by Sheila E.
But Prince is a hard man to say no to. Before I knew it I was just where he wanted me, in front of the mic, my hands clamped rigidly to my sides as I waited to hear what strangulated sound would emerge from my throat.
The answer was almost nothing. My throat closed. He was so patient with me, and the more I tried, the more my confidence grew—well, a little. He told me to sing like I do with everyone else. After a while, my nerves began to dissipate, and I even started to enjoy the process, although I’m not sure I ever got that comfortable that night.
One unexpected hurdle, though, involved his lyrics, or rather one word in one line of the chorus. I looked at the sheet he’d scribbled them on and told him I really wasn’t happy about singing the f-word.
“My mother would have a fit!”
He smiled at me as if indulging a child, then worked out a compromise. He would sing “We can f—until the dawn” while I sang “We can funk until the dawn.” Which is what we did, and then later he laid the two tracks over each other.
In the finished song you can hear both words, which ended up becoming a bit of a mystery for Prince fans. People were asking, “Are they saying ‘funk’ or are they saying the f-word?” Most DJs claimed it was “funk” so that they could play the track and not get into trouble. My moral shyness had inadvertently not only got people talking about the double entendre, it started a buzz.
Although it was the eighties, society hadn’t yet been inundated with the kind of overt sexuality in songs and videos that came later. Prince was really pushing the envelope in “Erotic City,” and it was still a big deal back then to hear that word (or even think you’d heard that word) on the radio.
I’m relieved to say that, to this day, Moms never seemed to notice. If she had, I’d have been in big trouble.
People still comment on how “sexy” I sound on that song, which always makes me laugh, because if you had been in the studio with Prince that night, you’d sound sexy too! I have no idea what time we finished recording in that windowless space, but it was late. Oftentimes we’d walk out of the studio and I’d be surprised to encounter daylight and have to reach for my sunglasses.
In the weeks we lived at Sunset Sound, we grew closer and closer, and I fell a little bit deeper in love with him every day. I knew now it was love, and had gone beyond our deep friendship. He made a few moves on me, but I kept pushing him away in a kind of power play between us. Despite how I felt, I still didn’t want to spoil our friendship, and I was afraid of what might happen if we took things further. He still had all kinds of women in tow and I didn’t want to be just another number. Plus, I’d been badly burned and the memory still stung. The last thing I wanted was to walk into another relationship with another famous guitar player that women drooled over.
So ours was a slow burn. But one day much later on I couldn’t say no anymore—and I guess we really did “funk until the dawn.”
20. Click Track
A series of audio cues used to synchronize sound recordings
I gave my heart to you and I’m in heaven
I know your love is true ’cuz I’m in heaven
“HEAVEN”
SHEILA E
Music had saved me when I was a child, and it continued to save me, giving me a reason to get up each morning and to keep on living and loving. To share my passion for it with someone who felt the same way was one of the greatest privileges of my life.
Working with Prince was the beginning of a fabulous musical relationship. He loved the music and the musicianship I brought to the table, so he gave me a lot more work. And we had so much fun! For Prince, making music is the most fun in the world. While we were collaborating we’d stop to eat. Or we’d play Ping-Pong or basketball—and I gave him a run for his money, even though he won’t admit it. We were like a couple living and working together and enjoying ourselves. It didn’t feel like work at all.
One day at Sunset Sound he turned and asked me, “So, do you want to make your own record?”
I laughed and said, “It’s that easy, right?”
He shrugged and nodded.
I knew I could play percussion well enough—that was a given—but to come up with material that was more commercial than my daddy’s music would be a serious challenge for me. To be able to perfect it, perform it, and go out with my own band was something altogether different.
It was definitely something I’d considered after all those hours I’d put into recording my own demos, learning how to write songs, and finding my own sound. I just hadn’t done anything about it yet.
“Do you have any songs?” Prince asked.
“Well, I did another demo since the last one I gave you.”
“Okay, let’s hear it!”
He had his own production deal with Warner Brothers, so he suggested I sign to him. I met with Prince’s manager at a hamburger joint to go over the contract.
I was so thrilled.
My own manager!
My own contract!
I signed on the dotted line before my burger and fries even came to the table. I didn’t even read the small print.
In March 1984, I began recording vocals on some songs that Prince and I had chosen for my album. As always, we worked together really well, so it was easy to meet in the middle. The next few days were a mix of writing, recording, singing, playing, and staying up all night. That was what was so cool about us being together. We were influenced by each other’s music. Prince was not used to leaving his other artists in the studio by themselves, but since I was a seasoned session player, I didn’t need babysitting. It seemed like only five minutes ago that he’d persuaded me to sing a duet with him. Now he’d convinced me that I should be the lead singer in my own band!
We worked three days solid without sleep because we were both so excited about the project. Prince was a machine: he was still working in two or three rooms at the same time. It was organized chaos, but always exciting and cool. His no-nonsense attitude was “Okay, let’s go!” I was the same way. I don’t believe he ever had a woman around him before who could hang like I did—I mean musically, athletically, creatively, and competitively.
It seemed like we recorded my album in about a week. The songs were all long versions too. There were no three-minute numbers for Prince. I’ve never even come close to recording an album in such a short amount of time since. It was crazy and a lot of fun—just the way I like it.
The secret was that we’d record and semi-mix simultaneously. Prince taught me that if you record it right in the first place, there’s not much mixing to do—so there was very little mixing done afterward. I had never recorded that way with any other artist.
Many people have come up with different stories about how my professional name became Sheila E. Well, here’s the deal.
Escovedo has never been an easy name to say or spell. Since middle school, people referred to my brother Juan as Juan E. And soon I was Sheila E. If you listen to the videoed studio session of George Duke’s Dukey Stick in 1978, you can hear George call me E when he sings, What you gonna do now? Tell me about E, E?
Prince and I had talked about a stage name for me. When I suggested my childhood nickname Sheila E, he said that was perfect and far more commercial than anything he could think of. We both thought it was catchy and easier for people to remember than my real last name. He then flew me to Minneapolis for some parties and jam sessions, where we tested the waters to see how people would respond to my new name.
“I want you to meet my new artist, Sheila E!” he’d announce. (Coming from Prince, that was some introduction!) The crowds seemed to like it.
So when he presented the final cut of my first album to Warner Brothers a couple of weeks after I’d agreed to make it, Sheila E was born.
Between us, we had come up with the concept of presenting me on the album cover as a glamorous Hollywood film star from a bygone era. We were both very visual people and wanted to make this album both different and entertaining. As far as we knew, there
had never before been a woman who led a band playing timbales. The idea of a film star dressed in a mink coat singing about wanting a glamorous life seemed kinda cool.
“The Glamorous Life” was the last song we worked on. In fact, we weren’t even going to include it on the album. It started out as an instrumental, and I couldn’t think of any lyrics for it at first. Once I got started, though, the words came quickly.
She’s got big thoughts, big dreams, and a big brown Mercedes sedan. What I think this girl, she really wants is to be in love with a man. She wants to lead the glamorous life. She don’t need a man’s touch . . . Without love, it ain’t much.
After rearranging the music and adding other musicians to the song, we were really happy with it. It was very percussive and it had a catchy melody, incorporating all the black keys on the piano so that it almost sounded like a nursery rhyme. And the song was simple. Commercial music—even if it’s funky and soulful—sometimes needs to be simplified in order to appeal to a broader audience. Simple melodies and simple rhythms often create hits because they’re easy to remember.
When Warner Brothers heard the album, though, they weren’t quite so enamored. They wanted “The Belle of St. Mark” to be the first single. Prince and I fought hard for it to be “The Glamorous Life,” which we also wanted as the title of the album.
We won.
On May 12, 1984, my single was released and became an almost immediate club hit. The album followed a few weeks later. “The Belle of St. Mark” (which I wrote about Prince) was released as a single in due course, along with “Oliver’s House.” To my amazement, my first album eventually reached number 28 on the pop chart, was nominated for a Grammy, and went gold.
In keeping with the cinematic theme, the liner notes said that the record was “directed” by Prince’s Starr Company and me. (Prince sometimes called himself Jamie Starr, along with Alexander Nevermind and other monikers.) It was Prince’s idea that his name didn’t appear at all, even though he’d coproduced the entire album, cowritten most of the songs, and performed on almost all of them.
Another song he and I cowrote was “Noon Rendezvous,” which was about our relationship at the time. The words included the lines: I’ve been wondering what to wear. I love our noon rendezvous. I know you tell me you missed me, and I want to make love to you . . . The words are all over your face, my love. What shall you or shall I do? You could show me some new tricks, my love. I’d love to be taught by you . . . We started writing “Noon Rendezvous” when I let Prince listen to a ballad I’d written and played castanets on. We talked about it, and I told him my dream was to write a song commercial enough to be played on the radio, which was something totally different for me. I was hoping this one might make it.
Prince was excited by the idea. He loves being inspired by other people and opened up to things he might not have thought of on his own. I had always collaborated as part of a family band and was brought up to be a team player (despite my independent streak).
It was nice to see him influenced by my musicianship as well as my family’s musical bond. Prince had begun spending more and more time with my family, and he remarked that he’d never seen a father and his children jamming together, exchanging competitive licks, and communicating seamlessly through melody and rhythm. We exposed him both to our music—a completely unique blend of percussion, Latin jazz, and melody with syncopated rhythms and different time signatures—and to our unabashed expression of family love. I think it was this latter aspect, the bond between us—onstage and off—that truly struck him. It was the joyful public affection between Moms and Pops and their children, as well as the family’s capacity to extend unconditional care and compassion to anyone, that Prince was especially moved by. He’s one of many who have responded to the warmth our family shows one another. It’s feedback we’re humbled to receive quite often—how refreshing and inspiring it is to see such a tight-knit family that makes their work and play one and the same.
It’s no wonder there are a gazillion honorary Escovedos. In a world of broken homes, family grudges, and tragic disconnects between relatives, I suppose a family that plays, prays, and stays together provides something much needed. Since I’ve always been in the middle of it, I didn’t always realize what a God-given blessing it was to be in a family so overflowing with love.
Now, thankfully, I’m well aware.
Once my album was made, I then had to focus on the video to promote it. I knew from my time with Lionel Richie that music videos were becoming a major part of popular culture in the eighties and one of the best ways to promote a song, album, and persona. So when it was time to shoot the footage for “The Glamorous Life,” I wanted to approach it strategically. It would, after all, be the first image people would put to my music and my debut exposure as a solo artist. Like everything else within my career, I took it very seriously.
As I didn’t have an official band by the time we were ready to shoot, I held auditions. Ever-inclusive Moms suggested (i.e., commanded ) that Zina, still a teenager and to me always the baby, had to be in the video. I told her, “Moms, I’d love to have her, but she doesn’t play any instrument, and I need real musicians that can actually play so it looks totally realistic.”
Moms, who lives by the all-for-one-and-one-for-all principle, pointed out that Zina already had experience being in Lionel’s video with me. I tried to convince her that this was different—I needed a musician front and center, not a background dancer. But more important, if I was going to use my sister, I needed to prove to the record company that she was as capable of doing the video as any professional. I couldn’t just hire her because she was my sister.
Moms didn’t take no for an answer (see where I get it from?), so I agreed to let Zina audition just like everyone else. Since she was an Escovedo, we were pretty sure she’d come through.
Zina, meanwhile, wasn’t too happy about having to audition. She had to get up on the stage in front of me, Moms, and the rest of the musicians who’d already been hired—including Juan and Peter Michael—as well as some serious record company executives. But then she did such a good job faking the guitar playing, and her dancing skills have always been ridiculously good. She didn’t look as young as she really was because she assumed her role with such conviction. She also dressed the part. After she did her audition, everyone applauded.
I couldn’t deny it—my sister turned it out. “You’re hired!” I cried.
Now I had Juan, Peter Michael, and Zina by my side. And while I was playing it cool about the whole video shoot, it was something new, and the stakes felt high. Having my siblings with me would make a world of difference.
The final band lineup was Benny Rietveld on bass, Juan on keys (which he really didn’t play), Lee Williams Jr. (Zina’s boyfriend at the time) on keys—which he didn’t play, either—Scott Roberts (an ex-boyfriend of mine) on drums, Zina on guitar, and Peter Michael on soprano sax (which wasn’t even an instrument in the song, but he said he could dance better with a straight sax).
We were all nervous and excited. How were we going to make this work? The answer was practice, practice, and practice. And then some more practice. That’s how I roll. The band rehearsed a couple days in advance, because I wasn’t taking any chances. Zina needed to practice holding her guitar in a way that looked like she was really playing it. She then played the parts that sounded like guitars but actually weren’t (they were keyboard parts that Prince had recorded). We were going to have it down solid before anyone from production even got a first glimpse.
When we showed up and presented our routine for the director, he was pretty impressed. (I guess he didn’t know about all our years of dance routines and band-formation practice on our back porch and in our front room. We had this thing locked down!)
The director had some great ideas, like putting glitter on the head of the low drum for a shot. They also poured water onto the glitter, so when I kicked the cymbal there was a cool effect—magic drums with a splash of glitt
er straight into the camera.
Someone in production created the story line of the video, inspired by the lyrics. We filmed it at the Wiltern Theatre on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. Instead of doing the band shots on the actual stage, we ended up doing them in the lobby, with its great colors and amazing architecture, which came across even bigger and more impressive on film. While most of the video was shot in LA, there were a few San Francisco shots as well.
As the music blasted out of the speakers, I lip-synced to my own voice, which was easy for me because I’d grown up lip-syncing to all my favorite artists like Sammy Davis Jr. and every Motown artist under the sun. As a young girl I loved to practice mouthing the words just right, trying even then to be convincing.
On video shoots they want you to really sing and play your instruments so that it looks real. To complicate matters, I had to do all that while dancing. This was a challenge, but I wanted to show people that it was possible to do all three things at the same time. I wanted to be a triple threat.
So at the film studio on the lot with a background similar to my album cover, we worked hard replicating everything as best we could; doing the same thing over and over and over and practicing our dance steps for hours on end—the same way we had done since we could walk.
I didn’t want a choreographer, because I didn’t think we needed one. I told the record company, “Why would you want to hire someone else when I know what needs to be done? Plus, there isn’t a woman in the world who’s doing all this at once and who can do what I do.”
There still isn’t.
I knew instinctively that I’d be the best one to choreograph my own video, since it was my song and I knew better than anyone the kinds of steps my feet could do while my arms were drumming. Later on I saw people in the clubs, even in cities where I didn’t speak the language, not only singing along to my words of “The Glamorous Life” but also mimicking those very steps. They had taken on a life of their own. Who knew that the little girl who loved to imitate other artists would one day be imitated herself?