The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

  There’s no precise career formula for artists, not the way there is for some professions. If you get through law school, you become a lawyer. If you get through medical school, you become a doctor. For artists, however, there’s no clear path, which you can view as a blessing or a curse. It can be so frustrating, because it’s natural to want to know when and how your career will play out. It would be so nice to have a guaranteed formula for success: if I can accomplish X, then I will get Y, and eventually I will be Z. And yet the very lack of an exact formula, the inherent unknown, is what makes the artist’s career so exciting. There’s a variety of options and opportunities for artists, which allows for an infinite number of ways one’s career can unfold.

  The other thing I warn any wannabe stars out there is that there are millions of musicians and artists all wanting the same thing. If you’re not 100 percent committed or 100 percent passionate, I suggest you have a plan B.

  I’ve always loved the quotation, credited to Mikhail Baryshnikov, who when asked what advice he would give a young dancer, reportedly said: “If you must.” His suggestion was that his was such a hard career that others should only pursue it if they have no other choice—if it is what they must do.

  If you have a plan B or something else in mind that you know you might also enjoy or be good at, then music might not be the best career choice for you; you should probably be doing that instead.

  Baryshnikov was also quoted as saying something else that resonates: “Working is living to me.” Making music is living to me as well. It not only gives me life, it is my life. For me, there was no other choice. There was never a plan B. There must be success stories out there about people who make it even though they lack passion, but I would discourage aspiring musicians from hanging their hats on that kind of exception.

  Of course I was blessed to have a brilliant musician father who eventually put me in his band. And having the loving support and encouragement of my mother made a huge difference. Where I was born and raised was another huge contributing factor to my becoming established in the industry, because the Bay Area music scene is so diverse and extensive. But I still needed the passion and verve to drive my musical career, despite those connections and such a supportive environment.

  If you are really passionate about what you do and what you want, here’s my advice: continue to work hard at it. Practice, practice, practice. Play and perform any chance you get, with any kind of musical genre you can. While I believe playing from your heart and soul is most important, learning to read music will also help. I recently visited a school’s music department and overheard the teacher telling his students, “Practice makes progress.” I love this message. Becoming “perfect” shouldn’t be the goal. Just keep trying to do your best. Growth, in and of itself, is the real goal.

  Oh, and one last word of advice, via Pete Escovedo: always be well dressed. Pops dresses clean and sharp. We tease him that he probably wears a suit to bed, or at least irons his silk pajamas before retiring for the night. He has instilled in me the belief that dressing up is a sign of respect for yourself and for those whom you’re performing with. Your appearance reflects how seriously you regard your job. Pops taught me to dress well even for a studio recording session.

  I’m not saying you need to wear a tux or an evening gown in the sound booth. You can be comfortable, but do give consideration to your public appearance. It’s part of the ritual that reinforces your respect for your work and your respect for those who are paying you for it.

  Being in the music industry probably has more challenges for women than for men, and for me it’s certainly been a fight. Before I realized that the outside world had something to say about my gender, I saw myself as someone who just loved to make beats. Playing drums was simply part of everyday life. I thought it was the norm, just what all families did. I figured all little girls did what I did.

  Over time, I realized something was a little different about me. Even when I was being bused to school in junior high I sat in the back and practiced drumbeats on the windows and on the back of the seat in front of me. All the kids around me would smile, clap, and tell me to keep going. They loved the James Brown funk beats the most.

  “Come on! Join in!” I’d tell them, but they’d just stare at me.

  “We don’t know how to do that,” they’d say.

  I didn’t get how they didn’t know. All my life, the people around me had joined in. It was just what we did when we were bored or sitting at the dinner table, or . . . well . . . whenever!

  Back then, the feedback wasn’t about the fact that I was a girl who knew how to drum. It was the fact that I even knew how to drum—period—that intrigued people. I didn’t really realize that there was a gender attached to playing drums until I became a professional musician. I’d walk into a studio session, rehearsal, or live show and the men would look at me as if to say, “How dare you encroach on my territory!” Or they’d be openly confused, asking, “You are here to play? You’re a percussionist?”

  Thanks to the confidence instilled in me by Moms and Pops, the negative reception I got didn’t really bother me. When I heard things like “You’re not going to last in this business” or “You were only hired because you’re cute” or “If you sleep with me, I’ll get you a record contract,” I tried to brush it off.

  Pops always told me, “They might be threatened by you. Just shake it off and don’t let them bring you down.” For the most part, I was able to dismiss their negativity and not take it personally. I felt like I had some kind of invisible armor on. My love for drumming and percussion was my greatest protector: nobody and nothing could get to me. You can’t hurt me with your comments or your eye rolling, I thought. I love playing and I’m here because I can play.

  This profound love for playing kept me focused and strong, and my increasing professional experience gave me more and more belief in myself. Eventually, the fact that I was being hired by people like George Duke, Marvin Gaye, Herbie Hancock, and Billy Cobham added to my confidence. My armor was getting thicker. If they wanted to make a big deal about the fact that I was a woman, then that was their prerogative.

  At first I did feel the pressure to prove that I was hired for the right reasons, but eventually my need to prove myself lessened. I wasn’t competing with men—I was competing with myself. I fought to do my best rather than fighting to be seen as good enough to hang with the guys. It was the love of the music that kept me fighting. And it still does.

  To me, true musicianship comes from within. I tell all aspiring musicians that while technical skills are certainly important, it’s equally if not more important to bring your spirit to your playing. So while young women may have to face particular challenges in the music industry, they can embrace their womanhood and continue to focus on playing from the heart. Playing with spirit, with heart, and with soul is not attached to any gender.

  And now my purpose is much higher. I’m no longer looking for acceptance, applause, or accolades the way I once was. Once God made it clear to me that my music was a gift for me to share purposefully, I was freed from any need for external validation. When He showed me that through my music I could uplift others—that I was blessed with a career that provided me a public forum in which I could share my testimony and make a difference for other abuse survivors like myself, any need to prove myself disappeared.

  Once I gave my heart to the Lord, I understood my greater purpose. My innocent love of playing was instantly restored. I have come full circle, back to that purest of places. And I count my blessings every day.

  29. Reprise

  A repeated passage in music

  Reflecting like a mirror

  Racing in my mind

  These photographs remind me

  Of what’s not far behind

  “FADED PHOTOGRAPHS”

  SHEILA E

  The last twenty years have been cram-packed full of so much music, love, pain, sorrow, and laughter that some of what I’ve done will have
to wait for another day or my next book.

  Outstanding highlights for me, though, included performing a song from the movie The Mambo Kings at the sixty-fifth Academy Awards with Placido Domingo and featuring in the house band for the 2012 Oscars. I’ve played with Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony on the 2011 American Idol finale and on The Late Show as part of Drum Solo Week with David Letterman.

  I met (and hugged) Sidney Poitier while playing with Lionel Richie and was able to thank him for one of my all-time favorite movies, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?

  I sat in on drums with Elton John for an Andre Agassi fundraiser in Las Vegas, and I’ve helped promote musicians’ rights in Washington, DC, as part of the Fight for the Right campaign. I have starred and played music in two films for 20th Century Fox and became Dr. Escovedo after being awarded an honorary doctorate in music from the Musicians Institute. I set up my own record company, Stiletto Flats, and cut a new record—Now & Forever—with Pops and my brothers. We were blessed to be joined by Earth, Wind & Fire, Joss Stone, Gloria Estefan, George Duke, Raphael Saadiq, and Israel Houghton.

  I also had the honor of performing at the Summer Olympics in 1996 with Gloria Estefan. When I arrived for a sound check, I realized I was a few meters from the Olympic track where I’d once dreamed of winning gold. Thinking of my younger self running at dusk on the high school track, I dashed toward the starting lines, got into the starting position, and took a moment to imagine what fulfilling that dream might have been like.

  I told my family gleefully later, “See, I made it to the Olympics after all!”

  Two years later I became the first female and first person of color to be appointed musical director and leader of the house band for the popular late-night television show Magic Hour, fronted by basketball player Magic Johnson.

  A few years later I had another chance of a lifetime—to meet one of the Fab Four, who’d so impressed us Escovedo kids when they came to the US back in the sixties. It was 2001 when Lynn received a call from Ringo Starr’s management to ask if I would like to be a part of his All-Starr Band.

  My response was, “Heck, yeah. Playing with one of the Beatles? I always knew it would happen one day!” I was super excited, but then a tad overwhelmed when I heard that Ringo didn’t just want me to play percussion—he wanted me to be his drummer.

  I mean, man, me drumming for the drummer from the Beatles! How cool is that?

  Ringo’s All-Starr Tour has been going since 1989 and changes its lineup all the time, depending on who’s available. All the greats have played with him, including Clapton, Joe Walsh, Todd Rundgren, and Edgar Winter. Sometimes Ringo sings and sometimes he plays the drums, depending on the song and the set.

  I was nervous to meet him at a production studio in LA and even more anxious when he walked toward me looking stern. He crossed his arms and said in that droll Liverpool way of his, “So, you’re going to be the drummer of my band, huh?”

  I was shaking.

  Then his face broke into a smile and he added, “I want you to know that you are the drummer, not me!”

  I laughed and said, “Okay, well, what do I have to do?”

  Our fellow band members on that first tour included Carl Palmer from Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Roger Hodgson from Supertramp, and Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople. I was so anxious not to let Ringo down that I prepared for weeks. I still didn’t read music very well, so I wrote everything out in my shorthand to know where I needed to be. I listened carefully to all twenty-six songs on the set list and started to break them down.

  Analyzing Ringo’s drumming really gave me a feel for the way he used his swing to communicate, and the way he put a break here or there. Dissecting it like that made me realize how truly different he was. He had such a feel for the drums that he’d have a conversation with John Lennon or Paul McCartney and virtually sing back to them with a drum fill. I had never played that way in my life before, and he taught me so much. The more I listened to him, the more impressed I was.

  Playing with a Beatle was like going to Ringo Starr School. Even the way he played a hi-hat was different—it was just how he walks. No one walks like Ringo, and no one plays like him. I was filled with renewed respect.

  As part of my ministry, I also went on a gospel tour called Sisters in the Spirit. I have performed at the 2007 Latin Grammys and on Idol Gives Back with Gloria Estefan. I created an all-woman band called C.O.E.D. (Chronicles of Every Diva) and toured in Europe with them. I taught Ellen DeGeneres and Orlando Bloom how to play bongos on live TV and did session work with Stevie Wonder as well as performing with him on and off. I was drummer and musical director for Beyoncé for a song called “Work It Out,” which was featured in an Austin Powers movie and which we performed on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

  In the years since we split, Prince and I reconnected and formed a stronger friendship than ever before. He’s my musical soul mate.

  There was a moment, before a sound check for his Welcome 2 America show in San Jose, California, in 2010, when I had a brief glimpse of the man I’d once fallen madly in love with. In a moment of childlike excitement, Prince and I hopped on bikes and rode them around the park area, across the street from the HP Pavilion.

  There we were—just a boy and a girl, playfully riding our bikes, soaking in the late-afternoon sunshine, enjoying a rare moment of unstructured time. He was a superstar, preparing to play to another sold-out stadium in just a few hours. And I would be joining him as a special guest. But for a few moments, we got to let go of any concerns about our image or any serious adult thoughts. We were free from our pasts. We were just two kids, riding our bikes through the park.

  When someone snapped a picture of us from his car, we were suddenly jarred back to reality. But nobody could rob us of those precious moments of whimsical play—those few minutes when we got to be kids again, reckless and free-spirited, riding our bikes, just because.

  Another major highlight for me was being nominated for an Emmy for Outstanding Musical Direction for my role in organizing Fiesta Latina: In Performance at the White House in 2009, which aired on PBS. The program celebrated Hispanic musical heritage and featured performances by me and Pops, Gloria Estefan, José Feliciano, Jimmy Smits, George Lopez, Thalia, Tito “El Bambino” Aventura, and Los Lobos.

  Eva Longoria cohosted with George Lopez and Jimmy Smits. Jennifer Lopez introduced her husband, Marc Anthony, and we musicians played in a tent on the White House lawn in front of President Obama, his wife, Michelle, their children, and illustrious guests. At the end of the show, the president and his family came up onto the stage, and I led his daughters, Sasha and Malia, to the timbales to play. The president joined us, and I have a great photo of us all together. That was truly a night to remember!

  The year 2009 was also when we lost dear Michael Jackson, a friend I hadn’t seen in four years. Like Marvin Gaye and Whitney Houston, he seemed to have people around him all the time who protected him too closely. In the good old days we’d go out for dinner with Michael, Lionel, and some friends, but that all stopped toward the end. I was invited to the Jackson house to give Randy percussion lessons, but it didn’t happen because their dad didn’t want me to come in. It was crazy. I heard the news of his death when I was on the telephone talking to my bass player. It flashed up simultaneously on the TV news. None of us could believe it. I was in total shock.

  I was invited to his funeral at the Staples Center, a place I’d played a gazillion times. It was so surreal being driven past thousands of Michael’s fans respectfully lining the route. When we walked into that vast entertainment space, filled with ten thousand people, you could hear a pin drop. The silence was overwhelming as we collectively mourned a life taken far too soon.

  I had watched Michael onstage as a five-year-old when I was five. I had hung out with him in Germany in the seventies. We’d worked together on Off the Wall and “We Are the World.” We’d laughed and played and horsed around together. He was like one of my brothers, and as I sat i
n that auditorium staring at his flower-decked coffin, I vowed that in his memory I would make the most of my life and of every new opportunity that came my way.

  My parents had always done just that—filling their lives, and ours, with love and music—and they continued to be my inspiration.

  One of the most remarkable things that happened to me was when they were planning the celebrations for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They decided to renew their marriage vows, which was something they’d also done to celebrate twenty-five years of being together.

  They needed a facility in Oakland large enough for all their friends and family to help them celebrate afterward. We went to look at a few places together, but decided none of them were good enough.

  Moms told me of one last place they wanted me to see downtown, the name of which I didn’t recognize. “Okay,” I said somewhat wearily, tired of all the searching.

  Lynn and I drove to this venue. It looked okay from the outside, which was a good start, and then we went inside. I wandered through the double doors into the lobby and then started walking up the red-carpeted stairs toward the main auditorium.

  All of a sudden, it hit me.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Lynn stopped, too, and asked, “What?”

  “This is the place!” I cried.

  “What place?”

  “The place where I played with Pops as a five-year-old kid!”