Teena’s monster hit was “Square Biz,” and her real-life manner was straight talk. She told me about being confused when, at age eight, her parents, seeing her musical talent, sent her out on the audition trail. She felt like a performing monkey. As a teen, she grew up with the gangbangers on the rough side of Venice, California. Yet Teena was all about love: she was loved by her musicians, her fans, and anyone else who came her way.
Tina would let me drive her T-Bird while, from the passenger seat, she sang and wrote songs on the spot. At the time, she was living with Rick James’s sister Penny. I stayed with them for months. It was a beautiful interlude in my life. Those two women nurtured and loved me unconditionally. Teena took me to her sessions and let me sit in. She and Penny took me to Rick’s house, where he’d cook his ass off for us. I also got to see Rick in the studio. Teena and Rick were self-produced visionaries. I was privileged to witness artists in command of the total studio setting. Huge lesson.
Teena also took me to my first Maze concert, at the Universal Amphitheatre, a family reunion for all Black America. When Frankie Beverly, the Maze lead singer, broke into “Happy Feelings” and “We Are One,” the bond between the band and the fans became mystical. We were one.
Teena was my big sis, the person who kept reassuring me that though I still hadn’t found my voice, I would. Because of Teena’s spirit, I related to her as a Black woman. Mom loved her from the first moment they met up at Cloverdale. When we walked in, Mom was dancing by herself to Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.” That’s all Teena needed to see. Teena knew Mom from The Jeffersons, and Mom knew Teena’s records.
Dad was also a Teena fan. She was one of those rare people who could melt the ice between me and my father. During Cloverdale parties, Teena loved to barbecue chicken in our brick oven. She became family, ingratiating herself with Albert and Bessie, who treated her like a granddaughter.
* * *
Teena’s influence helped me up my game. My demos improved. In fact, the demos I cut at A&M finally reached someone with the power to give me a deal. Miles Copeland ran I.R.S. Records. He was the brother of Police drummer Stewart Copeland and a powerful industry exec. He liked my stuff to the point that he was ready to sit down and talk business.
Whatever my problems with Dad, I knew I needed advice, so I asked him to accompany me. Sy Kravitz was hard-nosed. Nothing got by him. Miles was excited about my material. He described it as New Wave R&B. All I needed was a producer. I wasn’t so sure. I wanted a deal, not a producer, but I kept quiet. Miles wanted Martin Rushent to produce me, the man who had made big hits for the Human League and the Go-Go’s.
It seemed like a no-brainer, except my spirit told me it wasn’t right. I can’t say why. I was living in a Pinto then, and what kid living in a Pinto doesn’t take a music deal? It helped that my dad had hard-core business objections to what Miles was proposing; he didn’t like the terms. He was so tough, in fact, that Miles was taken aback; it was almost embarrassing. Because my album would contain all original songs, Dad insisted that I keep my publishing rights. He explained that if the record hit, publishing would be a major source of revenue. Dad’s position was clear: always hold on to your publishing.
Copeland balked, and the deal fell apart. I wasn’t all that bummed. I worried that an outside producer might mishandle my music. I also realized that Dad was right. When you write a song, the publishing rights inherently belong to you. Why give them away? Yet scores of artists, thrilled by the idea of being signed, do just that. That’s the moment when record labels feed off artists’ vulnerability. Fortunately, in that moment of vulnerability, Dad protected me.
All this meant that I was still on the loose, still looking for a sound, a voice, a deal.
Mom supported my search. But I didn’t make it easy for her. She had her heart set on my going to Howard, her alma mater. She was the first in her family to graduate college. Grandpa Albert made the same point: look at what Black people had sacrificed so that a kid like me could get ahead. These ideas were coming from the two people who had shaped my character and molded my morals. For them, education was everything. Mom had done graduate work abroad. Grandpa had devoted his life to learning. The fact that I wasn’t about to continue my formal education hurt them. I wish I could have prevented that hurt, but my focus never changed—it was music or nothing.
* * *
The collapse of the I.R.S. deal didn’t hurt my hustle. I was still on the grind, still convinced it was only a matter of time. Besides, others believed in me. One big believer was Kennedy Gordy, who called to say he’d written a surefire hit that was perfect for my style. I had to hear it right away.
I was up at Cloverdale visiting Mom when Kennedy came over carrying a LinnDrum machine, a keyboard, and an amp. He played and sang “Somebody’s Watching Me.” I liked it, it was really good, but I didn’t feel it was right for me. He asked me to think it over. Kennedy was Berry Gordy’s son. Berry was a star-maker. Berry could sign anyone he wanted. Motown was the big leagues. Was I stupid to turn this down?
A few weeks later, Kennedy recorded the song himself, using the name Rockwell. Berry Gordy, the man who signed, produced, and broke the Jackson 5, got Michael Jackson to sing on the chorus, and “Somebody’s Watching Me” became an international smash.
I’m a little amazed how much stuff I turned down at a time when I was so determined to make it. What do I attribute that to? What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. My gut simply said no.
As time went on, more opportunities would come my way, and I’d continue to turn down songs that had success written all over them. It wasn’t arrogance that made me pass over those opportunities. I wasn’t ego-tripping. If anything, it was the opposite. I never forgot one of my mother’s favorite admonitions: self-praise is no recommendation.
No, it was simply that the opportunities presented to me up until that point hadn’t allowed me to be my true self. I always knew that if I couldn’t express my musical soul, I wouldn’t be worth a damn.
LIPTON AND LOVE
After moving to California nine years earlier, my family continued flying back to New York for regular visits. Now I started going back on my own. Practically every month, I ran over to LAX and bought a ninety-nine-dollar ticket to JFK on a budget airline called People Express. With money saved from odd jobs and studio gigs, I zipped back and forth like it was a bus ride.
In New York, I returned to Brooklyn, where Grandma and Grandpa had kept their house at the corner of Throop Avenue and Kosciuszko Street. There was always a room there for me. Over in Manhattan, I stayed with the Bernsteins (my pal Adam and his dad, promoter Sid Bernstein) at their palatial pad at 1000 Park Avenue. Never wanting to overstay my welcome, though, I kept moving on. When none of my old Upper East Side pals was around to let me crash in their parents’ apartment, I slept on the floor of friends’ East Village lofts. I was all over the place.
* * *
I wound up in New Jersey because of Tisha Campbell. We had kept in touch since The Me Nobody Knows, and I couldn’t wait to see her again. She was a couple of years younger than me but already a pro, a gorgeous young woman who could act, sing, and dance with the confidence of someone twice her age. I was in love with her voice. I saw Tisha as a songstress, and I wanted to write and produce for her.