Rock Bottom: Dark Moments In Music Babylon (26 page)
Read Rock Bottom: Dark Moments In Music Babylon Online
Authors: Pamela Des Barres
He’s wearing jailhouse blues but looks healthy and, as I expected, is heartily pissed off. He sits down across from me, and I decide to use the irritation and ask about the court date next week. “I’ve been excluded from this program,” he says matter-of-factly, his eyes spitting fire. Why? I query. “Because of who I am. That’s the real reason. They say, quote, if you’re convicted of any violence, you’re not allowed here. I have one charge of assault, and of giving cocaine. On my arrest sheet, of course, there were a lot of allegations and alleged reports of torture and mayhem, kidnapping, and all that kind of shit. They say you’re not allowed here with excessive violence. Me and my attorneys, we’re going to debate that. Number one: I was never convicted of this excessive violence, and on the second hand, I’m going to show that there is biasness [sic] within the realms of this institution.” My eyebrows raise in indignation, and he continues. “There are people here with murder, mayhem, arsons. I know a guy that has been retained with an arson and a double murder. And he was
convicted
of these charges. The judge and the D.A. are aware of what went on in my trial … all the lies and false allegations that went on in my case. There are some set laws here that an institution has to follow. If they’re going to retain some people and exclude others on the basis of their name, race, or …” Celebrityhood, I offer. “Right,” he agrees, warming to me a bit. “Follow the law or don’t follow the law. I’ve done everything that’s required of me to be here. I’m a drug addict. My case revolved around drugs. I had maybe three or four months left to do here, so you can imagine how devastating it was to find out I was going to be excluded from the program. Justice is justice. Just because you’re a drug addict, it doesn’t make you not human. Just because you’re incarcerated, it doesn’t make you a true prisoner. You know what I’m sayin’? Yes, incarcerate but rehabilitate. We subpoenaed the warden and a lot of the records. I’m not gonna take this lying down, I’ve never laid down, I’m not gonna lay down, and I never will lay down.”
convicted
of these charges. The judge and the D.A. are aware of what went on in my trial … all the lies and false allegations that went on in my case. There are some set laws here that an institution has to follow. If they’re going to retain some people and exclude others on the basis of their name, race, or …” Celebrityhood, I offer. “Right,” he agrees, warming to me a bit. “Follow the law or don’t follow the law. I’ve done everything that’s required of me to be here. I’m a drug addict. My case revolved around drugs. I had maybe three or four months left to do here, so you can imagine how devastating it was to find out I was going to be excluded from the program. Justice is justice. Just because you’re a drug addict, it doesn’t make you not human. Just because you’re incarcerated, it doesn’t make you a true prisoner. You know what I’m sayin’? Yes, incarcerate but rehabilitate. We subpoenaed the warden and a lot of the records. I’m not gonna take this lying down, I’ve never laid down, I’m not gonna lay down, and I never will lay down.”
Rick James learned a lot of life’s hard lessons as James Johnson. His mother worked the numbers racket, and his dad, James Johnson, Sr., deserted his family of seven, leaving them in the all-white projects of Buffalo, New York. Rick lied about his age and joined the U.S. Naval Reserves, thinking it would keep him out of Vietnam. But when he got placed in active duty in 1966 and was assigned to a ship headed for the war zone, he fled to Toronto, where, as Ricky Matthews, he joined up with Neil Young and found peace and love with his first band, the Mynah Birds.
Eventually the band went on to Detroit and amazingly landed a deal with
Motown, but Ricky’s soul swoon was short-lived. Motown didn’t want an AWOL act on the label. In 1971 James did eight months in a navy brig in Brooklyn and then bummed around Europe for a while, fronting a blues band, the Main Line, in London. After becoming Rick James, he jammed with California dreamers like Jim Morrison—eating up acts like Sly Stone whole—then put his own soulful jazz, R&B shock-rock band together and went back to Motown. In 1978 he cowrote “You and I,” his first big-time single, and the rest of
Come Get It.
He was an overnight slam-bam, punk-funk sensation—an outspoken sensation. In 1981 James told the
L.A. Times
that what he really wanted to do was play rock and roll, but as a black man he couldn’t. By then he had three smash albums under his studded belt but was unable to make the move, afraid of losing his black audience and unwilling to take the time to win over a white following. When hosting a Grammy show, James spoke out against MTV’s reluctance to show videos by black artists, but by the time MTV began to wise up, Rick’s career was stalling. He fell out with Motown in 1985 and his first album for Reprise barely made the charts. By the time M.C. Hammer sampled the “Super Freak” riff in “U Can’t Touch This,” Rick James and his pipe were trapped in his gloomy room.
Motown, but Ricky’s soul swoon was short-lived. Motown didn’t want an AWOL act on the label. In 1971 James did eight months in a navy brig in Brooklyn and then bummed around Europe for a while, fronting a blues band, the Main Line, in London. After becoming Rick James, he jammed with California dreamers like Jim Morrison—eating up acts like Sly Stone whole—then put his own soulful jazz, R&B shock-rock band together and went back to Motown. In 1978 he cowrote “You and I,” his first big-time single, and the rest of
Come Get It.
He was an overnight slam-bam, punk-funk sensation—an outspoken sensation. In 1981 James told the
L.A. Times
that what he really wanted to do was play rock and roll, but as a black man he couldn’t. By then he had three smash albums under his studded belt but was unable to make the move, afraid of losing his black audience and unwilling to take the time to win over a white following. When hosting a Grammy show, James spoke out against MTV’s reluctance to show videos by black artists, but by the time MTV began to wise up, Rick’s career was stalling. He fell out with Motown in 1985 and his first album for Reprise barely made the charts. By the time M.C. Hammer sampled the “Super Freak” riff in “U Can’t Touch This,” Rick James and his pipe were trapped in his gloomy room.
I tell Rick that he will soon be back in the news, and he’s very enthusiastic. “Yeah. It’s gonna be top,
top
news. If I can get past O. J. Simpson,” he adds with sarcasm. “There have been a lot of people here with criminal records worse than Rick James. Especially because I was not convicted of a lot of these things.”
top
news. If I can get past O. J. Simpson,” he adds with sarcasm. “There have been a lot of people here with criminal records worse than Rick James. Especially because I was not convicted of a lot of these things.”
They deadlocked, right? I inquire. “Yeah, somebody could testify ‘he made love to a pig, he brutally beat this pig, he brutally beat the woman who owned the pig, and he had sex with a horse’—in other words, a person could say outrageous things, then when you get to court, the judge finds you not guilty of all these things, but when you get to prison, they say, ‘We can’t keep you here because it says you made love with the pig and beat the pig and beat the pig’s owner.’ If you’re going to build your laws around allegations and fabrications, then what the hell’s really goin’ on?”
All this talk about barnyard animals and sex is sort of freaking me out, considering what he’s in here for. I look for a way to change the subject, but he’s not finished. “It looks like I came here and was a fuck-up. I find myself trying to defend myself. I’ve done everything a man can possibly do. I haven’t gotten any write-ups, I haven’t been in trouble, I graduated top of the CCP drug class [Civil Commitment Education Program].” I admit that it doesn’t make much sense. “No, it doesn’t make sense, and we’re going to fight it.”
There’s something about this guy that I like. He’s full of heated charisma and bad-assed attitude that nine months in prison hasn’t even slightly dented. “Don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “I’m very bitter about how I’ve been treated. There are some things I want to bring into the light, but I’m glad I came here. This is the longest time I’ve been straight and sober. But if I wanted
to get high tomorrow—my drug of choice—I could do it in this penitentiary. It comes with the territory. But I fight the feeling.”
to get high tomorrow—my drug of choice—I could do it in this penitentiary. It comes with the territory. But I fight the feeling.”
I ask if he’s treated like a celebrity by the other inmates. “When I first got here it was pretty hectic,” he sighs, “signing a lot of autographs for people. After they got used to me, it became second nature that I was here. I became just another inmate.” Rick James, king of superfunk, just another inmate. Has it given him humility? “Oh, I was hum–bled when I was at L.A. County, sleeping in a six-by-six cell with rats and roaches. Humbility [
sic
] became quite easy.” He’s relaxing, calling me by name. “When I lost my mother in 1991 of cancer, Pamela, that was a very traumatic experience for me. When one loses his best friend, that’s a humbling, humiliating experience. You start to question your spirituality, your religion, you question God. Even with my addiction, there was this layer of humbility
[sic].
When I was acting out the Rick James persona, one of the things about him, he was not a humble cat! That was a facade, Pamela, you have to understand.”
sic
] became quite easy.” He’s relaxing, calling me by name. “When I lost my mother in 1991 of cancer, Pamela, that was a very traumatic experience for me. When one loses his best friend, that’s a humbling, humiliating experience. You start to question your spirituality, your religion, you question God. Even with my addiction, there was this layer of humbility
[sic].
When I was acting out the Rick James persona, one of the things about him, he was not a humble cat! That was a facade, Pamela, you have to understand.”
The Superfreak behind bars. (ADAM W. WOLF)
Why did he need a facade? I ask. “I chose to create that persona. I read about the Masai warriors in Africa and put braids in my hair. They used to weave horse and lion hair into their braids. They believed if you wore the hair of powerful animals, you would gain their power and spirit. After I saw Kiss onstage, I wanted my show to look like the Fourth of July. The persona of Rick James was wild and crazy—sex, drugs, and rock and roll … .”
I remark that I think it’s odd how he refers to himself in the third person. “I relinquished Rick James,” he announces with relish. “I set him free and buried him. He nearly killed me! I’ve always third-person’d him. It was always strange to hear my mother say ‘Rick.’ My name is James Johnson. Rick never sat with me right. It was always uncomfortable.” I ask if he considers himself a violent person and he shakes his head. “If anything I consider myself nonviolent. I’m from the hippie era—peace, love, groovy. You know where I’m coming from. I found the violence coming out of me later, after my mother passed away. Not so much violent, but angry.” Were there things left unsaid? “There were a lot of things left unsaid and undone,” he says sadly, leaning
closer to me. “My cocaine addiction was running so rampant, I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t understand the sickness.” Perhaps he was too high? “That’s one reason,” he concedes. “And if I was sick, everybody around me was. Everybody did it. You can’t have rock and roll without drugs, you can’t have rock and roll without sex. It’s a vicious circle and I became angry. I was angry when I was young. I was mad about living in a white tenement slum, run off from school by Polish people. I was mad about my mother being in the numbers rackets, working for the Mafia. I was angry about the fact that my father would beat my mother on a daily basis, and that my mother would take it in turn and beat on me. I was an abused child. I was mad about all those things, very bitter and very angry.”
closer to me. “My cocaine addiction was running so rampant, I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t understand the sickness.” Perhaps he was too high? “That’s one reason,” he concedes. “And if I was sick, everybody around me was. Everybody did it. You can’t have rock and roll without drugs, you can’t have rock and roll without sex. It’s a vicious circle and I became angry. I was angry when I was young. I was mad about living in a white tenement slum, run off from school by Polish people. I was mad about my mother being in the numbers rackets, working for the Mafia. I was angry about the fact that my father would beat my mother on a daily basis, and that my mother would take it in turn and beat on me. I was an abused child. I was mad about all those things, very bitter and very angry.”
I ask if he’s still in touch with Tania. “Yes. She’s incarcerated, and God knows she’s having her share of problems. There’s a lot of jealousy with those women up there. They’re like really tripped out, you know, that we have a relationship. Tania’s my best friend. We’ve been able to elevate past the bullshit. Plus, we’ve got this son. He’s being taken care of by a nanny. His name is Tasmin, like a Tasmanian devil.” He smiles. “We call him the Tas Man.” I get down to it and ask if he feels justice was served in his case. “As far as my being here? Absolutely not. I’m not saying this because of my ego or profession, but if anybody needs help with drug addiction, it’s me … . Here I am trying to do the best I can to deal with it and they won’t let me.” Rick James also told me as an aside that he had done drugs on occasion with many other people, including O. J. Simpson.
When did the drug bug bite him? “I started smoking Mary Jane when I was fifteen. And I was snorting an ounce a day when I was recording albums in the seventies and eighties. I sat with a bottle of Blackjack, a bottle of Quaaludes, and an ounce a day.” It sounds a bit excessive to me. Did that seem like the normal thing to do? “It seemed like the way to make a record!” He laughs ruefully. “Everybody did it. Some of them took that extra hit, that extra pill, and died. Jimi, Janis, a few others. A lot of us died inside. When I was smoking five or six thousand dollars of dope a week, I think subconsciously I was looking to die. I was too chickenshit to take a gun to my head or jump off a building.” I empathize. It must have been a horrific way to live. “‘Sucking on the devil’s dick,’ that’s the way I looked at it. I’d look at the fire and the insanity, and the fact that I hadn’t left my room in three or four weeks. I’d look at the deviants around me, how low I had sunk. The room was my gloom.”
Did the deviants around him take advantage of his superstardom? “Sure,” he admits sourly. “I supported everybody who came around me. I had millions of dollars in the bank, Rolls-Royces up the ying-yang, houses all over the place. I bought cars for everybody, clothes and Learjets. I was very sick. That was my way of showing love. If I did these things, maybe everybody would forget about Rick James and see who was really me. Maybe they would put this fake,
false image aside, forget the braids, forget what color I was, the way I looked, forget what I wrote about, and see some other person. Maybe they’d like him better. It was all an illusion. It was all bullshit, but it sounded good at the time.” When did he see that it was bullshit? “Somewhere in the eighties,” he says after a moment of pondering. “Me and Steve Tyler were in rehab together. We’ve been in rehab twice together, and I’m so pissed! He’s staying sober and I’ve relapsed left and right. Finally I got some therapy. Finally I let a person look inside of me.” Does he accept responsibility for all the fuckups? “I accept responsibility for everything that has happened to me. But I know, and most people who know me know, that without the drugs, most of these things wouldn’t have happened. I was dancin’ with the devil, Pamela, we were doin’ the cha-cha-cha. We were doin’ the slow drag.” What an image. But it’s over now, right? I say hopefully, “Now you live one day at a time?” He laughs heartily. “I live one millimeter of a second at a time!”
false image aside, forget the braids, forget what color I was, the way I looked, forget what I wrote about, and see some other person. Maybe they’d like him better. It was all an illusion. It was all bullshit, but it sounded good at the time.” When did he see that it was bullshit? “Somewhere in the eighties,” he says after a moment of pondering. “Me and Steve Tyler were in rehab together. We’ve been in rehab twice together, and I’m so pissed! He’s staying sober and I’ve relapsed left and right. Finally I got some therapy. Finally I let a person look inside of me.” Does he accept responsibility for all the fuckups? “I accept responsibility for everything that has happened to me. But I know, and most people who know me know, that without the drugs, most of these things wouldn’t have happened. I was dancin’ with the devil, Pamela, we were doin’ the cha-cha-cha. We were doin’ the slow drag.” What an image. But it’s over now, right? I say hopefully, “Now you live one day at a time?” He laughs heartily. “I live one millimeter of a second at a time!”
The guard comes to collect the prisoner and take him back to his cell, but while Lieutenant Hissami is on the phone, looking the other way, I jump up on his lap and Adam snaps a photo. I don’t know what’s possessed me.
We shake hands again, and I ask one more question: Does he feel he has people to make amends to? And Rick James bellows, “Hell, no!” Then James Johnson continues, “Yeah, there are people. That’s so far off. I’ve got to get myself together first, Pamela. I gotta wake up to the sunshine, throw my son up and down, live my life like none of this happened. I just needed a period of time to get this stuff out of my system. It took this incarceration to do that, and I’m thankful. I’m back in touch with God,
my
God, my Lord. I thank him for bringing me here.” Then Rick James is back. “Where else can you learn how to make bombs out of toothpaste and machine guns out of toothbrushes?”
my
God, my Lord. I thank him for bringing me here.” Then Rick James is back. “Where else can you learn how to make bombs out of toothpaste and machine guns out of toothbrushes?”
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