The place was cold, damp, and drab. There was a Trident Series 70 console, an Otari MTR-90 24-track tape machine, a pair of Ueri monitors, and a few pieces of outboard gear. Henry asked us what we wanted to sound like. As we described our European electro-pop vibe, I could see that he was less than thrilled. He asked us if we had a drummer, and we told him that we were going to use the Drumulator, which had these John Bonham–like bombastic samples.
Looking over the control room, I was not impressed with the modest-size speakers. I wanted it loud. I asked if I could pop in a cassette to take a listen. Once I heard the song through those speakers, I told Henry they weren’t loud enough and the music sounded like shit. He thought I was a cocky asshole. I didn’t care. Little did Henry or I know, but that initial encounter would change both our lives.
The studio cost thirty-five bucks an hour. Although it was the best deal in town, where would we get the money? The guys barely made enough to cover their living expenses. We thanked Henry for the visit and told him we’d be in touch. On the ride back to the city, I told the guys there was a possibility I could come up with the cash. I didn’t want to ask Mitzi, but when I got home I told her I really believed that this group had a shot at making it. We just needed to record our material and shop it.
Mitzi agreed to underwrite the operation, not only because she genuinely loved me and had a beautiful heart but also because she was brilliant, had a business mind, and perhaps saw it as an opportunity to break us both into the industry.
“Of course, I’ll do this for you,” she said. “I believe in you.”
* * *
Boom! We were on. We booked our time at Waterfront with Henry Hirsch. With each trip in our mascot mail truck in and out of the Lincoln Tunnel, we got closer to our vision. Henry proved to be instrumental in helping us lay down the tracks. More than an engineer, he was a musician first. With his shoulder-length Ramones-esque haircut, black leather jacket, black skintight jeans, white T-shirt, and Chelsea boots, he looked like he could have been in a band from the Lower East Side.
Henry’s knowledge of sonics and placement was astounding. With each member of the band overdubbing too many parts, he helped us shape what would have sounded like mush into something spacious and dynamic. Henry had lots of opinions and was not afraid to voice them. Example: One day, Danny was laying down his bass part and having a hard time with it. After a couple of hours, Henry’s patience was exhausted. “Hey, Romeo, why don’t you play the part?” He had heard me fooling around with the bass in the hallway and had already clocked my sound. I was torn. I knew I could play it, but Danny was our bass player. Yet Danny reluctantly handed me the bass, and I did what I had to do. Henry nodded.
Over weeks of working together, Henry and I realized that we were musical soul mates. We were both crazy about the Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin. We admired the same recordings, their nuanced colors and textures. The rooms and the miking techniques. The more we talked, the more we realized that what we were doing with this band was not really our thing.
But at this point, there was no turning back. I was fully committed.
Next: knowing we’d soon be playing live and would need a drummer, I told the guys about Dan Donnelly. They took my word, and Mitzi flew him in. I wasn’t actually sure how to use him on the tracks—we were all sold on the drum machine sound—so Dan simply overdubbed cymbals.
With the demos done, I convinced the band that we needed to go out to L.A. to get our look together and find a manager to shop us a deal. I knew that Christopher Enuke and Dalee Henderson would help. It didn’t matter that we had no money to pay Dalee. He took care of us and treated us like rock stars. He cut and dyed our hair and made us look like beautiful aliens. Christopher let us borrow some of his sartorial creations. When we mixed them with some vintage finds from Melrose, we found our image, but we still didn’t have a name.
Grandpa Albert and Grandma Bessie were spending time back in Brooklyn then, so they let me put the guys up in their Village Green apartment, while Mitzi and I stayed in the loft downtown. Mom was always happy to have me back in L.A., and after meeting Raf, Danny, and Don, she found them charming and well mannered. But she had other things on her mind.
Soon after Dad moved out, my godmother Joy Homer had moved from Queens and into the guest bedroom at Cloverdale. Aunt Joy’s husband, once a prosperous merchant, had died broke, leaving my godmother destitute. She had no other options.
Mom welcomed her sister with open arms. The truth is they needed each other. It was divine timing.
* * *
In the midst of my moves to make sure this band had the right sound and look, something else happened that rocked my world. Since I had predicted it, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
LISA AND LENNY
KISMET AND CONFLICT
My love for Lisa Bonet began as a boyish fantasy. But then, in ways I’ll never be able to fully understand, the world conspired to make that fantasy come true.
It started with Jheryl Busby, whose path I’d crossed at both A&M and MCA. Jheryl was now promoting New Edition. They’d hit it big with “Candy Girl” and “Mr. Telephone Man.” Jheryl was always a fan of my musicianship, and he had the power to give me a record deal. But he didn’t hear me as commercial; he thought my style was just too outside of the box. New Edition was looking for a drummer, and he asked me if I knew anyone. I suggested Dan Donnelly. They were also looking for a guitar player, so I said I’d try out.
I wasn’t giving up on our nameless band; I just figured that if I landed the New Edition gig, I’d find a way to do both. Dan and I drove over to Audible Sound in Burbank. I still had my New Wave look: straightened hair with a tail in the back whose golden color had turned green.
I gave it my best, but I didn’t get the job. I wasn’t surprised. I’m sure they thought I wasn’t the right style. But Dan was. With his strong backbeat and flashy character, he was hired on the spot. Once he got the gig, he consciously constructed a larger-than-life character, one he called Zoro. Although we had to find a new drummer, I was happy for my brother and went back to building up the band with Raf and the boys.
New Edition had a big gig at the Universal Amphitheatre. Naturally, Zoro got passes for me and Rockwell (aka Kennedy Gordy). Getting ready for the show, Rockwell couldn’t decide what to wear. He tried on at least four different outfits. I grew impatient; I was dying to see Zoro play. Although he was an emerging star—“Somebody’s Watching Me” was already a smash—Rockwell was insecure about his look. He finally put together an ensemble, and off we went.
This was the era of New Jack Swing, a staccato-styled variation on straight-up R&B. Studio masters such as Teddy Riley—who’d go on to produce Bobby Brown’s solo smash “My Prerogative” and Michael Jackson’s “Jam”—were changing the game. Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis were crafting Janet Jackson’s breakthrough album, Control. No one could ride these New Jack grooves better than Zoro.
The show was a knockout. When it was over, I took my backstage pass and headed to the private elevator that led down to the dressing rooms. The elevator doors opened, I stepped on, and just as the doors were closing, a man stuck his arm inside. The doors reopened. The man, sharply outfitted in a suit and tie, stood aside and allowed his date to step in before him. His date was Lisa Bonet.