by CeeLo Green
Over the three long years of recording material for what would become my Lady Killer album, I was—to put it nicely—extremely anxious to get the ball rolling with something. The core problem is that as an artist, I move quickly, and the music business doesn’t move nearly as well as it used to do. I treasure being spontaneous, and the music business seems based on overthinking everything. It reminds me of those lines that I dramatically and rather sexily intone at the start of The Lady Killer album:
Hello there. My name is… not important.
I’m often asked what do I do for a living, and I respond
I do what I want. Spontaneity is the spice of life
And I’ve indulged quite a bit
Call me self-indulgent—hey, I’ve been called worse—but I think I understand the business of being CeeLo Green at least as well as anyone else on Earth. And it seemed pretty crazy to not take better advantage of all the global heat from the success of “Crazy,” but in the music business today, record companies are remarkably reluctant to take a chance. They don’t want to put anything but surefire hits out, and that kind of thinking can lead to a kind of musical paralysis.
They call what we do popular music, so in my mind you have got to bring the population into the equation eventually. The question always becomes—how are you going to know what people respond to about your music unless those people get the chance to hear your music? Especially in an age where technology has made music so easy to steal, it is protected from the public too much. For me, music is an art—not a science—and you need people to respond your art to really know how it works. As artists and executives, we all have ideas about what we think will work, but then the people ultimately tell us what they love. You’ve got to let people do their part. That being said, I didn’t really get the support I was looking for, or at least that’s how I felt. I was smiling through the pain, but I was still hurting and getting more and more tired waiting to make my next move.
As we were waiting for lighting to strike and Atlantic to finally put out a goddamn record, we continued to look for the exact right song that would light a fire under the record company’s ass and kick-start the hearts of music lovers everywhere. That’s an expensive process, so we started to work out of Bruno’s home studio, and one day in particular, I went over and the guys were excited. Phil said, “We think we’ve got something. This could really be something.” I loved their enthusiasm, but then again, by now, I knew they were highly excitable characters, so I said something like “Okay, what do you got?” And at this moment, what Bruno and Phil had was the start of a track. It was the first piano chords, no drums or anything, but it did have that cool “Bum-Bum-Bum” piano bit that the world would soon be grooving on.
Even then, the song was called “Fuck You,” which at first sounded silly and by definition highly uncommercial. Thankfully, that was not the way we were thinking that day so we pushed on. To me, the concept of a song called “Fuck You” sounded just ridiculous enough to be spiteful—and just spiteful enough to be absolutely wonderful. What they first played me wasn’t some runaway hit, or even a complete musical thought yet. Yet to my ears it was a very good, very rude start. So I immediately got into working on this song because it seemed even crazier than “Crazy,” which meant this could finally be my chance to be totally absurd.
The secret of our success with “Fuck You” is that the storyline was fictitious, but the sentiment was genuine. Once we got into finishing the song, I connected with it in a big way. Like no shortage of recording artists before and after me, I wanted to tell the record company to go and fuck themselves in the sweetest possible way. And at least for a fleeting moment, I sincerely hoped that the song would be so rude that it would actually get me dropped by the label and I could get a fresh start.
But who would have guessed that after years of recording songs—a few of which I gave away on a mix tape and some good ones that no one will ever hear until I die and maybe not even then—my entire career as a recording artist would all come down to a song called “Fuck You”?
Talk about overnight sensations—that song literally took off in one day. We were leaving Los Angeles going to London and we had been given the word that our song was finally going to be released that day. And by the time we landed in London eight hours later, we heard that we had a massive hit record. They tell me that “Fuck You” was played more than two million times in the first five days.
Before we ever released “Fuck You,” we cut the “clean” version of the song known as “Forget You,” thinking radio would want to jump onto the viral bandwagon without losing their licenses for playing something as flagrant and foul as the F word. Thankfully, all of our wishful thinking came true. We knew we had a hot flare of a first single, but we had a more politically correct and diplomatic version ready. Unlike most hit singles that drop off the charts pretty fast, this song just seemed to get bigger and bigger, staying on the Billboard Hot 100 for a total of forty-eight weeks, eventually knocking Lady Gaga off the number 1 position.
Bruno and Phil’s idea for a song that literally said “Fuck You” to the listener spoke to my bad attitude. But somehow there was some kind of crazy sweetness to it. It felt like the whole world was singing along—whether it was Gwyneth Paltrow singing “Forget You” on Glee or appearing with me and some Muppets on the Grammy Awards. Hell, I know I will never forget seeing William Shatner doing “Fuck You” on George Lopez’s talk show. Captain Kirk covering our dirty little ditty on national TV—how freaking cool is that? And now there’s even a sweet young girl with a ukelele sitting in her messy bedroom and singing “Fuck You” on YouTube. And at last count, almost half a million people have watched it.
If “Fuck You” had bombed, no one would argue over it. But instead, there was a little bit of a credit grab because I think everybody was so proud of the song’s success.
People often misunderstand what songwriting credits mean—and sometimes there are misunderstandings among co-writers too. So because there has been some confusion here, let me be clear here once and for all—I was definitely one of the writers of “Fuck You,” and I’m fucking proud of it. When you produce music, you in a sense write it too, and the production of “Fuck You” is something Bruno deserves a lot of credit for—and the track sounded great. But just for the record, Phil Lawrence and I wrote most of the lyrics to “Fuck You,” with Bruno throwing in lines as we thought out loud.
I’m trying to describe this diplomatically because originally I wasn’t aware there was a tug-of-war over this song. But then I read interviews in which the guys seemed to be saying that they wrote the song, and I’m like goddamn, why would you say that? I don’t know if someone told Bruno to claim that he wrote it for me to cause a little controversy and generate some press. But I know that he’s a good guy and I don’t think that reflects who he really is. In the end, there was no reason to take sides because we all shared this big victory together.
After bringing all that up about him, I want to give Bruno a compliment and say he is probably the best songwriter, singer, and producer of the young generation right now. He’s got a great voice and amazing singles and people love him. Now, since I am eight years his senior, let’s see where he is in another decade. I would not bet against him.
However we pulled it off, the fact is that “Fuck You” is a brilliant record, and it’s cool and even a little mind-blowing to have something that’s an extension of you have such an impact. First of all, it’s very flattering, humbling, and empowering too. For all the frustrations of this business and this life, hitting everyone like that for a moment in time gives you an awful lot of incentive to go on.
As soon as the single “Fuck You” hit big in August and September 2010, Atlantic could hardly wait to release The Lady Killer album in November.
Making The Lady Killer had been a whole other trip. Gnarls Barkley was a more cerebral and an unstable element—truly crazy stuff. This process was more stable and purposeful. My idea was that I would n
ot so much make an album as a movie. From the title to the music to the packaging, I wanted to create my own musical spy film, something truly cinematic with edge and elegance that was inspired the great lady-killers of the past, from James Bond to Serge Gainsbourg to Barry White. That’s the good thing for me—lady-killers come in all sizes and colors and ages. It’s not about race or being another pretty face—it’s about substance and style. Fortunately, for me and for all the ladies out there, I just so happen to have extra servings of both. Like James Bond, I was a ladies’ man on a mission—a journey that took me through songs like “Bright Lights Bigger City” and “It’s OK.”
I can be my own toughest critic, and I will honestly tell you that I am not sure that I ever got my “movie” The Lady Killer exactly right—maybe I’ll do another director’s cut one of these days. Generally I don’t go out of my way to read reviews, but when I hear they’re really good, I will make a happy exception. One review that I particularly enjoyed ran in Rolling Stone, in which Jody Rosen began his review like this:
How can you not love CeeLo? He’s a virtuoso rapper who has one of pop’s most unique singing voices. He’s a self-proclaimed lady-killer who’s roughly as tall as a mini-refrigerator and as broad as a Hummer. He wears pink suits. He put a song called “Fuck You” in the Top 20. He is, in other words, an original: a showman with a penchant for scrambling a variety of sounds—rock, soul, hip-hop, spaghetti-Western soundtracks—into something deliciously strange. That weirdness makes CeeLo’s first album since Gnarls Barkley blew up one of the most engrossing records of 2010.
How can you not love CeeLo? Thinking about it, that’s the ultimate question I have been asking all of my mutant life.
CHAPTER TEN
The Voice in My Head and The Voice on the Screen
I am fighting for the liberation
Of voices with something to say
Like many before me
For glory, you’ll have to stand in harm’s way
I’m no savior, just a soldier, soldier with an order
So I have no choice but to trust in God cause it must be done
My only fear is what might have been, if I didn’t fight to win.
—Goodie Mob, “Fight to Win”
I RECOGNIZE THE CHAIR
From the start, I felt right at home on The Voice.
Here I am in a Misfits T-shirt during Season One.
Photo by Lewis Jacobs/NBC via Getty Images
In most every supernatural and epic journey, the hero survives his trials of fire and darkness and returns to the land of the living with new knowledge to share with the world. In my particular fable, the sweet elixir that I had gained from my trials and tribulations and triumphs was an understanding of how music is made and what it takes to be true to yourself and your vision as an artist. And what better way to share this knowledge than to coach a group of talented young singers, and do it in front of something like 12 million viewers each week?
I knew going in that The Voice had the potential to make some history, but I had no idea of the awesome impact the show would have on the fortunes of our network home NBC, on the world of TV generally—and more specifically on me and my crazy career. In retrospect, I think it is quite amazing that this all has happened on a show that’s called The Voice.
If you remember, this thick slice of the high life called Lo that I have been serving up here began with a much younger and less confident version of me hearing some amazing voices in my head—voices that filled the void left by a father who could not be there. Through the enduring mystery of music, I heard those powerful and expressive voices of men who sang me all the lessons that my own father could not be around to teach me. As in some forgotten old Bible story set in the Dirty South, those voices in my head drove me to do things that I otherwise might never have dared. I thank God—and any other deities involved—that those beautiful voices ultimately won out over the voices around me telling me that my life didn’t matter—that I was too strange, too odd looking, too flawed to ever win big. Instead, I listened to enough of those encouraging musical voices in my head and took enough of their lessons to heart that eventually I found my own voice. And with a little luck—or in my mind precisely according to plan—my own voice is now being heard all around this world. Against some long odds and despite people who told me I was an underdog who was just going to get whipped by life, my voice has connected with millions of people and traveled the world through musical statements like “Crazy” and “Fuck You.”
On some level, I always felt fated to share my unique voice with the world, but sharing my face with the general public was a whole other thing. One of the amazing things about the past few years has been seeing my now-famous face plastered all over television and anywhere else people are looking. Part of me loves it. Part of me hates it. On the plus side of the fame equation, I can’t help thinking about the possibility that somewhere out there, some young kid having a hard time or just feeling lonely is seeing me on The Voice and hearing my words of encouragement and feeling them stir something inside him or her. And just as I did back when I was watching television for hours by myself growing up, that theoretical kid out there may be staring at me on the TV screen to try and figure out how to speak and how to behave. That kid might not have a dad, or might be an orphan, or just not feel loved or understood. I believe there are lots of misfits out there watching and looking for any helpful clues about this journey called life. The fact that my own crazy journey has taken me all the way from hearing voices in my head to hearing, judging, and nurturing voices for a living on The Voice is enough to leave me speechless—almost.
The big idea of putting me in one of those famous chairs on The Voice came from one of the biggest names in TV. Mark Burnett had already brought the world Survivor, and in show biz terms, who is more of a survivor than me? Okay, I may not have eaten a lot of bugs in my time, but I sure as hell have eaten my share of shit in the music business—and who’s really to say which is more dangerous to your health?
When I asked him why he wanted me to be a part of The Voice, it was not my own remarkable survival instincts that made him interested in meeting me but rather my singular flair as a flamboyant showman. Those are Mark’s words—not mine. He told me that he saw me perform with Gnarls Barkley and was immediately impressed, so much so that when he heard that I was appearing as a musical guest on Saturday Night Live, Mark said he actually went to the show. He wanted to see what I was like not only performing musically on the show, but also working my way into a few skits. Mark even asked Saturday Night Live’s producer Lorne Michaels what he thought of my skills, and thankfully Lorne gave me rave reviews.
I suppose that one great showman can recognize another. I liked Mark’s spirit right away. It does not hurt that Mark—who is dangerously charming and pretty easy to talk to for a major TV tycoon—has definitely led his own decidedly colorful life. This is not a prince who was born into the royal family—he was the only child of two factory workers in England, a former paratrooper who jumped the pond and scratched out a living in Los Angeles before becoming a media power player.
The show had started in 2010 in the Netherlands as The Voice of Holland created by John de Mol, but it was too good a TV format to stay a Dutch TV treat forever, so Mark Burnett brought his own voice and vision to making the show into an American TV sensation. When Mark showed me the original Dutch show, I could immediately see that it could be very, very big on this side of the Atlantic.
I thought being on The Voice was a fascinating offer—but one that still scared me because in my mind, great artists are supposed to be a little mysterious and somewhat elusive. For instance, I sure couldn’t imagine Prince being a regular on any TV show—so putting my face and my persona on TV constantly seemed a little uncomfortable. TV is a large, enormous force compared to making music. The way people approach you and think that they know you is different in television because they experience you coming into their living room. I think that’s part of
the reason people feel celebrities should not have any zone of privacy today—because we go into your homes, you feel you have the right to get into my personal business too. That’s just the price of fame for celebrities today. And for better and for worse, I have become a celebrity with all that entails these days.
I am just a mutant man and I know it. Yet I thought what I could do creatively on a show like The Voice was worth doing because it celebrates people—all kinds of people who are stars in their own night skies. I never got involved in this industry to revel in my own celebrity. I have been an outcast and alienated for far too long to do that. I would rather use all the attention to try to find some common ground. My feeling is that if you and I talked to one another for long enough, we would realize that we are both unique, both peculiar, both downright weird, and that eventually I would discover that you are likely just as crazy as me. For me, that realization takes the hurt off of being crazy.
Eventually, despite any skepticism or concerns about overexposure, I was sold on doing the show. My managers were excited about it too, but back then, some very powerful people on the record company side told us that this was not good idea at all.
Big Gipp: One of the most powerful men in the business, Lyor Cohen—who was the North American Chairman and CEO of Recorded Music for Warner Music Group back then—called a special meeting just to basically say “Lo, don’t do it!” Lyor is a man who people usually listen to. But true to form, CeeLo was like “Oh, don’t do it?” And immediately Lo decided he was doing it anyway. And of course, then The Voice went right through the roof.