“If you’re gonna wear that skirt, you need to change your shoes. Those shoes are not working.”
Okay. Most of the guys I was hanging out with then were gay. And although she never asked, Mom had to have been wondering which way I was going. Most moms would not have let their son leave the house in a skirt. But Roxie Roker wasn’t most moms. Scrutinizing me up and down, she just needed the outfit to work. It was like, Baby, you gotta coordinate.
How cool is that?
WAVE
Jane went off to boarding school in Switzerland, but our bond never weakened. When she learned that I was dead broke and couldn’t afford an amp for one of the endless bands I was putting together, she bought one for me. And even though she wasn’t living at home, I went by the Greenberg house just to give Frances the housekeeper a hug.
During those first years after I left home, I found shelter with friends like Dalee Henderson, Mom’s beloved hairdresser, who worked at Tovar, a Beverly Hills salon. Dalee was an elegant Black southern gentleman, regal in bearing and super sharp. He had an infallible eye for everything from clothes to furniture. I saw him as a true trendsetter, fearless and fierce in his style.
These were the days of heavy chemicals: extreme straightening and outlandish coloring. Dalee was a master alchemist; his coifs were high art. He took me to the hottest clubs in West Hollywood: Studio One; Rage; Peanuts, a lesbian bar; and Jewel’s Catch One, on Pico, one of the first Black gay dance bars in the city. Dalee supported my wanderlust lifestyle by housing me when I had nowhere to sleep and feeding me when I had nothing to eat, as well as by keeping my hair fresh. As my look evolved, he chided me for picking the wrong shirt and praised me for wearing the right boots. Dalee knew Mom so well that when I was wearing one of her necklaces, he recognized it immediately. He was a loving big brother.
Half of Mom’s friends were gay. The only difference between them and me was that I wasn’t sexually attracted to men. Otherwise, I had more in common with them than I did with most straight guys. Fashion, music, photography, design—you name it, gay men helped me form my sense of style. They were the trailblazers, the ones creating the avant-garde culture in L.A.
* * *
Meanwhile, at Beverly Hills High, I cared about only one thing: the music programs. I never stopped working on my chops. But it got to the point where no matter how well I was doing in music, I was still in danger of flunking out. I didn’t care. I was focused on forming some kind of group to score a deal. I was still searching for my voice. That search would go on for years, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to record. Inside, I knew what I had to do. I had to make music.
I had promised my mother that I wouldn’t drop out of school. But despite that promise, I was on the verge of doing so—until Mom, as always, came to the rescue. She had learned about Newbridge, a private school specializing in problem kids. Many of its pupils were the children of celebrities who’d washed out of other schools and required extra attention.
The vibe at Newbridge was hippy-dippy. We called our teachers by their first names. There was no real discipline. In fact, a big sign hanging in the hallway read, “Question Authority.” Some of the students and teachers even smoked weed together. In one case, a teacher was actually dating a student.
I liked the loose attitude, but I still didn’t study. My mind was fixated on music to such a degree that I snuck over to Beverly Hills High and, thanks to the kindness of Mr. Farmer, continued jamming with the jazz band.
* * *
It was jazz that kept my relationship with Dad from falling apart completely. Even after I left home, the Playboy Jazz Festival remained our yearly ritual. That first time after I’d left home, we sat together, appreciating Freddie Hubbard and Chick Corea and Al Jarreau. In unison, we tapped our feet to the Toshiko Akiyoshi–Lew Tabackin Big Band. Mom and Dad held hands during Nancy Wilson’s set. Because my mother was friends with Sarah Vaughan, she took me backstage before the show. Sarah was in her dressing room wearing a plain muumuu. Barefoot, she was drinking, smoking, and snacking on chips. “Child, come give me a hug.” Sarah was the salt of the earth. She and Mom chatted it up, while I watched in awe.
Fifteen minutes later, I was seated in our box, sandwiched between Mom and Dad. Lights down. Pin spot on Sarah as she entered wearing a long gown glittering with silver sparkles. Her command of the stage was stunning. Her voice—her rich tone, remarkable range, ability to bend notes with striking beauty—wiped me out. Five minutes before, she’d been Auntie Sarah. Now she was a regal queen.
* * *
How do you go from falling head over heels in love with the voice of Sarah Vaughan to organizing a New Wave band? I didn’t think twice about it. Music inspires me, pure and simple. Inspiration comes from all genres. The same way I was a couch surfer, I was a genre surfer. Riding the waves of new music.
My biggest operation so far was a band named Wave. It was the Gap Band meets the Jacksons meets Rick James meets Shalamar meets the Time—with solid chunks of heavy rock thrown in for good measure. Four horns, two keyboardists, a bassist, Dan on drums, two guitarists, and a girl backup trio I named Wet.
Tracy took the lead. His rock star aura made him a perfect front man.
The second singer was Kevin Conner, my boy from Bed-Stuy. Kevin and I had been tight since we met as little kids. During my time in California, he’d been making strides as an amateur boxer in Brooklyn, but I convinced him to sing. Kevin was a serious music fan. He knew every Marvin Gaye riff, and I knew he’d fit in fine. I scrounged up the money, sent him a plane ticket, and, in another one of my crazy schemes, snuck him into Cloverdale. I may not have been living there anymore, but for months Kevin camped out in a sleeping bag in the alcove outside my bathroom door. When Mom and Dad went out for the day, I’d bring him sandwiches from Leroy’s, where I was still frying fish.
All went smoothly until Dad heard a noise, grabbed his shotgun, and nearly blew Kevin away before realizing the “intruder” was Kevin from Bed-Stuy. Mom would have let him stay, but not Dad. So, I found Kevin another place to crash. I also had Dalee do his hair and dress him in a pink polo shirt, designer jeans, and K-Swiss sneakers. The Beverly Hills girls went crazy for him, and Kevin hooked up with a sweetheart who lived in a mansion bigger than Berry Gordy’s.
I was Wave’s third singer. I wasn’t looking to be the star—that’s never been my goal—but rather, the guy who makes it all happen—a junior Maurice White. Wave was never a cover band. We wrote original songs. With Earth, Wind & Fire in mind, I also hooked up fog machines, sound effects, and an elaborate light show. And Tracy, Kevin, and I made our own costumes. We went to a fabric store in West Hollywood and bought cheap vibrant prints and fake leather to make trousers. Then we hit up Flip for vintage shirts, which we bedazzled with rhinestones. We finished off the look with Prince-like pompadours, Michael Jackson Jheri curls, and smoky eye makeup.
We’d rehearse at Martin Landau and Barbara Bain’s house. They didn’t seem to care that their basement was overrun with kids blasting funky music. Within a matter of months, we’d put together a fifteen-member band on a shoestring.
The idea was to introduce Wave at a heavily promoted show where, before storming the stage like rock stars, we’d arrive in limos. But naturally, limos cost money. Because I was not only writing songs and putting together this major production, but had assumed the role of super salesman, too, I convinced my Newbridge classmate Michael O’Connor, who came from a wealthy family, to underwrite the show. I also talked the Music Department at Beverly Hills High into letting us use the school’s auditorium. I was a man possessed. This show had to happen, and it had to be nothing less than spectacular.