Now I knew why I’d turned down all those deals. Yes, I had been part of great bands and blessed to have worked with brilliant musicians, but deep down, I knew something was missing. Before, I had tried my best to write. Now I wasn’t even trying. The songs just came pouring out.
One song asked, “Does Anybody Out There Even Care?” Another, reflecting on the life that Lisa and I were leading, said, “I Build This Garden for Us”—a garden without war or racial prejudice, a place where “We’ll be so happy, / Our little family, / So full of love and trust.”
I took Lisa’s poem “Fear,” about ecological devastation in a loveless society, and gave it a melody. In the past, I’d searched for the songs. But now the songs—“Be,” “Freedom Train,” “My Precious Love”—were appearing fully formed. These songs had found me.
My poetic imagination widened. In “Blues for Sister Someone,” for example, I was envisioning characters and profiling them in song. The most vivid profile was the one I wrote of Lisa. I called it “Flower Child”:
Dressed in purple velvets
With a flower in her hair
Feel her gentle spirit
As the champa fills the air
… She’s a psychedelic princess
On a magic carpet ride
And where her trip will carry you
Is somewhere you can’t find
She’s on a plane of higher consciousness
Meditation is the key
She’s got her shit together
Cause her soul and mind are free
As a writer, I finally felt free of a process that had held me back for years, forcing songs. That struggle had ended.
* * *
With songs swirling through my head, I flew to New York with Lisa, who was back on The Cosby Show. Bill did his best to hide her pregnancy by having her stand behind big chairs and kitchen counters. She and I stayed at 450 Broome Street, just off Mercer. The place was owned by photographer and conceptual artist Lee Jaffe, who had befriended Bob Marley and made music with the reggae master. Lee became a buddy and played harmonica on two tracks on my new record.
It was on the wall next to the elevator of that loft that I wrote in black Magic Marker, just because the words floated into mind, “Let love rule.” I looked at that wall for weeks before I borrowed Lee’s guitar to turn those three words into a song.
ON THE WATERFRONT
Writing songs is one thing, and recording them is another. I still had to deal with the studio. I’d spent over a decade in studios with countless musicians and engineers. Now I needed an engineer who understood my sonic vision.
I turned to the man in Hoboken. When I started working with Raf and the guys, it was Henry Hirsch who suggested I play bass. He knew even then that the Euro-pop sound we were creating wasn’t my style. I told Henry that I’d been writing different music—my music. When he asked me to describe it, all I could say was that it felt natural, warm, and intimate. I told him I wanted to make my own Innervisions.
Lisa had total faith in my music and wanted more than anything to see my vision come to fruition. She bestowed the most beautiful offering by covering the studio costs. When I went a bit over budget, I reluctantly reached out to my father and asked for a loan. Surprisingly, he agreed, but not without his usual skepticism: “I’ll lend you the money,” he said, “but I know I’ll never see it again.”
Henry was excited, and supportive of my new project. I had a bunch of vintage equipment I’d bought at Voltage Guitar, off Sunset: a Fender tweed amp, a second amp for my bass, a Telecaster, an Epiphone Sorrento, and a drum kit. We auditioned musicians to accompany me. As great as they were, none of them had the feel I was looking for. After a few frustrating days, Henry suggested that I play all the instruments myself.
I was skeptical. I’d watched documentaries about the Beatles, the Stones, Zeppelin, and Hendrix, and I’d always imagined a band experience. I wanted to party, I wanted people around me, musicians to bounce ideas off. But Henry saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. His point was that on great records, you feel the true personality of the players through their instruments. It’s a hands-on process. To make a completely personal record, he urged me to put my hands on all the instruments.
I did. I played and sang all the parts. It came naturally. I became different characters depending on the instrument, or the song. On drums, I could be Stevie or Ringo. On bass, I could be a heavyset dude from Memphis with a Newport dangling from his mouth and a sack of greasy chicken wings by his side. On guitar, I turned into a skinny, long-haired white boy from London or a funky brother with a blown-out Afro from Detroit.
With me producing and Henry engineering, we found our groove. Our aim was to create a recording that overflowed with truth. Henry and I knew that the best way to do that was to use the vintage equipment that made the classic rock and rhythm-and-blues records we loved. We felt that was the state of the art, as opposed to the current gear. We wanted warmth; we wanted an organic sound that would let the listener feel my soul.
On the day that I cut “Let Love Rule,” Henry just looked at me. He didn’t have to say a word.
End of round one.
ZOË
Round two.
We were back in Los Angeles for the final trimester of Lisa’s pregnancy. Our plan was to have the baby at our beautiful home in Venice. Lisa and I diligently worked together, taking classes in the Bradley method of childbirth.
For Lisa that meant no drugs, no epidural.
Then, time stopped.
It happened with only a midwife present. Labor was intense—twenty-four hours. Despite the excruciating pain, Lisa was dedicated to a natural birth. She was a warrior.
As our baby’s head was crowning, I quickly grabbed my film camera to capture the moment. But when I saw her face—the miracle itself—I dropped the camera and wept uncontrollably. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. Seeing that Lisa needed me, I quickly collected myself and, guided by our midwife, gently drew out our child and cut the cord.
Lisa’s mom, Arlene, arrived, but my mother showed up late because, as she said later, she wasn’t about to meet her granddaughter for the first time without being properly dressed. That was so Roxie Roker. With tears in her eyes, she embraced the baby. Naturally, she and Arlene wanted to know our daughter’s name. Well, we had picked out a name we loved, but when Lisa and I looked at the baby, it didn’t fit the being before us. Her spirit would have to tell us.
Phineas Newborn and Joey Collins from the Boys’ Choir were also present. As we leaned over my daughter in the bassinet, they joked that instead of the baby being attended by Three Wise Kings, we were one King and Two Wise Queens.
That first night, December 1, 1988, was precious. My daughter slept on my chest. I alternated between sleeping, dreaming, and staring at this tiny creature in my arms. As the days went on, Lisa and I deliberated on dozens of names until, one evening, Lisa looked at our baby and said, “This child is life. In Greek, Zoë means life. I believe her name is Zoë.”
BECOMING A VIRGIN
Back to the grind. I played my new songs for everyone. One of the first to hear them was Steve Smith, a Midwesterner connected to both Mom and Lisa. He’d started out as a wardrobe assistant on The Jeffersons and was now music supervisor on A Different World. I’d known Steve since I was a child, and when he said he loved my music, on a whim I asked him to manage me. It didn’t matter to me that he’d never managed before. I trusted my instinct, and I trusted him.