Mitzi and I flew to L.A., where she leased us a loft downtown that appealed to the New Yorker in me. This was way before the area got hip. In a refurbished warehouse on the corner of Seventh and Alameda, the loft looked down on the Greyhound bus station where the homeless camped out in a dingy waiting room.
A young architect and graphic designer, Michael Czysz, lived in the same building, in a loft with concrete floors. Those floors inspired me to do the same. In one of my first design projects, I laid chicken wire over my wooden floors and poured the concrete myself. The result was unsafe, rough but right.
Our loft was big enough to house a small studio I’d built with the brand-new Akai 12-track board. It was all open space: kitchen, bedroom, and living room. I was constantly in the studio, still looking for the sound that kept eluding me. After hours of making music or late nights with Mitzi, we’d go to Gorky’s, a cafeteria specializing in Russian omelets.
* * *
The life of the Gemini went on: a week in seedy downtown L.A. buying fifty-cent burritos from a food truck, followed by a week in Manhattan dining at Le Cirque on the Upper East Side.
My essential nature, living high while living low, hadn’t changed. What had changed was that I’d come of age.
TWENTY-ONE
Mom had been throwing me birthday parties since I was one. No matter what else was happening in my life, it was a ritual I looked forward to.
Twenty-one is a milestone, and Mom wanted to mark it with fanfare. She was living in Cloverdale—without Dad, of course—and saw no reason that Cloverdale shouldn’t be the place. It was, and will always be, where the family came together to celebrate.
For all the love surrounding me, the night turned out strange and a little strained. Naturally, I dressed for the occasion: a suit by Yohji with a print that looked like splattered paint. The guests included friends of my folks, plus Grandpa Albert and Grandma Bessie; choir buddies Phineas and Joey; Tony LeMans; Dan Donnelly; Kennedy Gordy; David Lasley and Teena Marie; my godmothers Joan Hamilton Brooks, Diahann Carroll, and Joy Homer. And then there was Jewel, looking healthy and strong. Being compassionate, Mom had reached out and invited her.
I wondered if Dad would show up. When he did, I had mixed emotions. He walked around and chatted with everyone as though he still lived there. And he talked and laughed with Mom as if nothing had happened. They both looked beautiful, and for a moment I wished that things could go back to the way they were. I’m sure he wished that, too.
After I blew out the twenty-one candles, it was time for my big announcement:
Mitzi and I were engaged!
I’d bought her an antique ring. I hoped Mom would be pleased, but I saw that she was taken by surprise. I hadn’t discussed it with her. Mitzi was sweet, educated, and responsible, but I’m sure that in Mom’s eyes we were too young. Dad remained stone silent.
Over the coming months, Mitzi and my mother grew close. Meanwhile, in Hong Kong, the Laus were not happy. I don’t think they were into having an unemployed Black musician as a son-in-law.
* * *
My engagement to Mitzi came at the same time that my mother’s long run on The Jeffersons was coming to an end. After eleven seasons, the show was shutting down. Mom was hardly fazed. She had always expressed gratitude for the gig, but had never seen it as her whole life.
The Jeffersons had been all-consuming. But while on hiatus, she’d been able to squeeze in other things. She appeared in Alex Haley’s iconic television miniseries Roots as well as the hit series The Love Boat and Kojack. She also found time for her true passion: theater. She did productions with Edmund Cambridge at the Inner City Cultural Center throughout her tenure with The Jeffersons. Roxie Roker never stopped honing her craft. She was as committed to acting as I was to music. And I’d inherited her tenacity.
After The Jeffersons was over, she was able to completely shift her paradigm. She did guest spots on a host of shows—Cagney & Lacey; Murder, She Wrote—as well as working in theater. She went back to New York and did some Off-Broadway plays and even toured with Carol Channing and Mary Martin in a play called Legends.
* * *
With Mitzi by my side, Mom presumed I’d settle into a stable and creative life. She was certain I’d soon find myself and put all the crazy drama behind me.
If only …
* * *
My mania to make music, my love for Mitzi, my bicoastal hustling—everything was happening at once, and happening fast.
I was rooted in my determination to get the right record deal. Although I smoked massive amounts of weed, it wasn’t a problem. Meanwhile, close friends did have problems; they were strung out on coke, wiped out by depression, or spiritually lost. From Fifty-Seventh Street, I called Dr. Scimonetti, who had never failed me. On his own dime, he flew to New York and came to our apartment to minister to those in pain. He talked about getting through those dark days by leaning on scripture, about persevering, transcending, and allowing the presence of God to comfort and transform our wounded souls. His mission was always about activating spiritual strength through Jesus Christ. He helped countless people, including me. Dr. Scimonetti’s presence was always inspiring.
* * *
I needed inspiration to anchor me. That’s because my professional life—if you could call it that—was still haphazard. I was still running in four different directions at once—and that’s how I met Don Pebbles.
Don worked as a keyboard salesman at Sam Ash, the same music store where I’d met Alvin Fields. Don was ultra–New Wave—dyed blond Flock of Seagulls hair—with an ironic take on life. He was also a good keyboard player. After his day job, he’d jam with guitarist Raf Hernandez and bassist Danny Palomo, who were trying to put a group together. Don knew I played lots of instruments, but what they really needed was a lead singer. He told me that the band was rehearsing in a loft in an old warehouse in New Jersey.
A few days later, they picked me up in an old beat-up mail truck. By the time we got through the Lincoln Tunnel, we were already comfortable as a group, talkin’ shit, making fun of one another, and ready to play. The creative energy with Don, Raf, and Danny was strong. Their music was very Tears for Fears, very heavy on Euro-electro-pop. I saw the potential. They started jamming and asked me to come up with something. It didn’t take long. I felt their vibe and started scatting melodies and broken lyrics. After a few rehearsals, we had some tunes that we all thought sounded pretty good.
Now we just needed some money and a place to record. Don said he knew of a studio that had just opened in the Dell’Aquila building, on Fourteenth and Washington in Hoboken. Dell’Aquila, a monstrous brick factory full of sweatshops with a giant smokestack, towered over the Hudson River just across from the shimmering skyline of Manhattan. All the window panes had been covered with thick mustard-yellow paint. You wouldn’t have known anyone was in there if you hadn’t seen the workers rushing out at the end of each day.
The place was called Waterfront Studios, and the engineer was Henry Hirsch, who had produced and played on some European hit records while living in Berlin. His engineering partner, Dave Domanich, had worked with producer Tony Camillo recording songs like Gladys Knight and the Pips’ “Midnight Train to Georgia.”