now a huge star, a top platinum-selling artist. I didn’t feel worthy of him.

  We swapped numbers and started talking on the phone again, but our schedules conspired against us once more. I’d get days off here and there, but his schedule was seriously nonstop. I half resigned myself to the fact that our paths would drift apart again and that we would always be long-distance friends.

  Once again, I had other things to distract me because I’d been invited to go out on tour with the Motown legend that was Marvin Gaye. I could hardly believe it when I got the gig. I mean, man!

  Juan, Peter Michael, and I had worked out dance routines to “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” when we were kids fooling around at Moms and Pops’s house. Now, I was actually going to be on the same stage with this genius, playing percussion while he sang: I guess you’re wondering how I knew . . . Sadly, Marvin’s personal life had been dogged with tragedy and other problems. At forty-four years old, he had some major drug issues, suffered from paranoia and depression, had twice attempted suicide, and was a tax exile for years due to the millions of dollars he owed to the IRS. Having straightened himself out a little and finding some spiritual relief in returning to his faith, he had a massive global hit with “Sexual Healing” and negotiated to return to the US, where he would work his way out of debt.

  Rehearsals were due to start right away for the Sexual Healing tour, which would last from April to August 1983. I had to fit them in between my increasingly demanding schedule of recording work as well as gigs with Pops and my brothers.

  I was playing with Pops during a show at Redondo Beach one night in 1982 when we heard that Lionel Richie would be coming to watch me perform because he was looking for a percussionist for an upcoming tour. His tour manager was a guy from Marvin’s tour, and he’d told Lionel about me.

  Knowing that it could be a great opportunity for me, Pops let me sing up front that night and feature a bit more in the show. To our disappointment, Lionel never showed, but his wife, Brenda, did. I think that when she heard he was considering bringing a girl percussionist into the band she probably wanted to check me out. She helped run the business for him too. Brenda listened to me play, and then we met afterward and she interviewed me casually. I liked her, and she seemed to like who I was too.

  Finally, she told me, “Okay, Sheila, you’ve got the gig.” She went home and told Lionel that she’d hired me. Thanks to Brenda’s vote of confidence, I was in!

  The plan was to start rehearsals with Lionel toward the end of Marvin’s tour and then start touring with Lionel as soon as Marvin’s ended. But first they wanted me to appear in a video they were shooting to accompany Lionel’s latest hit single, “Running with the Night.” Music videos that told a story to accompany a song were a relatively new concept back then, and this was my first. Although I was excited to be part of it, I had no idea what to expect.

  Once I got into hair and makeup at the studio, I started learning bits and pieces about the story line. The backdrop, I was told, was a joyful wedding, complete with a dewy-eyed bride and groom cutting the cake and a roomful of dancing wedding guests. Everyone was over the moon, except for the lonely bridesmaid sitting alone at a table—cue Sheila.

  My character, I soon discovered, would not be anyone I could relate to. I wouldn’t be holding drumsticks or commanding some conga drums. Sitting alone in my cheesy dress and heels—not the kind of thing I’d ever really wear—I was told to look sad. I felt like a pitiful little Mexican at her quinceañera. Lionel would play a street-smart dancer who, with his gang of dancers from the street (a version of those ubiquitous gangs of dancers in nearly every eighties music video), would crash the wedding and beckon me to the dance floor.

  When I met up with Lionel on set and we got a look at each other’s costumes, we were already in giggles.

  For Lionel we used the nickname “Lonnie Bistro,” or “Lonnie B” for short. The Escovedos and Garderes are big on nicknames. If we give you a nickname, you’re in the family. I myself have seven nicknames, which alternate depending on if I’m being addressed by my family, my friends, or my godchildren.

  When the director, Bob Giraldi (who’d worked with Michael Jackson), told us the concept of the video and that Lionel—ever the jokester, the hilarious storyteller—would be playing a serious, sexy man and I would be his love interest, we cracked up. We were like sister and brother. How in the world would we keep straight faces once the camera was rolling? There were so many takes, mostly because we had such a hard time gazing earnestly into each other’s eyes.

  My kid sister, Zina, was cast as an extra in the video (this is a family show, remember?), and, a natural on the dance floor, she took to it better than I did. Even though I’d always thought of myself as a good dancer, on this video set I suddenly felt so stiff and without coordination. It was nothing like doing Jackson 5 numbers with my brothers in our front room or hitting the dance floor at San Francisco clubs with my girlfriends. These were not your normal dance moves. They were official dance routines choreographed by Michael Jackson’s choreographer, Michael Peters.

  I thought I was a good dancer until I started trying to do as I was told. There were so many formations and step sequences—stuff I’d never do in real life. It just wasn’t natural. Plus I was wearing a fluffy off-the-shoulder red dress and having to stare at Lonnie B like I was in love with him. The whole thing felt so goofy.

  Filming the video for “Running with the Night” is an experience I’ll never forget (and not just because it’s always a few clicks away on YouTube). I got to work with the best producers, directors, choreographers, and dancers; share the experience with my little sister; and hang out with Lonnie B, the World’s Most Famous Negro, as he used to call himself.

  And on top of all that, I was about to go o
n tour with Marvin Gaye. Best of all, my family friend Tony Flores (whom we call our cousin, or more accurately cuzzin or cut’n—so ghetto I can’t even spell it) was in Marvin’s band too. None of my relatives had auditioned for Marvin’s show, but I had a secret plan. I encouraged Peter Michael to come with me to hang out and crash the rehearsals. We could show up under the pretense that we were just visiting Tony.

  The band was already huge: four singers, three guitar players, five horns, multiple keyboard players, and one vibe percussionist. So I figured, why not have more percussion players? I’m an Escovedo, so the more percussion, the better. Besides, I wanted some family with me. We always had so much fun and played well together.

  Days went by, and I kept asking Peter Michael to just sit in with us while we rehearsed.

  “Sheila, they already have a band,” he said. “You want me to sit in when I haven’t even been invited? That ain’t cool.”

  “Trust me,” I told him. “It’ll be fine.” It took all my powers of persuasion and big-sister bossiness, but I eventually talked him into sitting in during rehearsals. When I make up my mind that something’s going to happen, it usually does. And I had made up my mind that my brother was going to join the tour with me, before Marvin or the tour manager had even heard him make a sound.

  We set up at rehearsals with three sets of congas, three sets of bongos, and three sets of timbales. This might sound excessive, but keep in mind we were complementing a twenty-three-piece band. The sound was fat. Once we all started playing together, it was clear to everyone that we enhanced the sound and that their absence would’ve been felt.

  It went well, but there was no direct offer of work for Peter Michael, and I was disappointed that my plan looked set to fail. After all the rehearsals, we were ready for the customary dress rehearsal. Peter Michael came to the theater and sat in the audience. We ran down the show, and when it was done, Marvin said, “Where is Peto?”

  Wilbert, the tour manager, explained, “He wasn’t officially hired. He was just sitting in at rehearsals.”

  “No,” said Marvin. “Go find him and get him, we need him.”

  Since Peter Michael was right there in the building, Wilbert didn’t have to look far. Peter Michael was pulled out from the audience and told to call the designer so he could be fitted for a tux immediately. He’d be joining the band for the tour. I had to smile.

  The tour started on April 18 that year in San Diego. Musically, it was a wonderful experience, and my playing grew by leaps and bounds. Professionally, it was one of my most challenging tours. Marvin was beset with problems and surrounded by all kinds of unsavory characters. Thank God I had family with me. We had each other’s backs and got to share the honor of working for one of our musical heroes.

  He was such a gentleman—funny and sweet. His talent blew me away, night after night. During the first couple of shows, once he started singing—especially when he was sitting at the piano—I was so swept up in his delivery, so lost in his unearthly talent, that I literally forgot I was onstage with him and missed my cues.

  Peter Michael would subtly walk over and nudge me. “Sheila, you were supposed to play that beat!” or “Sheila, hit the chimes!”

  “Oh, shoot!” I’d say and start playing.

  I was so lost in Marvin I sometimes felt like a fan at the concert, not a part of his band. Sharing the stage with him, one of the musical greats I’d always looked up to, was utterly surreal. He had a lot to teach me. One day during an on-the-road rehearsal, I learned an important lesson about what it meant to honor the integrity of a song. When we were running through “What’s Going On,” I was so feeling the groove of that song that I had to start dancing. Then Peter Michael and I busted out some of our old Jackson 5 moves, both of us always wanting to add a little spice. It was our own little dance fest. Tony joined in on the dance moves, and soon the horn players were doing our steps, too. Section by section, the whole band started grooving.

  Marvin sang his heart out, and everybody felt it: Mother, mother, there’s far too many of you cryin’.

  Then, as I was playing the simple conga rhythm of that song on the high lead conga drum (quinto)—boong boong gah, boong buh-doong gah, boong boong gah, boong buh-doong gah, you know the one—I was so into the song that I got happy and hit an extra beat (donnnng! ) on the low conga drum (called a tumba). That extra hit is not a part of the song.

  Wrong move.

  Immediately Marvin yelled, “Stop!”

  The whole band stopped. It got quiet, real fast.

  Marvin, a very softly spoken man, never yelled, so we knew something was wrong. He scanned the room, looking at all of the musicians and then focusing his attention on the three of us.

  “Who hit that extra drum?” I was speechless, afraid to confess and praying my brother and cousin wouldn’t tell on me. I felt like a little girl again, being interrogated by Moms after one of us kids did something bad.

  Marvin waited.

  Without thinking, I pointed to Peter Michael and tried to blame him for it. Old sibling dynamics die hard. I did get him the gig, after all. Maybe he owed me this one.

  But when my brother looked at me with utter shock, his eyes said he wasn’t having it. His look said, How you gonna call me out like that and it ain’t even true! Rather than tell the truth and let Marvin know that I was the one who hit that extra beat, though, Peter Michael let me blame it on him. He took one for the team.

  Guilt was eating me up, though, and I realized how wrong it was for me to have blamed him.

  “Okay, okay, guys. Sorry. My fault!” I said, hands in the air as if I was under arrest. I admitted to Marvin and my fellow musicians that it was me who’d mistakenly thought it was cool to accessorize an already perfect rhythm line with that extra beat. Most everybody thought it was funny, but I dug into some serious humble pie that day.

  As is usually the case with embarrassing blows to the ego like this one, I ended up learning a very important lesson. Only play what is supposed to be played for the specific song you’re supposed to be playing. Knowing when not to play is in some ways more important than actually playing. My extra little beat didn’t even sound right. Everyone knows that song right away from that perfect conga rhythm—just as it is. Less is more.

  I’ve come to think of percussion as the last color added that turns a pretty painting into the most beautiful painting in the world. Percussionists are those extra crucial colors. But which color should a percussionist choose? And where should it go? And how light or heavy should the stroke of the paintbrush be? Percussionists should be selective. They don’t have to play just because there’s a space to play.

  One of the most valuable things is knowing not just how to play, but when not to play. That is key. Fledgling percussionists tend to want to play during the entire song. They want to be heard. But being a good percussionist during a song is like being a good listener during a conversation. You’re not going to create a very fulfilling dialogue with another person if you’re talking over them, interrupting them, or, instead of actively listening, just waiting for your chance to get a word or two in.

  A good listener is an active listener who stays present and doesn’t step on the speaker’s words. It’s the same thing with percussion. A good percussionist knows when it’s time to listen and when it’s time to play. And a very good percussionist doesn’t just listen for a good spot to play; a good percussionist is present for the song, listening for a chance to enhance it rather than crowd it.

  The same goes for drummers. I’ve played with both drummers and percussionists who don’t know how to solo that well, or don’t know a lot of licks and fills. So technically, they end up playing less than someone who knows more. But those who play less actually make the song sound better. Those are actually the ones I’d prefer to work with. It’s a question of quality over quantity.

  When I’m auditioning a drummer for my band—believe it or not, I’m not always on drums, so I need a drummer behind me when I’m o
ut in front singing and/or playing percussion—I’m more interested in the one who plays less and keeps time more. In other words, I need a drummer who can set the foundation for the band.

  If you’re busy playing a bunch of fills, then you may be looking cool and sounding cool, but you’re missing the point. Just because you know all that doesn’t mean you should play all that. The drummer needs to be steady, reliable, and on time—and, above all else, to stay out of the way.

  A good drummer drives the bus instead of running up and down the aisle distracting all the passengers. This comes back to something that I think all musicians in a band should keep in mind. To go along with the bus analogy, passengers can’t all get on at the same time. There’s a narrow entryway and a narrow aisle. You have to fall back to give someone else time to get on, walk on, and sit down.

  Whenever the E Family performs, we still have to take time to negotiate this seemingly simple guideline. We can’t have my father, my two brothers, and myself all showing off our tricks at once. Back in the day, my brothers and I didn’t quite get this. We’d be in the garage or at house parties, all trying to take the solo. Juan and Peter Michael would each want to take a timbale solo, one after the other. And then me.

  While that’s fun, and the solos might even be halfway decent, we had to learn how to give each other space, how to be not only good musicians but good musicians who know about musicianship. Talent and musicianship are two very different things.

  • • •

  When I was on tour with Marvin Gaye, my contact with Prince was pretty minimal—though often when I opened the door to my hotel room after arriving in a new city, I’d be delighted to find a beautiful bouquet of flowers, accompanied by a really touching card. Such surprises certainly provided a happy distraction and made the challenging times on the tour more bearable.

  Every person on that tour has a different story to tell, but I think we can all agree that as lucky as we were to be there, we were equally stressed. Our beloved drum tech, Eric Sharp, so young and vital, was found hanged in his hotel room during the tour. His loss was traumatic to Peter Michael, Tony, and me. I often think of him and will always miss him. After his death, it felt like a dark cloud was hanging over the entire tour. There was such a strange energy, and I never felt completely safe.