The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

  Some of the attention I was getting from men only made things harder. Playing on that tour signified another level in my career, and yet I quickly discovered that with these new opportunities came new challenges. Once again I had to navigate around some unsavory invitations from various music-industry insiders who attended the shows.

  Different tour, same proposal: sleep with me and I’ll advance your career. The proposal was the same, even if now it was more frequent and more dressed up.

  I was now being told that I could have money, drugs, cars, houses, and record deals if I would just give up my body for the night. Turning down offers like this was a no-brainer. I became increasingly grateful for my upbringing, for Moms and Pops raising me with such a strong moral code. Besides, I wanted an honest man with a sense of humor who would sweep me off my feet. And, of course, he had to be fine!

  Even though I was still pretty young at twenty-five, I was getting better and better at trusting my instincts about people—who would support me and uplift me and who was there to use me or bring me down. I’m grateful that my devotion to the music kept me focused and kept me from straying from who I really was and what I felt I was called to do. While my increasing resolve didn’t stop guys from making aggressive pitches about how they could make me a star, I was becoming better at defending myself against the onslaught of disingenuous lines. I just wasn’t interested in that kind of pitch. I was satisfied with where I was in my career and constantly excited by all that I was learning.

  While I was creating the foundation for being more than a backup singer and featured percussionist, I didn’t have any conscious plan for anything more. Divine timing was working it out for me.

  By this time I was already writing my own songs—carrying around notebooks and journals filled with lyrics, experimenting with music, playing with my drum machine and keyboard, navigating the gear, working my four-track and my eight-track. So I’m sure it was in the back of my mind somewhere: being a solo artist or, more vaguely, moving beyond whatever constraints band membership might create. And yes, it did occur to me that I could maybe solo one day, but I didn’t have a conscious plan. Besides, there weren’t any women who were solo percussionists/singers/drummers who played different genres of music while integrating dance routines.

  A few friends had small studios in their homes and were making demos, so I taught myself to do the same. No one ever sat me down and showed me how to make a demo, and I didn’t like reading a manual. I just bought the most professional equipment I could afford at the time and started to play.

  Being on tour with a Motown icon like Marvin, I was exposed to lots of perks like extra amenities or special access to restaurants and clubs—just special treatment all around. Sure, I thought, I can get used to this. But I was also being exposed to something greater that I wanted to get used to: respect for the artist.

  While intellectually I understood that Marvin was a huge star whose songs affected so many, I was continually blown away by the reaction he’d get onstage. Hearing people sing along to his music and thank him for his impact on their lives, I was beginning to fantasize about somehow doing the same.

  Of course, it’d have to be my unique version of the same. Can’t nobody even touch Marvin. But he inspired me to want to continue being the best Sheila-artist I could be. What lyrics and arrangements and showmanship could I develop within myself? What if my own music could move people? What would it feel like to inspire others—to allow for even just 1 percent of the kind of inspiration Marvin provided? I didn’t know how any of this would actually happen, but I was more than ready—thrilled, really—about the prospect of finding out.

  Toward the end of Marvin’s tour, my schedule got crazy: I’d fly to Los Angeles to rehearse with Lionel during the day and fly back to whatever city Marvin and the band were playing in that night. Only when the tour finally ended was I able to practice full-time with Lionel and his band. It was during one such rehearsal with Lionel’s band that I learned the shocking news of Marvin’s murder, an unthinkable tragedy only compounded by the horrifying detail that it was his father who had pulled the trigger. I kept thinking about how much security he had with him when we were on tour. There were always four or five bodyguards protecting him. Then he went home and was killed by his father.

  The thought haunted me—how home, what should be the epitome of safety, was the place he was ultimately the least safe. Perhaps something about that was painfully familiar to me. Marvin’s death continues to evoke a sense of horror within me—the loss of this gifted man and the reminder that regardless of environment, safety is never a guarantee. I suppose that’s one of the reasons that developing my spiritual self began to feel so crucial. Within the realm of spirituality, there is everlasting safety.

  Rehearsal was canceled that day out of respect for our beloved Marvin, and because we were all too upset to continue. Although there had been some dark omens on the road, none of us could have predicted that that was his last tour, that those would be his final performances.

  As the days passed, my grieving only intensified. The pain of his loss is still so profound for me. And the grief has given way to a deeper understanding of my purpose.

  Peter Michael, Tony, and I would come to understand the true honor it was to play together in Marvin’s last tour; to share the stage with a musical genius gone much too soon. I got to play with someone I idolized. But I didn’t know the amount of pain he was living with, all the internal suffering he was enduring. I would later come to learn about his financial, spiritual, creative, and professional struggles.

  His legacy has been a blessing to so many, and I can only pray that he had a glimpse of understanding his purpose in his lifetime.

  May he finally rest in peace.

  19. Brushes

  A drumstick with long wire bristles to make a hissing sound on cymbals

  Ain’t no turnin’ back now, got my whole body sweatin’

  I can do this all night, ain’t got long before the last song

  “DO WHAT IT DO”

  THE E FAMILY

  Working with Lionel Richie couldn’t have been a more different experience. He had a wealth of experience from his time with the Commodores, and now as a solo artist he was unstoppable, soaring up the charts with his latest blockbuster album Can’t Slow Down, which featured the Grammy-winning hit “All Night Long.”

  His on-tour rehearsals were a revelation for me because for the first time I was working on a proper soundstage that had to be built months in advance. The stage show was much more of a spectacle than Marvin’s: so many more technical effects and lighting cues. Not that it’s better—I’m also all for simplicity and purity—it’s just a new level and different.

  That tour was just like the tours you hear about or see on TV. Lionel was even more popular than Marvin Gaye at the time, and once I saw him in action I realized why. He’s not only an amazing songwriter, but he’s also funny, personable, and charming.

  It was while I was working with Marvin and Lionel that I made the decision to leave home and move to Los Angeles with my friend Connie. I didn’t want to go alone, and since she had great business instincts and a desire to build upon her skills in the entertainment industry, it wasn’t too tough to convince her to make the move with me.

  We packed up our belongings and hit the highway. Six hours later (maybe less, because I like to drive fast), two brown girls from East Oakland were taking pictures of each other at all the major tourist spots like the Walk of Fame, plus a few of the lesser-known ones. Hollywood was a dream come true, just like I’d pictured it.

  I’d been to LA before—for gigs and on road trips with my family—but now I’d made the leap to live there officially. I loved the idea of having a roomie, but it didn’t last longer than twenty-four hours. On the day we moved in, after we’d just finished unpacking the truck, it was time for me to go out on tour again and for Connie to begin working as a studio assistant for George Duke.

  The people who toured
with Lionel were an intimate bunch made up of band members, security, crew, and relatives. We were family.

  Mideighties fashion was all about shoulder pads and big hair, all glitter and glam. The show featured synchronized flashing lights and multiple stage levels, with dancers and ramps. The greatest thing for me was being allowed my own little spot where I could play a solo, sing along with Lionel, or be featured in some other way. Everyone was so gracious; they really allowed me to shine.

  Even though Lionel’s tour was pretty grueling and I didn’t get the rest I needed, given that it came on the heels of so much else I was doing, I loved every minute. This was what I wanted. It was 1983 when I first toured with him, and even though my solo success was a few years away, I was getting some invaluable experience and a taste for a certain kind of life. The most obvious step up for me was that I went from traveling in a car or a van and commercial flights to private buses and then—my all-time favorite—a private jet. Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved having my own tour bus and the experience of traveling with all the other artists—I almost sold my house once to live on a bus. I loved the simplicity of having your transport and your home as one, and not having to worry about anything else. No mortgage, just gas. (These days, I’m not sure there’s much difference!)

  Private jets, on the other hand, made a whole lot of other fun stuff possible. There’s no security at the airport (and therefore no flashbacks to Colombia); you never have to wait in line; there’s hot food once you get on the plane; you have the option of sitting with the pilot during takeoff and landing (feeling a bit like the astronaut I’d always longed to be); and you can help yourself to hot chocolate-chip cookies, in-flight massages, and glasses of wine. I would gaze out at the sky in wonder and count the real stars as well as my lucky ones.

  Sometimes I had to pinch myself when I realized that the high school dropout whose family occasionally had to rely on welfare stamps was now enjoying the kind of life I’d only seen in movies. I was living larger than I ever could have imagined.

  I was so busy and having so much fun that there wasn’t room in my life for anything but work and music, which was just as well, because Prince was co-coordinating three or four projects at a time, including several protégé bands.

  We spoke when we could (before mobile phones, e-mails, and Skype), but each time we did, he slowly chipped away at my defenses. He was very smart. On the Lionel Richie tour, he sent enormous bouquets to every hotel room in every city where I stayed.

  There was definitely some serious wooing going on.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t suffer from hay fever, because he’d send an embarrassing amount of blooms. The different arrangements had cards that read HAVE A GREAT SHOW or LOVE YOU, PRINCE.

  With every bouquet I’d wonder where all this was leading. We had always been such good friends and, although he’d hinted at moving our relationship to another level, I was happy for things to stay as they were—for now. Not only was he as busy as I was, traveling and working, but women constantly surrounded him, and that wasn’t the kind of relationship I wanted with anyone—especially after Carlos.

  Inhaling the scent from his bouquets, I’d think, Heck, what am I going to do with this huge arrangement? The band members would have to make room for my flowers and me—even on Lionel’s private plane.

  I continued to be privately delighted each time, though, because every arrangement was different, outdoing the last. Each time I saw them, my heart skipped a beat, and I couldn’t deny that my feelings were growing. He was so darn romantic. I think I was falling in love with the concept of Prince more than I was with the man himself—whom I hardly ever saw. What with the flowers and phone calls telling me how much he cared, he was wearing me down. He was also hugely popular at that point, and everyone was talking about him, which made him seem even more powerful and sexy. I was starting to think, Hmm. Maybe.

  My collection of cards from him was growing too. I treasured each one, carefully storing them in a large envelope that became worn and wrinkled as it moved from city to city with me, safely tucked inside my luggage. I still have them all somewhere.

  Prince’s strategy worked. I couldn’t get him off my mind, even to the point that when I bought myself a new racquet for racquetball (which I played ferociously and competitively in every town where I could find a court), I selected a brand based on name alone: Prince.

  I liked looking at his name.

  When he could, he’d fly out to visit me on tour with Lionel—which always gave me such a thrill. He’d turn up in some amazing outfit and hang out on the side of the stage with the enormous bodyguards he now needed, watching the shows (and my playing especially) with a forensic eye. He and I also started hanging out a lot between touring, and much of our time was spent in the studio. He was working with a camp of people, developing artists and producing their songs.

  In one studio he might be rehearsing or recording something for himself, such as his upcoming Purple Rain tour and the accompanying rock-musical movie; in the next studio he might be laying down some tracks for somebody else; and in the third he’d be producing a new group he’d put together. He had a female vocal trio called Vanity 6, another female threesome called Apollonia 6, and a separate band called the Time.

  He hired engineers in shifts because no one could stay up or go the distance the way he did. Music is what kept him awake. He was practically living at Sunset Sound Studios in LA and, since I was with him so much then, so was I.

  That man never stopped. Everybody wanted them some Prince.

  One day in December 1983, he called me up and asked me to join him at the studio.

  “Sure, what do you need me to bring?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “Just get down here.”

  I was intrigued.

  Sunset Sound was on Sunset Boulevard, not too far from my new home. The first time I walked through the gate I saw a basketball court and thought, This is my kind of place. Ever the Gardere, I looked at the musicians and technicians hanging around and asked, “Who wants to shoot some hoops?”

  Once I was in the studio that night, I figured it would be the usual format, with me providing drums or percussion to one of Prince’s tracks. It would be a late night or an early morning, depending on which way you looked at it, but I didn’t care; I was just happy to be with him.

  I walked in to find sweet-smelling candles burning and the whole place impeccably clean, as usual. Prince had set up the studio like a living room—all comfortable and cozy as if we were at home. It might as well have been—if he wasn’t playing live, he was in that studio, so it was “home.”

  As ever, he was a real gentleman, and he asked me what I wanted to drink or if I was hungry. He always wanted to make me feel comfortable. Most of the time, like on that particular night, there’d be no engineer. If there was, he or she would leave the room whenever someone else came in. Prince liked to record on his own.

  I expected to walk into the studio and find drums or percussion set up for me as normal. All I saw, though, was a solitary microphone.

  “Where’s my gear?” I asked, confused.

  He chuckled and said, “We don’t need that tonight.”

  We sat down and talked a little, and then he played me some new music he’d been working on. One of the songs was the unfinished—although already funky—“Erotic City,” intended as a B-side for “Let’s Go Crazy.”

  The song began, All of my purple life, I’ve been looking for a dame that would wanna be my wife . . . I loved it.

  “That’s funky!” I told him with a warm smile.

  I looked around for a bag of tambourines or cowbells, but neither was in sight. Not even a shaker.

  I felt the butterflies flicker to life in my stomach.

  Prince smiled, and my butterflies danced.

  “I want you sing with me on this track,” he said. It was the last thing in the world I expected him to say.

  “Oh, okay. Backup?” I asked hopefully, f
earing his answer.

  He shook his head.

  Whenever I get nervous my throat constricts. If I don’t breathe and relax, then I can’t speak, let alone sing. I sound all choked up and tiny. In a voice that was already several octaves higher than usual, I squeaked, “Um, you know I don’t like singing.”

  “You’ve been singing behind everyone for years, Sheila,” Prince said softly, brushing back a fallen strand of my hair. “You know just what to do.”

  His suggestion that I sing a duet with him (one of the biggest stars in the world) was made with such nonchalance, as if it was an everyday offer. There he was, an amazing singer with a range from low to high falsetto—whereas all I’d ever done was croon a little background. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s just do it.”

  “Ah, really?” I had a lump in my throat and was so nervous.

  I tried everything I could to wriggle out of singing with him. I reminded him that backing other people was much easier for me. I told him that what he was proposing was the most intimidating prospect of my life. Despite my usual confidence, I didn’t even know how to begin. Even though he was my friend (with increasingly romantic undertones), I felt suddenly self-conscious and half scared to death.

  “But we sing together all the time,” he soothed, pushing me gently.

  “Sure, when we’re just hanging out and jamming—but to sing in a studio and have you record it?”

  I had been recording my vocals for years in my own home studio and also doing vocals with my dad on our records. This was different, though.

  My knees were shaking at the mere idea of standing in front of a microphone. What in the world would I do with my hands, which were always moving at a hundred miles an hour?