by Jake Brennan
So in 1990, nineteen-year-old Lisa Lopes hit Atlanta with $750 in her pocket.
When you’re nineteen and possessed by creativity, the Universe has a way of making it all just kind of happen. It delicately pushes and pulls and presents you with opportunities. If you’re smart, you listen to what the Universe has to say. Lisa Lopes was no dummy.
So when she finally connected with a couple of other Atlanta transplants, she knew that as a trifecta they’d be unstoppable. The name TLC originally came from the three members’ names: Tionne Watkins, aka T-Boz, was the T, Lisa was the L, and a singer, Rozonda Thomas, who assumed the nickname of “Chilli” so the trio could keep their initials intact. They liked the name: it reminded them of the part in Michael Jackson’s “PYT (Pretty Young Thing),” where MJ sings “You need some lovin’,” and the background singers chime in with “TLC.” They’d sometimes sing this to each other in the early days. And older folks would inevitably associate it with Elvis Presley, who came up with a slogan, “Taking Care of Business,” and a logo with the initials TCB over a lightning bolt. When Elvis cared about a male friend, he’d give them a TCB necklace. For females, it was a TLC. From time to time somebody would tell this story to the girls of TLC. But this being the ’90s, they associated Elvis more with Chuck D’s line in “Fight the Power”:
Elvis was a hero to most
But he never meant shit to me, you see
Straight up racist, that sucker was
Simple and plain.
Once the definitive lineup of TLC was in place, there was no time to waste. Yeah, T-Boz took her stage name to show she was a boss, but it was Left Eye—with a nickname co-opted from an offhand pickup line fed to her by some dude—who was calling the creative shots.
T-Boz had the voice—sultry, smooth, instantly recognizable. Chilli was the dancer with, it seemed, new moves every damn day of the week. So that left Lisa. She was the wild card. She’d play the crazy one. If the shoe fit…
It didn’t matter. She knew she’d stand out in a trio of outstanding talent and style regardless of whatever role she had to play to sell an image and, ultimately, records. And the shoe did fit. With her alter ego Nikki’s presence, crazy was something Lisa was well acquainted with. TLC was poised for greatness. Lisa was high on the future.
But TLC was much more than just talent, attitude, and style. Equal parts En Vogue, Salt-N-Pepa, and some sugar-high cartoon that jumped off the back of your little sister’s cereal box, TLC were something completely new. TLC was very much of the moment. They tapped into the social consciousness of the decade, promoting safe sex with the style of the MTV generation.
Their first album, Ooooooohhh…On the TLC Tip, was released in 1992. They came charging out of the gate with the video for “Ain’t 2 Proud 2 Beg”: Left Eye with those massive sunglasses, the enormous green neon hat, undeniable energy, and the sassiest lyrics a young girl had sung in the top forty ever:
2 inches or a yard rock hard or if it’s saggin’
I ain’t 2 proud 2 beg (no).
Who the hell was TLC? And who was that little rapper with the dirty mouth and the condom over her eye? She looked fucking crazy.
Ooooooohhh…On the TLC Tip would eventually sell 6 million records. Not a bad opening statement for the group of three young, female artists from Atlanta’s burgeoning hip-hop scene. Left Eye rapped and sang, and she had her hands all over the album art and video concepts. She designed the stage sets, dressed the band, and was in large part responsible for the group’s image; an image that would help push them over the top and into American living rooms via MTV and late-night-television appearances.
At a time when mainstream hip-hop fashion was becoming predictable—gold chains, red, black, and green African flag color schemes, matching stage outfits—Lisa Lopes added bombastic colors, originality, and social consciousness to her look.
One day while getting dressed, she took note of the condom and the safety pin on her dresser. HIV was on the rise; a scary time to be a sexually active young adult. Not talking about it wasn’t doing anyone any good, so why accept the fact that carrying a condom for a young woman was anything but responsible? Why rely on a guy to protect you when you could do it yourself? And why hide the fact? Rather than throwing the condom and the safety pin in her purse before heading out, she pinned them to her pants. And that simple, couldn’t-give-a-shit subversive fashion statement by one of America’s rising young stars was a glaring message that it was okay to talk about safe sex publicly. It was an answer to Salt-N-Pepa’s “Let’s Talk About Sex” single from two years earlier. A chorus of young, empowered, female, musical voices was helping shape the national conversation around HIV and Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes was adding hers, and because she was who she was, she was making the conversation fun.
At least that was how some took it. Others just saw it as some crazy, famous chick with condoms pinned to her clothes, which, given Lisa’s behavior at the time, wasn’t so hard to believe. As her success increased, so did her drinking. Alter Ego Nikki was bum-rushing the show, and Lisa wasn’t afraid to cast blame. After whatever crazy behavior would land her in trouble, Lisa would claim, “That ain’t me. That’s Nikki. My evil twin, who came from within, whom I blame for all of my sins.”
Getting up on the bar at the club and dancing?
Mugging for the camera with a condom over her eye?
Being a relentless flirt when it suited her?
According to Lisa, that was all Nikki.
Sometimes Nikki and Lisa joined forces, like on the night when TLC won two Grammys, and she called out her record label for overcharging them on production. From the press podium after the show, Lisa claimed that the group was broke and insinuated that it was due to her greedy label and producers. Not exactly the message the music industry wants to hear after it coronates a young group of stars.
Management and LaFace responded by telling the press that the trash talk was all just part of a power play: the group were simply trying to force them into a new contract. TLC eventually filed for bankruptcy, a filing which was upheld, and the group did indeed win a new contract, settling out of court. Nikki wasn’t all bad.
Lisa’s outspokenness and occasional drunken visits from Nikki were only part of the problem. Lisa’s new boyfriend, Atlanta Falcons wide receiver Andre Rison, was no good, either.
Lisa was crazy for Andre, and Andre was crazy for Lisa. He liked the idea of having a famous girlfriend, so the two quickly moved in together. But despite her desire for a stable, monogamous relationship, Andre could not be tied down to one woman. He was unfaithful, jealous, possessive, short-tempered, violent, and, when not on the football field, almost always drunk and belligerent.
One night, outside an Atlanta nightclub, Lisa refused to pick up whatever bullshit Andre was putting down, and the argument became physical, escalating to the point of shots being fired off by Andre in an effort to gain control of both the situation and his girlfriend.
Cops were on the scene quickly and tensions defused, but Lisa refused to press charges. She loved the big thug. Number 80 was a handful, but she’d break him. She had so much faith in Andre that she had his digits tattooed on her left biceps.
The lyrics for TLC’s smash single “Creep” seemed to have spun out of Lisa and Andre’s tumultuous, unfaithful relationship. The message was clear: Cheat on me and I’ll give it right back. But Lisa hated the song. Mainly the sentiment. She believed in fidelity to her core. Despite the outrageous clothes, fiery attitude, and over-the-top behavior, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes from TLC was traditional in one regard: She was a one-man woman. Crazy.
Left Eye burning down the house by way of her shitty boyfriend’s new sneaker stash.
Everybody thought they knew Lisa Lopes. But most didn’t. They knew Nikki. Nikki was who’d come around after the drinks started flowing. Nikki was who’d bring the party to the next level. Hell, Nikki was a party unto herself, and she didn’t take shit from anyone. Kinda like a scrappy little pit bull. She
was cute but had a lot of bite in her.
Lisa, on the other hand, hung back. Quiet for the most part. Head in the clouds. Wondering about this. Ready to get into that. She had poems. Dance moves. Outfits she was designing. Beats on the brain. Movies she was going to one day star in. TV shows she planned on hosting. A documentary in Honduras she wanted to shoot.
Together, Nikki and Lisa were unstoppable. One was filled with a careless electric feel and the other with boundless creativity.
But they hated each other. Lisa knew her creativity would eventually overpower Nikki’s drunken bullshit one way or another. Then Nikki wouldn’t be showing up at any more parties. And with Nikki gone, it’d just be Lisa and Andre. Alone at last.
And that was what happened.
Lisa got it together. Put all her shit in one bag, so to speak, and moved into Andre’s big-ass house over in Alpharetta, cut back on the drinking, not entirely but just enough to keep Nikki at bay. She thought that mellowing out and moving in with Andre would bring calm to the hectic life that comes with being a major pop artist dating an NFL star. But Andre Rison’s demons ran deep, and as best she tried, Lisa was no match for Andre’s jealous, narcissistic ways or his roving eye.
The man could not keep his dick in his pants.
Out all night.
Every night.
Full of shit.
All the time.
After catching him in bed in the guest room with that slut from Velvet or the Cheetah or wherever Andre happened to be partying that night, Lisa knew she’d taken this as far as she could on her own.
There was no way to break this dude. And she loved him, so breaking him was the only option. But Lisa didn’t give up easy. So the decision was made. She needed Nikki. Nikki was a crazy, drunk fool, but that type of crazy earned respect from men like Andre.
So on the night of June 9, 1994, Lisa decided that the party was on. She got dressed up and headed downtown. If Andre was going to go out all night every night and openly cheat on her, then Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes of TLC was going to go out and get hers. Let him experience what it’s like to wait up all night for someone to come home.
Stay out all night. Come back wearing that dress that drives him wild, the short one, with the slit that runs high up the side and show him exactly what he’s been missing.
Five a.m. She figured that was late enough. Even if Andre went out himself, he’d be home by then with ample time to stew over where she was. So when Lisa pulled in Andre’s driveway just after five in the morning and realized Andre wasn’t even home yet? Nikki went through the fucking roof. Nuh-uh. That prick. And just as that thought hit her lips, Andre’s Benz pulled in the driveway behind her.
Oh boy.
Andre got out of the car. Saw what Lisa was wearing and that she herself was just getting home, and freaked the fuck out. Who did this woman think she was dressing like that and staying out all night?
Nuh-uh. Nikki…Lisa smacked Andre in the face. Fuck this guy. Who did he think he was?
From there the fight moved into the house. Both of them drunk and screaming nonsense at the top of their lungs. Taking turns throwing random shit at each other until it came to blows. Andre wasn’t a small man, either. Lisa…was a very small woman. The blow to the face came and went. Lisa didn’t know when or how. Nikki was in control now. Typical.
Once the fight died down, Lisa went in to the bathroom to clean up. She took a glimpse in the mirror but didn’t recognize her own face. Badly bruised. She became enraged.
You know what you gotta do, right? Nikki pushed the issue.
Kill the prick.
Lisa stormed out of the bathroom intent on doing just that but thought better of it and took a beat. She retreated to the walk in closet off of her bedroom to get some headspace and calm down.
That was when she saw the shoes. Hundreds of them. Brand-new, sparkling white tennis shoes. All of them size 12 and mens. That selfish prick! All mens! Nikki wanted to know where Lisa’s shoes were. Oh yeah, THAT ASSHOLE DIDN’T BUY YOU ANY! He bought himself a new identical pair for every goddamn day of the year but he didn’t buy you jack shit!
Shut up, Nikki.
Fuck you, Lisa.
Lisa grabbed the shoes and headed back into the bathroom. She threw them in the tub. Hit the closet again and went to grab lighter fluid and some matches. Back to the bathroom. Past the stranger in the mirror again. She doused the shoes with lighter fluid and then:
Lit a match.
The fire went up quick. It immediately started spreading. How? Lisa had no idea. At first she froze in fear. Then? She moved. And the next thing she knew, she was watching her boyfriend’s house burn down on the six o’clock morning news.
Just. Like. That.
She didn’t mean to do it. Really. But he deserved it.
Crazy.
The talented and fiery Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes.
The news coverage the next day was ridiculous. Almost entirely one-sided. Against Lisa! Sure, she burned her boyfriend’s mansion down but it was because he beat the piss out of her. And let’s not forget the dude was a professional football player.
The guy who openly cheated on her, controlled her, abused her. The guy whose fist imprint could practically still be seen on the massive bruise on Lisa’s face in her mugshot from that day. That guy was the victim?
Yes. A mug shot. Lisa had turned herself in and eventually pleaded guilty, and she was sentenced to five months probation and locked up in a halfway house for a month. Andre Rison played football and quite likely kept banging strippers on his nights off.
Lisa voluntarily went to rehab, and with a clear head wrote the smash TLC hit, “Waterfalls,” which was included on the album CrazySexyCool, released later in the fall of 1994. The song helped propel the album to 23 million in record sales.
But the success wouldn’t last. Lisa eventually fell out with T-Boz and Chilli.
The fire, the rehab, and the elevated success achieved largely through Lisa’s writing of a smash hit changed things for the young star. She now knew what she alone was capable of, with a clear head anyway.
Creatively, “Waterfalls” made her—in her mind at least—a proven commodity, so she herself was a safe bet. The only bet. Relying on the influence of others was only fucking up Lisa’s plans. And Lisa, after rehab, was hell-bent on not being held back…by anyone. No more TLC. No more Nikki. Lisa Lopes had arrived. She wanted it her way. Or nothing at all.
Lisa went on to sign with Suge Knight’s Death Row Records and began talks with David Bowie—of all people—about a collaboration. Now that was really crazy.
She had recorded a number of tracks for a subsidiary of Death Row Records called Tha Row, and the album, fittingly, was going to be titled, N.I.N.A., which stood for “new identity not applicable.” Then Lisa headed to Honduras for a retreat. She had this clear-headed vibe on lock. But the trip wasn’t going as planned. Lisa started picking up bad feelings. Having premonitions that an evil spirit was haunting her, that death was on the creep.
One night, she and her assistant hopped in their car to go for a ride. The heavy, humid Honduran air was stifling and a drive would do them good, or so they thought. Once in the car, the bad feeling started up again. As they zipped down the winding road from their village, they passed a dead horse on the roadside. In unison, a flock of birds up above let out a screeching death rattle as it moved from one tree to another. And then a blunt thud against their moving car.
They immediately pulled over. On the road at their feet in front of their SUV was a critically injured ten-year-old boy. Quickly, they pulled him into the car and raced off to the nearest hospital, Lisa held him the whole way. His blood stuck to her sweaty skin in the sweltering central American night air. The boy died at the hospital. Lisa paid his medical and eventual funeral bills and later compensated the family for their loss.
Her guilt was immense. Lisa couldn’t shake the feeling that the accident was supposed to take her life, not the boy’s.
She was convinced that the same evil spirit was following her.
April 25, 2002. A few weeks after the accident, Lisa Lopes changed out of the outfit she was wearing that day. It was all white. She then chose an outfit of all black. Got dressed without a destination in mind and decided a ride was needed to get some headspace.
Lisa’s SUV zipped by the village again and past the dead horse, now just a loosely assembled pile of bones being picked over by a few vultures. Vultures. Death. More signs. The SUV sped away trying to outrun Lisa’s demons.
She was distracted. Moving way too fast, head in the clouds. Wondering about this. Ready to get into that. The guilt was an aching pit in her stomach. Part of her thought she would never recover. How could she write or perform again, with this feeling rolling around in her gut, with death chasing her down? The car accelerated. The breeze felt good on her skin. And then, her SUV’s rear end seemed to get out ahead of itself. The SUV swerved. To the left. Then to the right. At the speed it was going there was no recovering. The SUV then flew violently off the side of the road, into the air, and then down into the ditch. The vehicle was totaled. Lisa Lopes died on the scene almost immediately.
At the age of thirty. With a clear head and a wide-open future creeping around the corner. Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes had left crazy behind when she shed herself of Nikki. She was about to move onto her second act, creatively. Lisa had gotten her way. And now? After speeding away from her demons in a fast moving SUV? It was over. There was nothing.