The attraction between us was so strong that, within weeks, I wound up living in her family home in East Orange, just outside Newark, the city where she’d been raised. It was cramped quarters. The household included Tisha’s mom, singer Mona Raye; her aunt Sharon; Sharon’s son, Eddie; and Tisha’s three brothers, Taye, Jermaine, and Stanley. The whole family accepted me, although her mother didn’t want me sleeping in the room with her daughter. But because Mona Raye had gigs, she was gone evenings, giving us time to slip into the bedroom to hang out. When it was time to turn in, instead of saying, “Go to bed, Lenny,” Tisha’s aunt Sharon would quip, “Go to floor.” The cold-ass wooden floor was my bed.
A few times, Tisha and I went to Mr. G’s, the nightclub where Mona Raye held court. The woman could sing. When she did Billie Holiday’s “God Bless the Child,” I thought of my own mother. It was Mom’s favorite song and one of her mantras: God bless the child that’s got his own. The soul got even deeper when Mona Raye called Tisha up to a sing a duet.
Mona had put Tisha together with Reggie Lucas, a Jersey-based producer who had worked with Madonna. I had different ideas about the direction I thought she should take. I saw her more as Whitney than Madonna. But Mona was happy with the way things were. Why should Tisha listen to me when she had a professional producer with hits under his belt? I didn’t even have a belt.
Despite our differences of opinion, I loved living in East Orange. Tisha’s household was wild. People coming and going night and day. It was fun. At times, there wasn’t much food in the house. Tisha’s brothers would battle over the last couple of slices of bologna. We had to improvise. We’d open a cabinet, grab a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and drop in the seasoning packets from a box of Lipton Onion Soup. It filled our stomachs, and it actually tasted good. Tisha and I lived on Lipton and love.
Like me, Tisha was looking to live a creative life. She was a free spirit with a beautiful heart. Just to be with her and her family, I braved the long haul from New York, taking subways, the PATH train to Jersey, and the trolley to East Orange.
* * *
One haul threw me for a loop. On my way home from the city, I was about to put in a token to catch the PATH train when I realized I was broke. No big deal. Just jump the turnstile. It was an easy leap, and I landed on both feet. That’s when someone grabbed me by the neck. I turned around. It was a cop, and he had only one word for me: “Busted.” He’d caught me red-handed the very week the local mayor was making an example of fare dodgers.
The next thing I knew I was inside a paddy wagon and handcuffed to a drug addict who had just shit his pants. I nearly choked on the stink. The traffic was slow. The stink got worse. The ride to headquarters took forever. Booking took another two hours. I asked to make a call. The person I knew to call was the same person I didn’t want to call: my father. I knew he had the connections I needed, but I also knew I’d have to eat crow. Not only would I have to say that I was in jail, but I’d have to explain why.
Nonetheless, I did what I had to do. I called Dad and, much to my shock, he was cool. No lectures, no rebukes, no yelling. He called his friend Barry Slotnick, a well-respected criminal lawyer famous for successfully defending Mafia bosses. I wondered if he’d met Slotnick through Uncle Vinnie.
However he’d met Slotnick, Slotnick pulled it off. Within an hour, the attorney got me out with a small fine.
Thank you, Mr. Slotnick.
Thank you, Dad.
There was just one hiccup: while I was in custody, the jail’s computer system went down. That meant that no matter what, they couldn’t release me. I had to spend the night in the can.
I have a feeling my father’s willingness to help actually made him feel good. He got to show me, his rebellious son, that he had power. He could pull strings and get me out of scrapes. No matter how much I might resent him, I still needed him. I had needed him to encourage me to become a solo artist, and I had needed him to keep me from selling away my publishing. I didn’t like admitting it, but I needed him in many ways.
* * *
Back on the streets, I borrowed some money, paid the train fare, and finally got to East Orange. Tisha and I carried on for months. Then she landed a gig in England as one of the three Supreme-like singers in the film version of Little Shop of Horrors. Later, she was also cast as a lead in Spike Lee’s School Daze. Her career was off and running, but in a direction that led her away from me. We remained close, but the love light faded, and soon we broke up.
* * *
Back in the city, things were grim. Despite my web of friends, my couch-surfing luck had run out. I’d spend days and nights riding the subway from the Bronx to Lower Manhattan. With money low and winter coming on strong, I had to think fast.
One slate-gray winter day in 1983, I wasn’t loving the city. I was in between crash pads. The air was frigid, the wind blowing hard off the Hudson. I was in my usual outfit of jeans, a denim jacket, and a raggedy scarf, and even in the January snow, I was still wearing sandals with white tube socks. I hadn’t shaved in weeks—I’ve never been big on shaving—and my nappy hair was contained by an oversize woolen cap. As the snow started falling, I dreamed of the Bahamian sun. I’d used up my friends’ favors and needed to figure out my next move. I was essentially homeless. But this was nothing new—being nomadic was my way of life—and I wasn’t worried. Maybe that’s because I knew my folks would never let me starve. I had nothing, but I lived in an abundant world. My job was to follow the music.
That’s why I was walking down Forty-Eighth Street toward the music stores. It didn’t matter that the snowfall was getting heavier. It didn’t matter that my feet were getting soaked or that the bitterly cold wind was freezing my face. Once inside Manny’s, where Dad bought me my first guitar, I’d be home. Many of the old clerks at Manny’s had known me since I was a seven-year-old begging them to let me stroke every guitar and beat every drum. Now I worked my way down the street, stopping at all the shops, first Manny’s and then Sam Ash.
I was checking out a Voyetra-8, a complex synthesizer, when this dude came over and said, “Don’t buy it.” He explained that it didn’t have MIDI. He further explained that MIDI stood for Musical Instrument Digital Interface. MIDI was the future, he said. With lightning speed, it could transfer digital signals to layer or separate sounds through multiple channels and ports. Basically, MIDI allowed different systems to talk to one another.
I asked if he was in a band. He said yes, the Michael Zager Band. I knew their disco hit “Let’s All Chant.” It turned out he’d written the song and sung lead vocals on the record. He introduced himself as Alvin Fields. I introduced myself as Romeo Blue. He looked at my soaking wet sandals, thought for a minute, and asked if I happened to be the same cat in the long coat who’d played bass synth with Herb Albert on Soul Train. I beamed. Yes, that was me!
Sensing that I might be homeless, Alvin asked if I had a place to stay. I didn’t. So, he invited me to crash at his place, at 111 West Ninety-Fourth Street. It was a tiny studio apartment dominated by an enormous widescreen television and a battery of keyboards, drum machines, and sequencers. Of course, he had a full-on MIDI system.