I had my instruments; Christopher had his drafting table—and for a while, that was enough. We spent our days and nights honing our crafts. Our landlady, Marty Costanza, an attractive older woman, put up with our rent being constantly late every month in exchange for our shameless flirtations. Christopher and I would argue over whose turn it was to go over to her place to charm her into giving us more time.
Christopher made his own clothes and let me wear them: leather pants and jackets, kilts, and jewelry made from the scraps. He had great taste and was also a ladies’ man with the charming arrogance of an African prince.
One evening, Christopher wanted to give me a present. He knew a beautiful woman willing to love me for a night. When she came over, I didn’t know the arrangement. I said hello and went upstairs to listen to music. The next thing I knew, she’d come into my room and was taking off all her clothes. She said, “I’m a gift from Christopher.” As fine as she was, I just couldn’t do it.
* * *
When Christopher graduated Otis Parsons in 1984, I threw him a big party. With whatever little money I had, I got this soul food catering company to come up to the house with a feast: fried chicken, cornbread, collard greens, macaroni and cheese—the whole lot. And, yes, watermelon. All his friends and classmates showed up. When Christopher walked in, I was so excited to see his reaction.
Being a Nigerian with an English boarding school upringing, he didn’t get it. Here was the school’s star student at his big, fancy graduation celebration, and there I was embarrassing him with this pickaninny nigger food. By evening’s end, though, he was over it, dancing with his friends and eating the damn chicken.
Christopher’s future in fashion was a sure thing, but our life as roommates in the Hollywood Hills didn’t last long. We ran out of money and started spinning in different directions.
Meanwhile, I kept pushing my music. I’d ask myself, Who am I and what do I want to say? I still didn’t have any answers.
I was still Romeo Blue.
I was still without a sound I could live with.
I was still without a group I could call my own.
I was still searching.
Searching meant jamming. When in doubt, I found that my default position was always to jam. Jamming is its own reward. So, I kept jamming with the best musicians from Beverly, like guitarist Vadim Zilberstein, bassist Osama Afifi, keyboardist Don Wyatt, and bassist Kevin Wyatt.
On the streets, at backyard parties, and at all-night sessions in the studio, I kept at it. I sought out the wisdom of my godmothers and other elders like Linda Hopkins, the epic soul singer. I had seen Linda in Me and Bessie on Broadway when I was a kid. She was Mom’s friend and then became my friend as well. Linda was the real deal: a raw, romping blues singer and a direct link to the ancient heritage of Black music. I loved the times I spent in her vibey little apartment, where she’d cook for me amid her coterie of adoring gay boyfriends.
* * *
I also sought out producers like John Barnes, an eloquent brother with sleepy red eyes, a thick mustache, and a bass-bottom voice. He was the young wiz who’d played on “We Are the World” for Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson, who’d helped put together “Liberian Girl” on Michael’s Bad album, and who’d worked with Diana Ross and Julio Iglesias. Among the first to master the Synclavier, John designed complex musical constructions like an architect.
John gave Romeo Blue a big break when I co-produced disco diva Thelma Houston singing “What a Woman Feels Inside.” I also played guitar on the track. I arranged it as a straight-up R&B ballad, but John modernized it with a heavy dose of Synclavier that, to my ears, undercut the feel. Nevertheless, MCA dug it and placed it on Thelma’s album, Qualifying Heat.
John and I kept at it. I studied his techniques at the board. I was in awe of his talent. His work ethic more than matched mine, but it was fueled by cocaine. He was hardly alone. The snow blizzard of the eighties blanketed the music industry. Pot was a mellow high. Coke was anything but mellow. The drug triggered a frenetic energy that separated me from my soul. I didn’t judge snorters. I just didn’t like the shit they were snorting.
After one all-night session when John was wired, we went out for breakfast. We were driving through Hollywood when a cop pulled us over. We weren’t speeding, we hadn’t been drinking, and, for once, I wasn’t holding any weed. I wasn’t worried, but John was. I understood why when the cops found a huge bag of coke in the backseat. They said they were taking us both in. John was a stand-up guy, though: he insisted the coke was his, not mine, and just like that I was set free. John was hauled off to the station while I drove around in his car and arranged his bail.
I could picture my parents’ reaction if I’d been arrested for drugs. It was only John Barnes’s integrity that kept my young ass out of jail.
* * *
More searching, more jamming, more musicians.
Tony LeMans was crazy talented. I met him back in junior high, when his name was Tony Fortier. Like me, he had reinvented himself in an attempt to break into the business. In terms of looks, we could have been brothers. Tony had played French horn in Miss Beasley’s orchestra. We’d lost track of each other until he showed up at the Wave concert at Beverly Hills High. He, too, was searching for the right sound. Since I’d seen him last, he’d made big strides as a writer and singer. He’d grown his hair out and looked like a rock star. Tony modeled himself after Sly Stone. We shared a passion for old-school funk.
Tony was the partner I’d been looking for. He had style and swag. On a personal level, there was always an undercurrent of competition coming from Tony, but I avoided side-by-side comparisons by lavishly praising him. The praise was genuine. He had laser-like focus.
At first, I was Tony’s wingman. We were working on material that featured him. It was basically funk with intricate background harmonies. Although digital synthesizers, drum machines, and sequencers were what was happening, Tony and I were cultivating a sound that harkened back to the old school—kind of Sly meets the Beatles.
Because I was still hanging out at A&M, I knew John McClain, the record man who’d launched Janet Jackson’s career with a genius move: putting her with producer-songwriters Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. An industry powerhouse, John had grown up with the Jacksons and eventually became coexecutor of Michael’s estate.
When John heard our demos, he loved our vibe. He wanted to take it even further. His idea was to group me and Tony with three other musicians and form a Black Duran Duran. He’d break us out in Europe and then bring us home, where we’d be greeted as superstars. We couldn’t miss. A boy band chased down by hordes of screaming fans.
My bandmates were wild for the idea. I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go that route. McClain came on strong. He called us into his lavish office, which looked like an apartment, the walls lined with gold and platinum records. Right there on the spot, he offered us a deal. My bandmates were salivating and ready to sign. I wasn’t. They got furious with me. McClain got even more furious.
“Who the fuck do you think you are to turn down a deal like this?” he yelled.
I didn’t have an answer. My refusal made no sense to him. Struggling musicians don’t turn down deals with major labels, especially with someone as powerful as John. But deep down, I knew it just wasn’t what I wanted to do.