The teacher who taught me many life lessons was Mr. Spinoza. He was also a friend. We had discussions about my life struggles and my future. Mr. Spinoza helped me stay grounded. He kept an eye on what was going on around campus, and he would warn me about hanging out with the wrong individuals. He would say, “Look, all you’re going to do is find trouble with them. You’re better than that. Do the right thing.” With Mr. Spinoza, it was always about doing the right thing and staying focused. If I got behind in my work, he would pull me aside and ask, “How come you’re not in the library studying?” or “How’s your project coming along? Are you devoting enough time to your projects at home?” I loved his drafting class. He taught us mechanical drawing, and he even encouraged us to create our own architectural designs. Because of his encouragement, I fell in love with architectural design. I seriously considered becoming an architect.
Westchester High School opened up a new world for me. Mr. McCullough became one of my mentors and made it possible for a group of us to go to Europe one summer for an enrichment program. That summer of 1972, we traveled to England, Sweden, Austria, and East and West Germany. I will never forget our visit to East Berlin, inside the walls of communist Germany. The checkpoint entrance was a grim reminder of Stalin and the communist regime. Our visit to Munich before that year’s summer Olympics left me with the same eerie feeling. We were in Munich to visit the famous Rathaus-Glockenspiel and the Olympic Village. Two weeks later at the Olympic Village, Israeli athletes were taken hostage and slain by terrorists. Our trip to Europe was a fascinating and an eye-opening experience.
Our principal, Dr. Herman, and his staff devoted their professional lives to giving us the opportunity to learn and thrive. They took our education seriously, and they were concerned about our development as human beings. For a while I got caught up with my friends and started coming to class late. Sometimes I would get rude and defiant because I was upset about a personal issue. Dr. Herman never let me get away with that. They locked the doors after the last bell, and if you were late, you were called to the principal’s office. I was sent to the principal’s office once. It was made clear to me that my behavior was unacceptable. I was to be on time to class. I got the message. It was the same message I would get from my mother at home. I pulled myself together and was never called to the principal’s office again.
During high school, I was also getting a whole new education about the streets. Neither my parents nor I knew how dangerous the streets of Los Angeles had become until one of my friends, Robert Ballou Jr., was killed by gang members. Robert had gone to the Hollywood Palladium for a concert, and some gang member saw him and wanted his coat. He refused and was beaten to death that evening. Just to think I almost experienced the same fate myself at a festival at Sportsman Park, but I would get to safety. Thoughts of Robert were running through my mind. I will never forget him.
Once I started high school, time would not allow me to continue my visits with my father at the studio as often. Our time together began to erode as I started training more and more for sports. I went from being one of the star players on my little league team to being a star player on my junior league team, the Red Soxs. Scouts were starting to follow our senior league players to identify prospects for their farm systems. I began to receive calls from the Montreal Expos and other major league organizations. I started having conversations with my parents about a career in professional baseball. Our den was filled with my baseball trophies as well as those of my brothers, who were starting to excel in baseball and football, too. Sometimes I would catch my father running his hands over our trophies. Occasionally we still had conversations about me becoming a music engineer. I began to feel him losing hope that I would make music my career. But I had no way of knowing that my career in baseball was not to be. I sustained an injury to my knee that plagued my sports endeavors throughout high school. I ran track and played football for Westchester my junior and senior years, but ultimately my knee injury caused me to retire from competitive sports.
During those days I got to meet one of the greatest sports icons ever. Our doorbell rang one day and I happened to answer. There in front of me stood Muhammad Ali, whom I admired so much. He asked me, “Is your father home?”
I just stood there with my mouth open, unable to say a word. Then he asked me, “Do you know who I am?”
I said, “You’re the Champ.”
He bent down and started throwing light punches, and I threw some back laughing the whole time. He stopped, shook my hand, and gave me a big smile. Then my mother and I invited him in to visit with my father. I had been around celebrities, great musicians, athletes, but meeting Muhammad Ali was one of the most important moments in my life. He was more than just a boxer to me. He was then and still is the greatest.
Like the lives of most teenagers, mine consisted of school, homework, occasional weekends at the studio, and sports. Men like Major General Titus Hall continued to mentor me. Throughout my teens, I was treated like one of the general’s family. His encouragement meant the world to me. My coaches continued to watch over my development as an athlete and a young man as well. My dad seemed to have mixed emotions about other mentors during this stage of my life.
Drugs were everywhere during those years. Others around me were smoking marijuana, dropping acid, and taking pills. At parties people would spike the punch with pills and liquor. I did not like marijuana and I would not touch pills. I didn’t even smoke cigarettes or drink. Alcohol and cigarette smoke made me sick. I was very careful. I didn’t want these harmful substances in my body. I knew what they could do to my mind and my health. As an athlete it was important to me to maintain a healthy routine. And seeing what my father had gone through, I had experienced the effects of drug use firsthand. I never wanted to make that mistake. Who knew better than I how drugs could ruin your life?
I also had my mother to contend with. When it came to drugs, my mother was not having it. She heard rumors about other entertainers in our neighborhood who had serious drug issues, and their kids were our friends. My mother always kept a vigilant eye on all of us. My own parties were crashed by kids who brought drugs. When she got wind of it, it was all over for our parties. She was famous for crashing parties if she thought something was going on. She didn’t care what people thought. If we stayed past our curfew, my mother would show up at the front door of the party. It was embarrassing, and my brothers and I would go to great lengths to avoid it. We would go to great lengths to avoid any kind of conflict with her.
My senior year I tried drugs. A close friend offered me some marijuana and cocaine. I tried them, and it was a bad decision. I didn’t know if I was coming or going. It would ultimately alter the course of my life.
My senior year of high school, my mind was dominated by the desire to get my own car. Most of my friends had their own cars by the time they were seventeen. My parents let me drive their cars: a Cadillac and the Mercedes 300 SEL. But it wasn’t the same. Like every other teenage boy in America, I wanted a car of my own. During my last year in high school, I asked my mother for one. I knew that if I asked my father, he would just ask her, so I decided to talk to her first.
I said, “Mom, all my friends have a car. I think it’s time I had a car of my own. I haven’t caused you any problems or been a burden. I will need transportation for college next year. I would really like to have a car of my own.”
My mother thought about it and decided that it would motivate me to finish high school with good grades if I had a car to look forward to. So she talked it over with my father, and he agreed that it was reasonable. They decided they were going to pick out a car for me as a graduation gift. My mother wanted me to drive something safe and economical. They discussed getting me a Volkswagen or a Dodge. My father liked the idea.
My dad seemed happy about buying me a car, so he mentioned it to Dave Braithwaite at the studio one day. He rarely spoke to Dave about family issues, but he was excited about the purchase. When Dad told Dave he was
going to get me a Dodge for graduation, Dave replied, “Man, don’t get Ray Jr. a Dodge. He doesn’t want a Dodge. Get him a Porsche.” God bless him, my father took Dave’s advice.
One day I received a call after I had graduated to come down to the studio, and when I got there, my father told me Mr. Adams was going to take me downtown. “Where am I going?” I asked, perplexed.
My father replied, “Well, you’re going to get your car.” He was really animated about it. A short while later, Mr. Adams drove me to the showroom of Porsche of Downtown LA. We walked into the dealership and Mr. Adams asked me, “Which one do you like?” He would take care of the paperwork with the dealer. I looked around the room. It was the ultimate teenage boy’s fantasy. The dealership was filled with beautiful, shiny Porsches. I chose a gold 1973 911T. I couldn’t believe it. That color was one of the most beautiful colors I’d ever seen, and the car was mine.
My dad shared my excitement, but my mother wasn’t so thrilled. She was expecting me to drive home in a nice, safe, sensible Volkswagen, not a high-performance sports car. I don’t know whether or not she spoke to my dad or Joe Adams did, but one of them suggested I take a high-performance driving course. I had never driven a sports car, and they wanted to make sure I could handle my new Porsche.
They made the arrangements, and I would attend the Bob Bondurant High Performance Driving School. I took my lessons at Ontario Motor Speedway, which was one of the super speedways for NASCAR IMSA as well as Indy car racing. I was a huge racing fan, following the careers of Richard Petty, Mario Andretti, A. J. Foyt, the Unser brothers, Rick Mears, Peter Gregg, and Hurley Haywood. It was thrilling to drive on the same track as those speed merchants. I loved the lessons. I learned defensive driving, how to throw a car into a controlled skid, heel and toe shifting, and how to do apex turns. Then I was ready to hit the streets. I was so excited when I brought the car home that I locked my keys in the car. Racing would become a passion for me. I would race cars and compete in time trials with other Porsche rally clubs.
My father had not ridden in my car or a Porsche, so he asked me to take him to the office. I remember I got him in the car, and by the time I got around to the driver’s side to get in, he was flicking the ashes from his cigarette on the floor of the Porsche. I freaked out. “Dad! What are you doing? You’re getting ashes all over the floor. Use the ashtray.”
He calmly pointed out that he couldn’t see where the ashtray was and said, “I’m blind. Remember?” It was very funny, and he made his point.
Whenever I had the time I continued to go to the studio on weekends to visit my father and I continued to seek advice from him even though it was an area he avoided. More accurately, I realized he was not a person who could guide me. He gave me no dating advice and avoided talking about women. I guess he worried that his affairs would come up. He relied on reports given to him by my mother and his valet. He did ask me if I was drinking or using drugs. He asked me the same thing about my brothers. He seemed relieved when I said no. It was not an easy subject for him to discuss with us, for he had kept his promise never to use heroin again, although he did have his special coffee and his marijuana to indulge in every day. He taught those around him how to make coffee for him with a layer of sugar, a layer of coffee, and a layer of Bols gin. There was always a mug of the brew on the console of his control board in the studio. There was always a double standard when dealing with my father in so many areas of our lives, but I loved and respected him. My brothers didn’t realize this yet, but I did. Now I was developing a full life of my own, and I didn’t crave time with my dad as much anymore. I was preoccupied with school, sports, girls, and my friends. For the first time, both of our schedules were full and we only saw each other in passing at home. My father wanted to continue to spend time with me on weekends. He would try to start a conversation saying, “Whatcha doin’? When are you coming down to the studio again?”
I would rush by him saying, “How you doin’, Dad? I gotta go. I will call you later, okay?” He never spoke to me about how he felt about me spending less time with him. I guess I grew up too fast and the thoughts of letting go couldn’t have been easy. Every parent experiences the pain of letting a child go, and in my dad’s case, he had the additional regret of losing the first ten years of my life. Now when he came home from a tour, he would check to see if I was taller than he was yet. He would still put his hands on my shoulders and say, “You’ve grown.” Once I finally grew taller than he was, he put his hand on my head and said, “Oh, you don’t say. You don’t say.”
By the time I turned seventeen and was about to graduate, visits to the studio were rare. I was preparing for another stage in my life. I didn’t seem to need my studio visits with my father like I used to, but I still needed his presence in my life.
So much had changed during those years in View Park. Our family was slowly but steadily growing apart. For the first few years on Southridge, we continued attending Travelers Rest for Sunday worship. But over time, those strong ties began to dissipate. Those were the ties that held our family together. God and church were our foundation. Faith remained central to my mother’s life.
What a paradox that the studio was a huge factor in the growing separation of our family. When my father was first starting out, my parents sat down together to discuss business with Jeff Brown in the living room. My father wrote his songs and arrangements at home. When we moved to Hepburn, my father’s office became the focal point of his music career. There was a steady stream of musicians in and out of his office, and if I wanted to listen to my father’s music, I just had to sit in the hallway next to the door. I sat in that hallway listening to hit after hit my entire childhood. If they needed a bigger space, the band would rehearse in the living room. All that changed when we moved to Southridge. My father still had a beautiful office at home, but all of the writing, arranging, and recording were done at 2107. If I wanted to listen to my father make music, I had to go to the studio. On Hepburn, he was either on tour or at home. We had him for two or three months of the year. We saw him every day, and at night he came home to sleep in his bedroom with my mother. Now we went for days without seeing him at all. If he was working on some new music, he would hole up at the studio for days on end. He had everything he needed at 2107.
For years my father had been living one life on the road and another at home. His marriage to my mother and the strain of holding it all together took a huge toll on her and our family. We were slowly stretched to the breaking point. In the growing division between my father and those closest to him stood Mr. Adams. The question that still remains is: Was Mr. Adams ultimately the rock that divided the water? My mother and I talked about this many times.
Joe Adams came into my father’s life in 1962, three years after the move from Atlantic to ABC-Paramount. During those three years, my father’s career had skyrocketed. The homegrown machine run by my father and Jeff Brown had brought him to a level of success none of them anticipated, but it was time for change, for addressing the future and the new challenges my father’s career presented. The early sixties had also been a precarious time. Even with all of the success, his public image suffered. There were two highly publicized arrests for heroin possession that threatened his career. Into the middle of my father’s complex career instability stepped Joe Adams.
Mr. Adams brought a new sense of organization to my father’s enterprise along with a sophistication and sharp business acumen. He was impeccably well spoken, well known, and well dressed, and he carried himself in a professional manner always. He raised the standard for professional behavior in the band, cleaned up my father’s public image, and cleaned house. He began to immediately turn my father’s negative publicity around and kept my father’s private life out of the news. Once my father completed rehab, Mr. Adams screened everyone in the band for drugs. He began to protect the commodity most important to my father—his image. He took a highly successful business machine (my father) and helped take his career to a new level
of success. When my father’s personal life was spiraling out of control, and he was on the verge of losing everything, I believe Mr. Adams became the stabilizing force he needed. He kept my father’s business affairs intact during a time of great instability. Once the storm passed and my father was back at the top of the charts and in control of his personal life, he prospered beyond his dreams and so did Mr. Adams.
But it came at a huge price. Many of my father’s old friends and musicians had to go through Mr. Adams to get to my dad, and they resented it. Jeff Brown, who had been everything to my father for so many years, slowly but surely lost his authority and position. Things reached a crisis and Jeff was accused of stealing money from my dad. Jeff had always moved money around to cover expenses on the road. There was a time in my father’s career when his money ran short, and Jeff would pay the band out of his own pocket and reimburse himself when things weren’t so tight. Those were the lean years when someone believed in my father. To this day I do not know if Jeff embezzled the money. Everyone tells me a different story. But he did admit to a close family source that he did not have the business acumen to take my father’s career to the next level. When Jeff resigned and returned to Texas, I know he loved my father and he was hurt. I also know he was my father’s friend. I never saw Jeff again, and I missed him over the years.
From my mother’s point of view the biggest problem for our family, as time passed, was that Mr. Adams had his hand in every aspect of my father’s life. My mother was no longer allowed to share in any of my father’s business decisions, as she had for most of their marriage. Mr. Adams took care of all the household business as well, hiring the gardener, paying the electrical bill, and so forth. In some respects my mother needed his help, since her health was poor for so many years. My mother fought for the right to choose the direction for her personal business with my father, but many of her responsibilities were taken away from her. Making things worse was the fact that Mr. Adams was vocal about his dislike for my mother, according to her. She told me that he made negative comments about her and opposed her influencing my father’s decisions. The comments would get back to my mother. It was humiliating and hurt her very much. When my mother expressed her feelings about the negative comments from Mr. Adams and how she felt he was taking over their lives, my father became angry and told her to mind her own business and let him handle their affairs. I felt that my father began to suffer from acute memory loss and he started to detach himself from us. He would turn his back on everyone who loved him, who went to hell and back to keep him alive and protect him from himself.
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