Remain in Love

by Chris Frantz

  In Italy, it seemed to us that the kids used our shows as an excuse to go wild. In Milano, for example, the promoter Fran Tomasi was working with the Communist party in order to keep the ticket prices low. The ticket price was twenty-five cents. It was a huge outdoor show in a beautiful park. When we hit the stage there was pandemonium all around. To my right, in the distance, I could see exploding Molotov cocktails that the kids were hurling at the police. The police, in return, were firing tear gas grenades into the crowd and the gas was wafting back onto the stage. Our eyes and throats began to sting badly. Steve Scales said to me, “I was in ’Nam, man. This is some motherfuckin’ tear gas! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I took Tina, who was pregnant and showing, by the arm and led her back to the dressing room trailer. Fran Tomasi and his crew circled the backstage area to protect us. Fran cut up large sections of grapefruit and told us to rub the juice all over our faces. It worked! Then he pleaded with us to get back on the stage before things got worse. Oh, and why were the kids rioting? Twenty-five cents was too much to pay. They thought the concert should be free. We did get back onstage and “Life During Wartime” never sounded better.

  Palermo, Sicily, was too crazy to even talk about except that the stage in the old football stadium was built cockeyed so that the whole thing listed to the left. The generator to power the sound system arrived at the last minute with no fuel in it. No one was allowed on the grass except for local dignitaries, so most of the audience was seated miles away from the stage in the bleachers. The carabinieri, who were there to protect us, ate all our food and drank all of our wine and beer while we were onstage.

  In Athens, after a visit to the Acropolis, Tom Tom Club was pelted onstage with round, plastic orange juice bottles and cans full of beer. Gary Kurfirst leapt onto the stage to protect Tina from the flying objects. We couldn’t take any chances and left the stage after a few songs. Five thousand kids had paid to get in, but 20,000 broke down the fences to fill up the bleachers behind us. They only saw our backs. The promoter said soccer fans throw stuff when they love you. But we could see people were actually aiming for the security police who, although they were there to keep the audience off the playing field grass, chose to take cover behind the band onstage. After the Talking Heads set, we made a fast exit in a large transit van that was surrounded and rocked back and forth by the audience until we could finally pull away. Our promoter, who thought it was a great show, had an after-party on the roof of our hotel with champagne, langoustines, and beautiful vegetables all served from huge ice sculptures of the Greek gods. We tried to have a good time, but we were still in a state of shock. We now knew why most rock and roll bands never toured in Italy and Greece.

  Flying into Budapest behind the Iron Curtain was a trip. At immigration, we had to sit at a typewriter and fill out a form that was twenty pages long. All the questions were in Hungarian. Try that with two hours of sleep and a bad hangover. Onstage in Budapest we were surrounded by Soviet soldiers with machine guns and German shepherds. Not a good vibe, but the crowd loved us.

  Baby Robin!

  Tyrone had some sort of a breakdown at the airport in Belgrade. He unzipped his pants and waved his cock at the armed security while screaming, “I want to go back to America where black people are black and white people are racist!” The guards backed away, but kept their guns pointed at him. Gary and I took him by the arm and led him to the airline counter and bought him a ticket to Munich, where he said he had some friends who would help him. That was the last we saw of Tyrone, until years later in Paris when I turned on the TV and there was Tyrone on some talk show looking great and speaking perfect French.

  One week later, we started a thirty-eight-show US tour at the County Bowl in Santa Barbara, California. Sly and Robbie with Black Uhuru opened the show. At the Sunset Marquis, Michael Rose gave me a pound of fabulous Humboldt County weed. The Black Uhuru fans had showered him with herb and he begged me to take some of it. He couldn’t bear to throw it out.

  Tina was showing her pregnancy more and more, to the amazement of our fans. She wore fitted clothes so people would know she was pregnant, not fat. She was such a trouper. David and Jerry had another bass player waiting in the wings, but Tina told them in no uncertain terms that she was doing this tour. The other guy could go home. The moment she realized she was pregnant, she quit smoking and drinking. After the show, instead of partying madly with the rest of the band, she would retire to our room and take a long bath, do yoga, and read. She was looking radiant and gorgeous, taking good care of herself and the little baby inside of her. Our relationship grew even stronger—although I didn’t manage to give up partying the way she did … and I should have. It would have been better for everyone.

  When this exhausting tour was finally over Tina, Jerry, David, and I traveled back to Compass Point Studios, where we worked some more on the album that would be called Speaking in Tongues. This time we were working with one of the hottest engineers around, Alex Sadkin. Alex was now a fixture at Compass Point, where he worked with Grace Jones, Bob Marley, and Third World. He was our downstairs neighbor at Tip Top and was a wonderful, handsome man. Our other neighbor at Tip Top was “the Prophet” Wally Badarou. Wally overdubbed the genius synthesizer parts and solo on “Burning Down the House.”

  On November 3, 1982, Tina was playing her last bass part on our last song when who should burst into the studio but P-Funk’s Bernie Worrell, who had been playing with Talking Heads for years, and George Clinton. They were in Nassau for the Black Music Convention over on Paradise Island.

  After howls of laughter and big hugs all around, George walked over to Tina and said, “Haven’t you had that child yet? I’m gonna scare that child out of you!” George put his face next to Tina’s swollen belly and made a sound like, “Bwhooooohoooohahahahaha!” Our son Robin was born the following morning after Tina’s long night of labor at Rassin Hospital in Nassau. As he was being born, a rooster was crowing outside the hospital room window. Baby Robin was healthy, beautiful, and a born music lover.

  Tina and I began a new stage of our lives, parenthood and family life. I still wasn’t sure I was ready for fatherhood, but I was so in love with Tina and the baby that I felt like everything was going to be fine.

  48

  LIFE AT COMPASS POINT

  After Robin was born in 1982, Tina and I decided to stay at Compass Point as long as possible. David and Jerry flew back to New York, but our manager, Gary, and his wife, Phyllis, were living just down the road at their place with their young son Josh. Our apartment at Tip Top was beautiful, comfortable, and clean with magnificent ocean views. It was a good place for a newborn baby and his parents.

  Let me tell you a little bit about our life and our friends at Compass Point. Compass Point is located next to Gambier Village, named after Royal Navy Officer Admiral James Gambier, born October 13, 1756, in New Providence, the Bahamas. After Nassau, it’s the second oldest settlement in the Bahamas. Gambier Village is inhabited by many old and mostly very poor black Bahamian families with names like Poitier, cousins of the actor Sidney Poitier, Cartwright, Bethel, and Morris.

  Robert Palmer and his adorably sweet wife, Sue, and their two children, Jim and Jane, lived just across the road. They were the best neighbors ever, always welcoming and generous. Tina and I spent many an evening at their place enjoying their hospitality. Their home was a little two-story white-row house with a cedar shake roof on the sea directly opposite the recording studio. We’d talk about music with Robert until all hours. Robert was a true scholar of music history and, like us, he loved James Brown, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, and the whole Muscle Shoals crew. He was also very well informed about the latest musical happenings in the UK, Europe, and around the world and introduced us to many artists we did not know about. He had spent a good part of his youth living on the island of Malta, where he listened to North African radio, so he had a strong love of African music, too. Robert was excited by any successes we had with Talking Heads and Tom Tom
Club. He would say to us, “You did it. You really did it!” His enthusiasm was a wonderful thing. I remember him saying to us that like a great person, great music must not only have personality, it must also have character.

  Wally Badarou was our neighbor across the hall. He was from that part of Nigeria now known as Benin, but he had been raised in Paris. Wally’s family were all doctors and lawyers and Wally himself had studied law before becoming one of the world’s great composers and studio musicians. He had already played keyboards on many of the dance and disco hits created in Paris when he recorded a session with M on the international hit “Pop Muzic.” I think Wally played all the parts of that record except for the drums.

  Chris Blackwell heard about Wally and invited him to come to Compass Point to work with a new supergroup he was forming to make a record with Grace Jones. Wally knew nothing about Grace Jones or Chris, but he took a chance and flew to Compass Point. On the plane to Nassau he met guitarist Barry Reynolds, who was also on his way to Compass Point. Barry had recently had a hit with a song he wrote with Marianne Faithfull for her 1979 comeback album, Broken English. When they arrived at Compass Point, neither Chris nor Grace was anywhere to be found. Eventually, they met Sly and Robbie, Mikey Chung, and Sticky Thompson and together they became the Compass Point All Stars.

  Joe Cocker, Robert Palmer, and me at Robert’s place.

  Wally and his bride, Genevieve, became good friends of ours, not only back then at Compass Point but to this day. We always look forward to seeing them when we travel to Paris.

  Steven Stanley also lived at Tip Top with his wife, Dawn, and their baby girl, Dawnette. They were so much fun. Stevie bought a fast Japanese Mitsubishi sports car that he kept in immaculate condition, washing it every day to protect it from the salty sea air. With the success of Tom Tom Club, Stevie was getting lots of work recording and mixing the B-52s, Lizzy Mercier Descloux, Ian Dury, and loads of reggae artists. We have worked with many great recording engineers over the years but none as wild and crazy in the control room as Stevie. He called Tina “the Queen” and he called me “the Mastermind.” His dub mixes were to die for and his energy was unsurpassed. Did I say was? Stevie is alive and well in Kingston, Jamaica, where he has his own studio and is still a force in the reggae world. He recently mixed a reggae version of “Wordy Rappinghood” by our good friend Mystic Bowie. What goes around comes around.

  Grace Jones lived just up the road next door to our manager, Gary Kurfirst. Grace was a creature of the night, although sometimes she would venture out in daylight. I remember the time I thought I should start getting more exercise. Grace said she would show me her workout routine. So, for my first time ever working out, my trainer was Grace Jones in a bikini. Can you even imagine? She showed me things I would never have dreamed of doing, like lunges, both forward and reverse. “This is for your glutes, man. This is for your ass. Do it!” Then she showed me squats. “Very important, Chris! Do it!” This continued with different exercises and many repetitions until Grace was glistening with tiny beads of sweat. I was not glistening. I was dripping. One late night after singing in the studio, Grace was hungry so she asked Stevie and Benji to ride with her to town to get “chicken in a bag.” There was a little place they knew that was open all night. With Grace behind the wheel they headed into town. The police stopped Grace for speeding and asked to see her ID. Grace gave the cops her passport and when they opened it up they found a big fat spliff. Grace, Stevie, and Benji were all led off to jail. Stevie and Benji, who never smoked or drank alcohol in their lives, were released, but Grace had to stay and face the judge the next day. Bahamian drug laws were draconian back then, but the judge gave Grace a choice: Face jail time or leave the island. Grace was on the next plane out. Evidently, all is forgiven now. Grace was recently the star of the Bahamas Film Festival with the documentary of her life, Bloodlight and Bami. Tina and I never miss one of her shows and we both agree that Grace Jones now is better than ever.

  One time when Black Uhuru was recording, I sat by the pool with the founder of the group, Duckie Simpson. We had known each other for a few years since the first time Tina and I visited Jamaica and Chris Blackwell sent Duckie and Michael Rose to meet us at the airport in Kingston. Duckie is one of the most badass-looking Rastas of all time, but he is also a really sweet guy. This particular day Duckie turned to me and said, “Chris, man, you know who my favorite woman in all the world is?” I said, “No, Duckie, who she is?” There was a long pause. Then Duckie said, “Princess Di.” I smiled at him and asked, “Really?” Duckie said, “Yes, Chris. One day you will read in the Daily Mail this headline: ‘Princess Di Runs Off with Ragamuffin Dread.’”

  Ian Dury came down to make a new record with his musical partner, Chaz Jankel, and Sly and Robbie. They had a lovely young nurse named Louise with them to deal with Ian’s health issues, should any arise. He had suffered from polio as a child and had to take good care of himself. Tina’s sister Laura was visiting with us. She had been dating Chaz back in London so this was a happy reunion for them. Tina and I invited them all up for a dinner of barbecued chicken. At the time our drink of choice was Myer’s Rum and orange juice, also known as a Yellow Dog. I was taking my time grilling the chicken outside on my little hibachi when I noticed our guests were all just staring at the food with great anticipation. I realized that I should serve dinner as soon as possible. When we sat down to eat, Ian, Chaz, and Louise curled their arms around their plates as if to keep anyone else from taking their food. They wolfed down the barbecued chicken, peas and rice, and salad and asked for more. Tina and I just watched, bemused.

  After dinner Ian said, “Oh man, that was good. First real food we’ve had in days!” It turned out that Quincy Jones had just won a Grammy award for his big hit “Ai No Corrida.” When accepting his award, Quincy quite properly said, “I’d like to thank the writer of this song, Chaz Jankel.” Who knew that Sly and Robbie watched the Grammy Awards on television? Well, they did and in typical Jamaican fashion used it as a bargaining point to demand more money for their services. Yes, they had already agreed to a fee, but now that there was a Grammy Award, “the fee gone up.” That’s where Ian and Chaz’s food money had gone. By the way, there were no hard feelings. Sly and Robbie performed beautifully. Food money came from England. Tina and Laura added background vocals to “Spasticus Autisticus,” which appeared on the 1981 album Lord Upminster. We all had a great time together and before they departed Louise gave Tina her phone number, saying, “If you ever need a nanny for baby Robin, I’m your girl.”

  * * *

  Our good friend Mick Jones of the Clash brought his new band, Big Audio Dynamite, down to Compass Point for a little rest and relaxation. They stayed across the road from us, next to Robert Palmer’s place. Much beer and rum was consumed on their first night at Compass Point and they mistakenly left their cameras and boomboxes overnight by the pool. In the morning everything was gone. The kids from the village took them and that was that. Later that same morning there was a knock on my door. I opened it and standing there in a T-shirt and a wet bathing suit was Joe Strummer. He asked me, “Have you seen Mick? I’ve followed him down here to try to patch things up, but my luggage got lost.”

  I pointed him in the right direction and checked on them later. Everyone was getting along fine. Tina and I took them for a ride on our powerboat, Cool Runnings, and really enjoyed their company. Years later, Tina and I went to see Joe’s last performance with his band the Mescaleros in New York at the Bowery Ballroom. After the show we went backstage to say hello. Joe’s dressing room was overflowing with well-wishers. Roberto Benini, Jim Jarmusch, and Cerys Matthews were all squeezed into the tiny dressing room. I said “Hi, Joe!” and Joe came out and brought me a Heineken. Cerys Matthews opened the bottle for me with her teeth. Joe gave us bear hugs and then called his young drummer over to say hello. He said to him, “You know how I’m always asking you to play more like Chris Frantz? Well, this is Chris Frantz right here. A proper drummer!”
While I felt a little embarrassed for the young drummer, I felt damn good that Joe had said this.

  Lee Perry came to Compass Point to make an album. It turns out that the real reason Scratch never showed up to produce the first Tom Tom Club was because of some perceived injustice that Chris Blackwell had committed against him. Instead of producing our album, Scratch recorded a song called “Chris Blackwell Is a Vampire” under the pseudonym “Pipecock Jackxon.” Apparently, all was now forgiven because Scratch was in the studio making a new record on Blackwell’s dime. Scratch was staying at Tip Top and he seemed to be doing well. Everyone said Scratch was crazy, but some people thought it might be an act to keep unwanted people away. The housekeepers at Tip Top were scared to death of him and wouldn’t clean up his apartment or go anywhere near him. One day I was walking by his place when I heard howling laughter. His door was open so I looked inside. There was Scratch sitting on a barstool in front of the kitchen stove with a stack of glowing red-hot coins on each of the electric burners. He was tossing paper money onto the burners, too, which burst into flames. To add to the insanity, Scratch had filled the bathtub with sand, water, and a half dozen or so dying conchs that stunk to high heaven. It’s no wonder the maids were freaked out and it was clear to me that his madness was not an act.

  Another time, Scratch asked me to drive him to the liquor store. He said the Bahamian herb was useless and he wanted some Tia Maria. The liquor store was closed so we went to Traveller’s Rest for a drink or two. Scratch was knocking back the sweet Tia Maria when a wave of sadness swept over him. You know the famous scene in On the Waterfront where Marlon Brando says, “I coulda been a contender!”? That was how Scratch was feeling. He told me, “Chris, man, I blew it. I could’ve worked with the Clash or Talking Heads. I could’ve worked with Paul McCartney or Tom Tom Club, but I blew it.” I told him, “But Scratch, you are recognized as the greatest reggae producer of all time. Don’t beat yourself up about this.” He said, “Yeah, man. But that was yesterday and this is today.” This, in a nutshell, is the curse of every great artist: How do you remain relevant in a changing world? I guess the answer is to stay alive and keep working, and this is exactly what Scratch has managed to do.