After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye (3 page)

“We have food and drink,” said Luke, pointing to a serving table piled high with shrimp, lobster, and bottles of champagne. “We also have other refreshments.”

“I’ll take the other refreshments,” said Mom as Luke handed her a joint.

“If you’d like to change into your swimming suit,” Luke told me, “there’s a cabana on the other side of the pool.”

Walking to the cabana, I stopped to take in the view. A thick layer of brown smog covered the city below.

This is what it means to be rich
, I thought.
You leave the dirt behind. You rise above the smog.

I changed quickly. Putting on my two-piece cobalt-blue bikini, I was aware of the effect it was sure to have on Luke and Big Jack. I knew that my body would be carefully scrutinized. I knew that my physical attributes would be appreciated. I understood that, at least for a few minutes, I would be the focus of attention. I would be the star of this small party.

Walking back to where the adults had assembled, I saw that, after sharing a joint together, the trio had moved on to cocaine. A half dozen thick lines had been laid out on a glass table. As soon as I appeared, though, the snorting stopped. The men looked up at me and broke out into smiles. Mom smiled as well.

In a Lolita-like moment, I felt both shy and excited. I thought
about taking off my top. Mom would have had no objections. She had always let me do whatever I wanted.

I recognized the power of my blooming sexuality. I wanted to feel that power even more fully. I wanted to thrill these men.

The longer the argument inside my head went on, the more the drama built, the more intensely the men scrutinized my body. I decided to seize the moment and give them what they wanted. I got in the pool and took off my top. Mom smiled with pride. The men were fixated.

The warm water felt good on my skin. I splashed around for several minutes, wondering if the men were going to join me. I worried that they would grope me. The thought disgusted me. Much to my relief, they were content to smoke, coke, and watch me swim around. At some point Mom and Big Jack got up and went into the house. When I decided to get out of the pool, Luke was there to hand me a large towel. I quickly wrapped it around my waist. Luke motioned for me to relax in a lounge chair next to him. Nervously I sat. A moment or two later Luke leaned in toward me. I noticed that his toupee was tilting to one side, making him look ludicrous. He reached out and took my hand. With his index finger, he gently but insistently rubbed my palm. This was the first time I had been given this signal. Any doubts I might have had about the meaning were dispelled as he moved toward me and pressed his lips against mine. The sensation of his tongue in my mouth was repulsive. I immediately withdrew and, still wrapped tight in the towel, got up from the chair and returned to the cabana, where I showered off the chlorine and changed into my clothes.

Mom was back poolside with Big Jack.

“Let’s go,” I whispered to my mother.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just wanna go,” I insisted.

“Luke’s about to put some steaks on the grill.”

“I don’t care. I wanna go.”

Seeing that I was dead serious, Mom told the guys that her daughter wasn’t feeling well. They tried their best to convince us to stay, but I was insistent. We left.

No words were spoken on the drive home. The radio news reported that President Nixon was pledging to end the war in Vietnam. Muhammad Ali was cleared of draft dodging. Mom switched stations. Marvin Gaye was singing “Inner City Blues.”

“Makes me wanna holler,” he sang, “throw up both my hands.”

The gentle groove helped me deal with the mess of emotions causing my head to throb.

Although the words he sang—“panic is spreading, God knows where we’re heading”—were alarming, I was comforted by his voice. His voice eased my pain.

A
t seventeen, I was obsessed with a single question after
meeting Marvin in the studio:
Will he call me?

My desire to be ushered back into Marvin’s magical world was fueled by my unhappiness at home. Since leaving Ruth’s three years earlier, I had watched my mother struggle with sanity. Mom’s breakdown was precipitated by Earl’s infidelity.

It happened when I was fifteen and, on the spur of the moment, Mom hustled me into the car.

“Where are we going to, Mom?”

“Renee’s.”

Renee was Mom’s best friend.

“What’s happening at Renee’s?” I asked.

“Maybe I’m crazy, but something tells me she’s up to something.”

Earl’s yellow car was in Renee’s driveway. That’s all Mom needed to see. She raced back home and threw Earl’s clothes out on the street. Less than a year later, Renee gave birth to Earl’s child.

That was the year Mom retreated into inconsolable depression. Her only comfort came from her dog, Daisy, with whom she became obsessed. She could not stand to be without Daisy for a single second and lavished far more affection on the animal than she did on me, who, at the start of high school, had matured physically. Boys flocked to me, but they were just that—boys. I sought something more. When my teachers praised my intelligence, I began to understand that was the quality I sought in the opposite sex. When another teacher praised my sensitivity, I realized that was the very thing these boys lacked.

I made friends with some of the boys in the Fairfax High crowd, the Jackson brothers—Jackie, Jermaine, and Tito—and a few of their future wives. I also knew Veronica Porsche, who would later marry Muhammad Ali.

That was when I was fifteen.

At seventeen, the day after meeting Marvin, I was waiting for my phone to ring.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. I remembered how, only a week before meeting Marvin, I had encountered Don Cornelius of
Soul Train
fame. I had gone to a Lakers game at the Forum with my friend Destiny, and a couple of the players had invited us to an after-party at the Continental Hyatt House on the Sunset Strip. In a crowded room filled with people who—at least to our impressionable minds—appeared super sophisticated, we tried to be cool. When someone offered me a line, I presumed it was cocaine. Cocaine was hardly anything new to me, and I ingested it quickly. Within minutes, though, I felt sick. I heard someone say that the white powder was heroin, not cocaine. The next thing I knew I was in the bathroom, my head in the toilet, regurgitating like a child with the flu. But being young and healthy, I recovered quickly. I cleaned up and rejoined the party.

Destiny and I were hardly loose girls. We simply wanted to step
out on the edge and see what a real after-party was all about. After becoming sick, though, the fascination ended and we decided to call it a night.

On the street in front of the hotel, we were looking to hail a cab, but none were available. That’s when Don Cornelius pulled up in a big sedan.

“Be happy to give you ladies a ride,” he offered.

Recognizing him immediately, we figured it would be safe. Don was the perfect gentleman.

On the night I had met Marvin, he too had been the perfect gentleman. That was well and good, but had he forgotten me?

The call came the next day. Mom picked up the receiver.

“Hi, Ed,” she said. “What’s happening?”

I ran over and tried to hear what Ed Townsend was telling my mom. I couldn’t make out his words, but I didn’t have to. Mom’s smile said everything.

When the call was over, Mom said, “Marvin wants to see you again.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Wow.”

“And without me.”

My first reaction was that I wanted my mother to come along. I wanted the security of her company. My second reaction, though, was that I didn’t want her there. I was thrilled by the thought that Marvin wanted to see me alone.

“Is it okay for me to go alone?” I asked.

“Ed’s coming by to pick you up tonight. Ed will be there the whole time. It’s perfectly fine.”

During lunch, I asked a buddy of Bryant’s to sell me weed.

“I need a lid,” I said, “but a lid of your best stuff.”

Handing me a package wrapped in tinfoil, he assured me that the
smoke was top grade. Showing up at the studio with my own dope would show Marvin that I was not a naïve schoolgirl. I was a sophisticated woman.

After school, I hurried home. I took a long time picking out my outfit. The last time I’d started off wearing braids. No braids tonight. Tonight I was letting my hair down.

“Don’t forget that Marvin’s a married man,” said Mom, a half hour before Ed arrived.

“Please, Mom. Am I supposed to believe that you never dated a married man? Besides, Ed told us that Marvin and his wife are separated.”

“I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I ignored my mother’s words and waited by the window. The minute Ed pulled up, I was out the door and in his car.

As soon as we walked through the doors of the studio, I felt myself safely and blissfully back in Marvin’s world. That world was about sound and beauty. He was making beautiful sounds with his voice, singing a chillingly pleading song in which he begged his baby to stay.
Without you in bed beside me
, he implored,
sleep will never come.

As he sang, his eyes were closed. When he opened them, he looked directly at me, seated on a leather couch in the control room. Marvin was standing on the other side of the glass. His eyes were smiling. He sang for another twenty minutes; I didn’t move. It was just me, Ed, the engineer, and Marvin. Unlike last night, there were no other guests, no other mothers or young chicks looking to get next to Marvin.

When he finally took a break and came into the control room, he walked directly to me.

“I’m so happy you came,” he said. “I really wanted to see you again.”

“I brought you a gift.”

I handed him the lid.

“That’s really sweet of you,” he said. “Why don’t you roll us a jay?”

An experienced roller, I twisted up a joint in a few seconds and passed it to Marvin. He lit it up and exhaled. The smell was horrendous.

“Fuckin’ elephant weed!” the engineer yelled.

I was humiliated. I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open up so I could disappear.

“Not so fast, gentlemen,” said Marvin, super sensitive to my feelings. “The fragrance might be a little funky, but the dope itself is pretty mellow.”

I knew Marvin was lying. The dope was shit. He was just saying that to protect me from the scorn of the others. He
was
sensitive! He
did
care about my feelings!

My emotions soared as he sang for the next several hours. He sang another tender ballad, pleading with a woman not to leave him in the cold. He begged her to stay. The pattern was set: when he sang, his eyes were closed. When his eyes were open, they stared directly at me.

The connection was real.

At about ten
P.M.
, he came back to me and said, “It’s getting late and I know you have school tomorrow. Maybe I should run you home. Is it far?”

With my heart hammering, I said, “Not far at all. Olympic and Ogden. But I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s not a bother,” he said. “It’s a distinct pleasure.”

I couldn’t get over the closeness between Marvin’s speaking voice and singing voice. When he spoke, it was as though he was singing. And when he was singing, it was as though he was speaking directly to me. Both voices were painfully tender. Even more than the softness of his tone, I responded to the beauty of his enunciation. Each word came out whole. Each word seemed exactly right. There was a
lyricism to his speech—a haunting and lilting quality—unlike any speech I had heard before. His elocution had an easygoing tone; he was down-to-earth, but he was also otherworldly. He spoke with the quiet confidence of a prince.

He spoke very little on the way to my house. I struggled to make small talk but feared that I’d sound young or naïve or foolish. He asked what I thought of his new music.

“I love it,” I was quick to say. “I love all your music.”

“Well, thank you. That means a great deal to me. When I record, I’m also wondering whether these songs will mean anything to anyone else besides myself.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said shyly.

He smiled.

I wondered whether I was coming on too strong with all this praise. Shouldn’t I be coy? Shouldn’t I be cool? I wasn’t sure what to say. All I knew was that I loved being in his presence. He made me feel warm and wanted.

When we arrived at the duplex I shared with my mother, I couldn’t help but invite him up.

“I don’t want to upset your mum,” he said, using the British expression. “Besides, I better get back to the studio. I’m terribly late delivering this record.”

He walked me to the door and stopped at the bottom of the staircase. That’s when my heart stopped.

“I want you to know that it’s beautiful being with you,” he said. “I hope I can get you to come visit me again.”

“I’d love to.”

It was then that he placed the palms of his hands on either side of my head. Standing over me, he leaned down and gently kissed my forehead.

“Goodnight, Jan. Sweet dreams.”

I thought I’d faint.

The next morning,
when I described my evening to my mother, she said, “I’m glad you like him, sweetheart, and I’m glad he likes you. I’m glad you got to hear him sing in the studio again. It’s wonderful that he called. But if he doesn’t call again, don’t take it personally. Sexy singers are a different breed. Believe me, I know. Your father is one of those singers.”

Rather than reply to Mom, I groaned.

That night, while I dreamt of Marvin, Mom must have thought of how she had once dreamt of my father, Slim Gaillard. The dream began when, in 1942, fourteen-year-old Barbara listened to the sounds of a romantic and seductively syncopated bebop ballad called “Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere.” She swore to her best friend Cathy that, come hell or high water, one day she’d marry Slim and have his baby. Mom yearned to escape the oppression of the white working-class confines of her Boston family. On the radio and in music magazines, she followed the fortunes of Gaillard and his partner Slam Stewart. The duo managed to combine dance music with the avant-garde jazz of the day. The romantic rhythms spoke of rebellion.

Mom sensed that Slim was a rebel. She read articles that talked about the competitive heat between Slim and Cab Calloway, another entertainer with a thin pencil moustache and gleaming slicked-back hair. Cab represented an older generation of the swing-time music of Duke Ellington and Count Basie. To Barbara, Cab was cornball. Slim was slick. Cab was yesterday. Slim was tomorrow. Slim symbolized adventure, the unknown, daring, dangerous world of dark nightclubs where black men played the mysterious blue music that spoke to Mom’s heart.

Even as she grew up, even as she suffered through two unhappy marriages to white men, she never forgot the mysterious blue music of Slim Gaillard. She never gave up the dream of meeting Slim. And then, in 1955, in the middle of the first term of the bland white-bread
presidency of Dwight Eisenhower, her dream came true. Mom went to a nightclub where Slim Gaillard was playing.

Mom dressed to look like Lana Turner: low-cut black dress, white-brimmed hat, white gloves. Her brother Don accompanied her. They sat at a table near the stage. The club was dark, the air thick with smoke. Most of the patrons were black. Don was uncomfortable. Mom wasn’t. Mom felt at home. Mom drank in the ambience. She sipped a glass of cheap champagne. She was thrilled by the jazz music: she recognized the sounds of Charlie Parker and Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and Sarah Vaughan. Mom’s taste was cultivated. She spoke the language of jazz. For years she yearned to share that language with a man of mystery: a musician.

That man was Bulee “Slim” Gaillard. When he walked onto the small stage and started singing in that language of his own—the scat-singing coded language he named Vout—his eyes immediately found Mom. He sang to her. He saw her mouthing the words not only to the lush romantic ballads but to the novelty bop of “Flat Foot Floogie,” “Slim Slam Boogie,” and “Atomic Cocktail.” She was the hippest chick in the club—and he wanted her.

After the first set, he came to her table.

“I’ve been digging on your white gloves, madam,” he said.

“Call me Barbara,” she said. “And I’ve been digging on your music since I was . . . well, quite young.”

“You’re still quite young, Barbara. And, if I might be bold enough to say so, quite beautiful. Quite enchanting. I just hope I’m not intruding on your date.”

“No date,” she said. “This is my brother.”

“Then this is my lucky night. If your brother has no objections, I have big eyes to take you to dinner after the show.”

Before Don could speak, Mom said, “Don’t worry about Don. He has to leave early anyway.”

The first night was bliss. So was the second. On the third, Slim had to leave for LA.

“Of all the things I’ve read about you,” Mom said before Slim left for the airport, “I still don’t know where you come from. You told one writer you’re Cuban but another wrote you were born in deep Alabama.”

“I’m a citizen of the world, dear Barbara,” said Slim. “I come from nowhere and I come from everywhere. Cats catch me if they can. And you, my sweet, have caught me in your Venus flytrap. I’d like to stay, baby, but this brother has to fly away.”

“And if I fly after you?” asked Mom.

“I’d flip, flop, and fly. You don’t gotta chase me down, sugar, ’cause when it comes to you, I’m down already. You dig?”

“I do.”

A week after Slim had flown back to California, Mom scraped up enough bread for a ticket and flew the coop herself. She beat it out to LA and hooked up with Slim for another week of bliss. Didn’t matter that he was married. Didn’t matter that he had a gang of kids—something like fifteen at the last count. All that mattered was that she had her dream come true. Slim was hers. And then he wasn’t.