I’d gone to see Dr. Scimonetti out of vanity—I had to have those blue eyes I envisioned for the new character I was creating in my mind. Once I got used to the feel, I liked the look but, ironically, that look led to a renewal of my spiritual life.
Dr. Scimonetti became another father figure. I talked about him so much that out of curiosity Mom asked me to invite him to dinner at Cloverdale. He and Mom hit it off. He didn’t press his spiritual beliefs on her, and she didn’t press her Science of the Mind beliefs on him.
My dad, on the other hand, started challenging Dr. Scimonetti. The Bible was filled with nonsensical stories, Dad said. Moses didn’t part the Red Sea. Jesus didn’t walk on water.
Dr. Scimonetti didn’t protest; he never lost his composure. He simply told Dad that we were all entitled to our own interpretations. There was nothing wrong with doubt. After all, without doubt, there was no real faith.
ROMEO AND MITZI
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
While my faith in God was reinforced, my artistic image was changing. If I was going solo, I wanted to reinvent myself, even to the point of finding a new name. Lennie Kravitz wasn’t doing it for me. Lennie Kravitz sounded more like an accountant than a rock musician. The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz had been a popular movie, with Richard Dreyfuss playing a Jewish nerd. I might have been a lot of things, but I was not a nerd. I needed something fresh.
With girls suddenly interested in me, my friends started calling me Romeo. I thought of merging “Romeo” with the name of a guitarist I admired, Adrian Belew, who’d played with Frank Zappa and Bowie. I turned “Belew” into “Blue” and came up with “Romeo Blue.”
It was a name and an image that I felt fit with the glam of the early eighties. Bowie. Prince. Madonna. Romeo.
Another point: now that I had left my father’s house never to return, I felt the need to change my name. It was part of my journey to figure out who I was: I had been Lennie in Manhattan; Eddie in Bed-Stuy; and Lennie in Santa Monica, Baldwin Vista, and Beverly Hills. And now, ready to forge a new path, I was Romeo Blue. And all Romeo Blue’s attention was on turning out demos that would land a record deal.
I wound up at the A&M lot at La Brea and Sunset, a place heavy with Hollywood history. It had once been Charlie Chaplin’s film studio. It was high energy, and its campus became my home. I crashed all night on the couches in the lounge, waking myself up just before the janitors arrived. I endeared myself to everyone, especially the secretaries and engineers. I felt that I was living in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. It was Oz. It was where I met Quincy Jones, Bruce Swedien, and Sergio Mendes. It was where I met the Police and the Go-Go’s. I met practically every artist on the A&M roster.
I worked in Studio C, just off the reception area, the smallest and cheapest space available. That little room became my laboratory. I was still experimenting with a sound that hadn’t come together yet. It was just me and Dan Donnelly. He was on drums; I was on guitar, bass, and keys. Prince was still prominent in my mind, yet I was quickly coming up with original material. While it was still in a New Wave vein, it attracted at least three women at A&M who were always touting my talent: Paulette Rapp, executive assistant to Jerry Moss (the M of A&M), Iris Dillon, and Karen Clay in quality control.
When I wasn’t recording my own stuff, I sat in on sessions. David Lasley, with a long, blond mane, looked like a California surfer dude but sang like a Black gospel diva. He heard me play guitar on a demo session with Siedeh Garrett, who went on to write “Man in the Mirror” and to sing “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” with Michael Jackson. At the time, I was nineteen and David was thirty-six. He’d sung with Chic on “Good Times” and Sister Sledge on “We Are Family.” He’d worked with Aretha; sung with Luther Vandross, his best friend; and toured with James Taylor for years. He’d also written “You Bring Me Joy” for Anita Baker, one of the sweetest R&B ballads.
David learned that I was living pillar to post. He didn’t want me on the street and generously offered me his couch. He had written songs for everyone from Patti LaBelle to Bonnie Raitt. He had learned his craft, and he inspired me to do the same.
David thought my own songs were good enough to secure a publishing deal. He brought me over to Almo/Irving Music, the publishing arm of A&M, where I was actually signed as a writer. My first (and only) check was an advance of five thousand dollars. Five thousand!
Being my usual conservative self, I ran over to Maxfield, the store introduced to me by Lenny Steinberg, and blew all the bread on a maxi-coat by Yohji Yamamoto and a Jean-Paul Gaultier psychedelic Nehru suit. Not only was I lusting for those clothes, but I was also interested in building my Romeo Blue image. It turned out to be a timely purchase because when Herb Alpert (the A of A&M) hired me to play bass synthesizer during his Soul Train appearance, my look was ready.
At Almo/Irving, they gave me my own office. It was small but all mine. It had a desk with a phone, a chair, an upright piano, and a stereo system. This was it. I was being paid to write songs. I was a professional. I had twenty-four-hour access to the lot. I left my friends’ names with security so they could come hang out with me at night. We’d smoke weed and listen to music until morning. It was a dream.
In the meantime, David Lasley mentored me. His songwriting tips were invaluable. So were his insights on show business. While I was living with him, he received regular late-night calls from Luther Vandross when he was back in his hotel after a show. The phone was on speaker, so I heard Luther talk about how lonely he was. It didn’t matter that women all over the world were insane for him. He told David, “Child, the ladies were screaming, ‘Luther! Luther!’ and all I wanted to do was yell back, ‘Where’s your brother? Your brother?’” It’s so sad that at that time, Luther couldn’t be himself. Listening to Luther, I could hear that the magnificence of his singing voice was coming from the deepest part of his soul.
On April 1, 1984, David and I were driving down Hollywood Boulevard in his pickup truck. Michael’s “Billie Jean” was blasting on the radio. Before the song was over, though, the deejay broke in to say, “Soul singer Marvin Gaye has been shot to death at his parents’ home in Mid-City, Los Angeles. Reports indicate that his father, an ordained preacher, has been taken into custody as the prime suspect.”
I was sure it had to be a sick April Fools’ joke, but it wasn’t. When I later learned that Marvin Gaye Sr. was his son’s murderer, I shuddered. I knew about father-son rage. I understood how fury could turn violent. But this was an outcome beyond my imagination.
LADY T
I could freeload for only so long, even off someone as gracious as David Lasley. I was always moving on. Angels appeared out of nowhere. One day, I looked up and there was Teena Marie.
As much as I liked writing songs, I was eager to get on the road and play with a real artist. That’s why I auditioned to be Teena Marie’s guitarist. I didn’t get the gig, but Teena and I had a connection, and when her tour was over, she invited me to her home. We became friends for life.
At the time, I was nineteen, and Tina, a white singer-songwriter signed to Motown Records, was twenty-seven. When they released her debut album, Wild and Peaceful, the cover depicted a calm sea and a stormy sky instead of an image of the artist. Because Teena sounded so Black, Motown, aiming for a Black audience, didn’t want to show her white face. Rick James, who became Teena’s champion, produced the record and also sang on her hit “I’m a Sucker for Your Love.” I loved her rendition, on that same album, of “Déjà Vu, I’ve Been Here Before,” written by Rick. When her picture appeared on her second album, Lady T, legions of Black fans started calling her Vanilla Child. Soon after, she appeared on Rick’s Street Songs, singing the classic duet “Fire and Desire.” She then shocked the industry by suing Motown for injuring her career by refusing to release her new material. In a landmark victory, Teena broke new ground for artists looking to leave their unsupportive labels. “Lady T,” the name on the license plate of her pink ’57 T-Bird convertible, was a warrior.