After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye (14 page)

T
he ego is a funny thing. No matter how we humble or deny
ourselves, we all have one. I think back to my own ego in the year 1975 when Marvin began to record the album
I Want You
.

From the moment I met him, I felt my ego melting into Marvin’s. It was all about him. How could it not be? He was a superstar. I was a less-than. He was a man of the world. I was a teenage girl looking for a world where I could feel safe.

In my mind, all I had going for me was my body. You could say that I was witty and bright; you could say that I had the precociousness to keep up my end of a conversation with people twice my age. You could say that I had a flair for fashion. You might even say that I had hidden musical talent. I had a good ear. I could blend harmonies. I could appreciate the most subtle motifs and messages in Marvin’s music. I could appreciate the sincerity of his spiritual attachment to the god of love. I shared that attachment. I shared everything with him—but all to the point of denying myself as I celebrated him.

My positive qualities might have been obvious to others, but I couldn’t even begin to recognize them. The simple fact was that I had lost myself in Marvin. And whenever I felt that I was losing him, I didn’t know what to do. Of course it hardly helped that after the birth of our babies I returned to a daily routine of getting high on grass. As Marvin’s use of cocaine increased, so did mine. It isn’t that he forced me to keep up with him. Like most people in his circle, I simply wanted to live life on his cloud. His cloud, colored by the most beautiful music imaginable, appeared to offer the safe love I was seeking.

The fear of being banned from the cloud was always on my mind. And even though the fact that we shared two children seemed to guarantee me a permanent place on that cloud, I had learned that in Marvin’s world there were no guarantees. In short, I was obsessed with him.

“He’s obsessed with
you
,” my daddy Earl Hunter would tell me. Earl and Marvin had become buddies. “You’re the only thing he talks about, baby. When he’s singing, you’re the woman he’s singing to. Everyone knows that.”

“But everyone doesn’t see how he doesn’t look at me the way he used to.”

“That’s because you’re more than his girlfriend. You’re now the mother of his children. You gotta give him time to get used to that. The important thing is how he’s taking care of you. Hell, he’s even taking care of Slim.”

Earl was right.

At the beginning of the
I Want You
project, I was both gratified and concerned about the reemergence of my crazy-ass biological father.

One afternoon at the Sunset studio, I saw that Slim Gaillard was helping Marvin organize his tape library.

“What’s up with that?” I asked Marvin.

“Slim’s cool,” he said. “I like having him around. I like hearing
his bebop stories. I feel like it’s my responsibility to help you take care of your family.”

“Slim never helped take care of me,” I reminded Marvin.

“That’s not the point, dear. The point is that now we’re in a position to help him. The cat’s a little down-and-out, so why not give him something to do in the studio?”

“That’s sweet of you, Marvin.”

“I’m growing sweeter by the day,” said Marvin with a smile.

But on those days when Marvin was not sweet on me—when, for example, he felt that my mom was interfering in our life or dropping by the house too frequently—he punished me by threatening to fire Slim.

“Why are you taking your anger at me out on him?” I asked Marvin.

“Anger has nothing to do with it,” Marvin answered. “I can only take so many of Slim’s bebop stories.”

The new music Motown
gave Marvin was simply too good to resist.

I was at the studio when Marvin was studying a track of startling sensuality.

“Who is that singing?” I asked.

“Diana’s brother,” he said. “T-Boy Ross. Berry put him together with Leon Ware. They’ve been writing together.”

“That happened a while back,” I said. “They wrote ‘I Wanna Be Where You Are’ for Michael Jackson.”

“Well, now they’ve written something else. Listen to it.”

I listened and said, “I think it’s beautiful, Marvin. I think it’s a smash.”

“Berry thinks it’s tailor-made for me.”

“Berry’s right.”

“But Berry’s just looking to lure me back into the studio.”

“The motives don’t really matter, Marvin. What matters is the music. If you feel that the music suits your soul, why not go for it?”

“I’m tempted.”

“What’s it called?”

“‘I Want You.’”

“I love it,” I said.

The longer he listened, the more passionately he wanted to take the song and turn it into his own. As it turned out, it was more than one song: T-Boy and Leon had written an intricate set of innerconnected songs.

Marvin and Leon, who was an exceptional vocalist, producer, and writer, were musical soul mates. Leon’s lush orchestrations were perfectly suited to Marvin’s sensibilities. Adding fuel to the fire was the fact that both men were deep into cocaine. The drug drove the creative work to a feverishly high level.

Soon Marvin was so deep into the album that, for all practical purposes, he had moved out of the Hidden Hills home into his studio on Sunset.

“I want you and the kids to be with me when I’m cutting these tracks and laying down the vocals,” Marvin told me. “I want to be able to look at you when I sing these songs.”

I was elated. Just as Marvin projected the war story of his brother Frankie returning from Vietnam into
What’s Going On
, he was using our love story to inform
I Want You
. The result was that, during the year-long process of making the record, our love was renewed.

“It’s like it was when we first met,” Marvin said. “That’s the feeling I’m getting when I’m singing these songs.”

“That’s the feeling that I want to keep forever,” I said.

The feeling in the studio was magical. And it was more than the impossibly seductive music. It was the feeling of the family—Marvin, myself, Nona, and Frankie—living in the loft while the songs were sculpted into a form that was distinctively Marvin. The extraordinary
harmonies—the blend of Marvin’s many voices—were mirrored in the emotional harmony between us.

In “Come Live with Me Angel,” he flashed back to the early days when he asked me to leave my mother’s house and come to Cattaraugus so he could explore all my “treasures” and indulge in “freakish pleasures.”

In “Feel All My Love Inside,” he opened by asking for another joint before painting a picture of sweet sexual passion, stroking me “in and out . . . up and down . . . all around” because he loved to hear me “make those sounds.”

In “Soon I’ll Be Loving You Again,” he fell into a daydream where he documented the first time he performed cunnilingus, describing how, despite past reservations, he had made up his mind to “give some head.”

But there was more than the ecstasy of physical pleasure; there was the prospect of pregnancy. Love must lead to family. Family is formed by his desire for me. At the end of the song he calls me by name. “Oh, Janis,” he cried. “I love you, I love you, Janis.”

In “After the Dance,” he fantasized about seeing me on
Soul Train
, my sinuous movements an invitation to a lifetime of love. It didn’t matter that I was never a
Soul Train
dancer. He invented the scenario.

In “All the Way Around,” he sang about “getting down to the skin,” exciting himself at the thought that I might be “promiscuous.”

In perhaps the most moving moment of all, Marvin made a brief visit to a song previously sung by Michael Jackson, “I Wanna Be Where You Are.” On the actual track, he acknowledged our family, saying, “Good night, little Frankie, Nona . . . good night, little Marvin . . . I love you all . . . I’ll always love you, Janis . . . I want to be where you are . . . oh, my children, I’ll always be where you are . . .”

My heart had never been happier. In the midst of the most erotic suite of songs he had ever sung, he had once again—as he did with
Let’s Get It On
—reaffirmed me as his muse. He had placed me in the
center of his bed and his dreams. At the same time, he had placed himself in the center of our family.

“Did you hear what I said
in the song?” Marvin whispered to me after he layered his harmonies on “Feel All My Love Inside.”

“I heard you sing about making love to me,” I whispered back.

“Before that I said, ‘I want you for my wife.’”

“Is this a formal proposal?”

“It will be.”

“Well, I accept—when you are free.”

“The divorce is coming soon,” he said.

“The way these endless hearings are dragging out, I’m not sure
soon
is the right word.”

“The name of the song was ‘Soon I’ll Be Loving You.’ And the name of this chapter in my life was ‘Soon I’ll Be Marrying You.’”

The chapter was blissful. During those long months blending lovemaking and music making in the Sunset studio, there were sights and scenes I’ll always cherish.

Marvin seated on a couch in the control room—the speakers mute, the room perfectly silent—as he quietly read aloud from the Book of Psalms:

In peace I will lie down and sleep

For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety

Marvin in the loft, playing hide-and-seek with Nona and Bubby.

Marvin playing the tracks from
I Want You
for a smiling Stevie Wonder, Stevie’s head circling to the rhythm.

I was thrilled to be a witness to the making of a masterpiece.

T
here was the beautifully peaceful Marvin, the Marvin who
spent endless hours in the studio with his music, honing his harmonies and constructing melodies and countermelodies of astounding grace.

This was the Marvin that I held closest to my heart—the Marvin who voiced the deepest emotions and transformed pain into beauty.

This was the Marvin who, even in realizing an extravagantly erotic work like
I Want You
, was able to ascend beyond the flesh into the realm of the mystical.

There was also the Marvin who was determined to clean up his act and stop smoking Camels and Marlboros. He’d renounce pot and coke and swear never to eat meat again. He’d turn over a new leaf by going on a super-strict health routine for a month and expect everyone to follow. Everyone did. We wanted to please him. We also wanted to get healthy ourselves. Suddenly it was all about organic food, long hikes, bike rides, basketball games, and strenuous jogs.
But then someone would offer him a joint, he’d accept, and we’d all be back at square one.

One of his cleanest periods came after Muhammad Ali invited us to his home in Hancock Park. At the time he was married to Veronica Porsche, with whom I’d gone to high school. Marvin and Ali played basketball and became great friends. It was only a few weeks later that Marvin was asked, along with Sammy Davis and Richard Pryor, to face Ali in the ring as part of a charity event. Of course it was a lark, but Marvin didn’t take it that way. He went into training and dreamed of actually knocking down the champ! He bought all the professional gear, hired a trainer, and went to work. At the event itself, he entered the arena with a full entourage and even had it filmed. Sammy and Richard never took it seriously and, once in the ring, ran from the champ. The audience howled. But when Marvin got into the ring, he actually began to box. It didn’t take more than a minute for Ali to knock him to the ground. Because Ali loved him, he didn’t hurt him. But Marvin was nonetheless humiliated. When it came to sporting feats, Marvin had delusions of grandeur.

The footnote to this story happened at a Motown picnic where Ali and Marvin ran a hundred yard dash. Marvin beat him—and saw that as something of a consolation prize to what had happened in the ring.

Marvin had other friendships that he found satisfying. Ray Charles had us up to his home in Baldwin Hills and was a kind and attentive host. He and Marvin admired each other enormously. Ike Turner has us down to his Bolic Sound Studios in Inglewood where he charmed us with funny stories and carried around his coke supply in a suitcase. Needless to say, we got blasted. Same goes for Redd Foxx, who invited us to his home in Studio City and kept us both high and in stitches. Natalie Cole, then married to Marvin Yancy, adored my Marvin and hosted us on several occasions.

We spent a wonderful evening with Bill Cosby and his wife,
Camille, in Las Vegas where Marvin and I stayed in the Elvis Suite at the Hilton. And in Chicago, Jesse Jackson had us over to his house where he and Marvin enjoyed a highly competitive game of basketball.

Every once in a while Marvin liked to break loose and go out on the town to have some fun.

After his performance at Radio City in New York, he and I were invited by Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall to join them at Studio 54, the hottest disco on the planet. During the show itself, I stood next to Mick in the wings. Mick watched Marvin reverently.

Studio 54 was a trip. Cutting through the long line of eager souls begging for admittance, we were whisked inside and escorted up to the balcony, where everyone was openly snorting coke. When we learned that the star attraction of the night was Sylvester, Marvin led me down to the dressing room so we could say hello. Both Marvin and I adored Sylvester. We saw him as the greatest of all the disco artists. He was a beautiful man. It was fascinating to see how he and Marvin were attracted to each other. Yet I wouldn’t call the attraction sexual. Sylvester had a freedom that Marvin admired, and Marvin had a sophistication that Sylvester found alluring. They chatted like old friends. Their common link was Harvey Fuqua, the man who had discovered Marvin and produced Sylvester. The mood was altered when Grace Jones and Dolph Lundgren showed up, two outsize personalities who sucked all the air out of the room. Marvin and I wished Sylvester well and went back upstairs, where we watched his fabulous show. With flashbulbs popping, I was certain our picture would wind up in
Rolling Stone—
and it did.

During that same New York trip, we met Andy Warhol, who spoke as though he worshipped Marvin. He gushed how he just had to paint Marvin’s portrait, and Marvin agreed, but never followed up. Typical Marvin.

One time he did follow up. We had hung out with Argentinian jazz saxophonist Gato Barbieri and his Italian wife, Michelle, in their Manhattan apartment. During the evening Gato kept praising Marvin’s
writing and asked whether he’d compose something for him. Marvin agreed to do it and did. A few weeks later he wrote “Latin Reaction,” one of his best instrumental efforts.

Marvin liked the hot spots. Back in LA, we’d sometimes cruise over to Beverly Hills and lunch at the Daisy, a happening bistro. Once, looking across the room, Marvin spotted a woman he described as gorgeous enough to stop traffic.

“I can’t think of her name,” he said.

“I can. That’s Candice Bergen.”

When I kept sneaking glances, Marvin accused me of having sexual designs on her. He was wrong. I was simply bowled over by her beauty.

During that same lunch we noticed Ryan O’Neal. In this instance, it was Marvin who seemed obsessed. He couldn’t stop staring. I didn’t see it as physical attraction, but merely fascination. O’Neal was an incredibly handsome movie star.

I told Marvin, “If I can see that you’re not sexualizing Ryan—just admiring him—than I hope you can see that I wasn’t sexualizing Candice. Beauty is captivating.”

“It’s certainly is,” said Marvin. “And it seems as though your beauty has captivated Ryan. He’s coming over to say hello.”

He arrived at our table and shook hands with Marvin, who introduced him to me. I was thrilled. The thrill took a different turn, though, when O’Neal stood behind my chair and pressed himself against my neck, which was covered over by my long, wild hair. He made his move with great subtlety, but there was no mistaking the feel of his penis against my neck. As he spoke with Marvin, he kept pressing ever so slightly. I had a funny smile on my face. I didn’t know what to say or do. So I did nothing. When he left, I didn’t share the experience with Marvin. I was afraid it would only lead to a fight.

On another evening, Marvin and I were dining at Mr. Chow in Beverly Hills. We were about to leave when Bud Cort, the actor who had played Harold in
Harold and Maude
, ran up to our table and told
Marvin how he adored him. He said he had a friend who he wanted us to meet. The friend, who was waiting outside for his car, was the great Groucho Marx. We all exchanged numbers but, as with nearly every chance meeting with Marvin, there was no follow-through.

As free spirits, we lived in Marvin’s studio with Nona and Frankie. Where we went, most of the time our children went with us. When Marvin and I needed alone time, we would call on loving family members to care for the children.

In 1975–76, Marvin was working on his
I Want You
album. The studio was bursting with incredible music and the energy was at times surreal. We also designated 6553 Sunset, the studio, our home, as party central. When there was a birthday, anniversary, listening session or really any occasion to celebrate it usually happened there. Our parties were legendary, for those who worked at the studio and for those who visited and wanted to hang out. They wanted to be near Marvin, to be inspired, to get high, to have fun, and to create music. Real music.

With the living quarters upstairs and with a closet here or a bathroom there, there was always someplace for the kids to hide—and sometimes the adults. It provided us, and those that we knew, a second home. The windows upstairs had two-way glass that allowed us to look down from our bedroom and see who came and went. It always made for interesting conversation. We knew who was hitting on who, who had the drugs, when to hide if there was someone we didn’t want to see, and when to go down and greet any new arrivals.

Once people got there, they didn’t want to leave, especially if we were having one of our celebrations. We would go all out, having food, drinks, drugs, celebrities, music, music, and more music.

I threw a party for Marvin in 1977. It was one of the best parties ever. Muhammad Ali; Cecil Franklin, Aretha’s son; superagent Phil Casey; superproducer Leon Ware and his wife Carol; Don Cornelius; Richard Pryor;
Jet
photographer Ike Sutton, who became a dear friend; Jayne Kennedy; Smokey Robinson; Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson; Azizi Johari; Denise Nicholas; and many other stars
came to enjoy a great party. At this particular party, we let the kids hang out for a little while, even though they were only two and three. Marvin had finished “I Want You,” and his massive hit “Got to Give It Up,” which we played whenever we wanted to get people moving. Before the party really got going, Nona insisted on showing off her dance moves to anyone who would watch. “Got to Give It Up” was playing and she went to work! She jumped and bumped, hooped and hollered, went into a spin at one point and fell on her bottom. Never missing a beat, she spun around on the floor, jumped up, making the fall a part of her dance. She was pleased with her performance. We laughed, clapped, and cheered for her. Being a big ham, she wanted to do it all over again, but it was time for her to head to bed. My mother arrived to pick Nona up and take her to her house to get some sleep.

Stevie Wonder showed up that night and we gave him a tour by describing this and that. We took him up to our living area. Stevie knew acoustics so well, with his heightened senses, that he stood in the middle of the room and said, “Wow! I’m digging the surround sound.” He instinctively knew that the room was round. I was amazed by his perceptibility.

Even Slim ended up working at the studio for a while. He would primarily hang with my brother Mark and Marvin’s brother Frankie, who took care of our day to day. It was nice having family around. There was a lot of laughter, pranks, and good times. One of my favorite occasions was Marvin wearing his pyramid hat. He said it made him smarter and made it easier to create music. It looked ridiculous but he swore by it.

“Don’t touch Daddy’s pyramid,” he would tell the kids.

Of course that made them want to not only touch it but throw it about, bend it, and put it on each other’s heads.

The studio was next door to a health food store where we were always finding interesting items like the pyramid hat or biofeedback machines. Marvin was way ahead of the times when it came to natural health and metaphysical concepts. He taught me a lot about vitamins,
or “mins” as he called them, and herbs for every ailment. He read
Back to Eden
and bought numerous copies to give away as gifts, convinced that he knew how to live forever.

He would also read Edgar Cayce to me. Marvin scared the shit out of me with stories about Cayce, Virginia Beach, and how we should all move there to survive the end of the world—one of his favorite topics. The more I cried out in fear, the more he laid it on. Then he would do his best to make me laugh. It didn’t always work, though. He was incredibly hip and smart, open-minded, and forward thinking.

Jane Fonda was another star
drawn to Marvin. One day she came bouncing into his Sunset Boulevard studio looking like a little girl in a candy store. I was there when he played her some of his new music. Afterward, she talked of plans to start up an aerobics center. Would he be interested in investing? He was. I was afraid, of course, that his interest had more to do with Jane than with her aerobics. The two had engaged in super-intense eye contact.

A week or so later, Jane invited Marvin to see the space that she had rented on Robertson Boulevard. He decided to take me along. The center was impressive—gleaming wood floors, expansive mirrors, bars along the walls. Marvin thanked the assistant who showed us around and then asked when Jane would be arriving.

“I’m afraid she won’t be,” the assistant said.

I wondered whether that was because she had been told that I was there. In any event, I was relieved. Marvin didn’t invest. I’m not sure he ever saw Jane again.

But he did see Dyan Cannon, famous for rooting on the LA Lakers from her floor seat at the Forum. When friends told me of the rumor that Marvin had been hanging out with Dyan at the Forum Club, I grew alarmed and confronted him.

“We both love the game of basketball,” he said. “That’s all there is to it.”

“But why am I learning about this through friends? Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing her?”

“I’m not ‘seeing her,’ as you put it. I’m just hanging out with her—and only once in a great while. It’s an innocent thing.”

“And not an affair?”

“A friendship, yes. A love affair, no.”

When it came to Marvin
and other women, I was always on guard, especially as he escalated his divorce war with Anna. As those wars threatened his emotional and financial well-being, Marvin became more vulnerable. He refused to retreat or listen to reason. He also grew more hostile. When he faced the prospect of losing all his material possessions, he responded with, “
Après moi, le déluge
”—“After me, the flood”—the foreboding words allegedly ascribed to Louis XV. Marvin saw himself as a king about to lose his empire. But rather than alarm him, the prospect of ruin excited him.

He was further excited by the notion that I might be unfaithful. It took me a long time to understand why. Why would a man who had declared his love to me with the most romantic words—and the most romantic music—want to see that love tarnished and broken?

Why design drama that would lead to heartbreak? Why ask for chaos and confusion?

I was deeply confused when Frankie Beverly drove to the ranch in Round Mountain to meet with Marvin about an upcoming tour and, once again, Marvin forced me into a situation calculated to both tantalize and traumatize.