The Beat of My Own Drum (21 page)

When I’m auditioning a drummer for my band—believe it or not, I’m not always on drums, so I need a drummer behind me when I’m out in front singing and/or playing percussion—I’m more interested in the one who plays less and keeps time more. In other words, I need a drummer who can set the foundation for the band.

If you’re busy playing a bunch of fills, then you may be looking cool and sounding cool, but you’re missing the point. Just because
you know all that doesn’t mean you should play all that. The drummer needs to be steady, reliable, and on time—and, above all else, to stay out of the way.

A good drummer drives the bus instead of running up and down the aisle distracting all the passengers. This comes back to something that I think all musicians in a band should keep in mind. To go along with the bus analogy, passengers can’t all get on at the same time. There’s a narrow entryway and a narrow aisle. You have to fall back to give someone else time to get on, walk on, and sit down.

Whenever the E Family performs, we still have to take time to negotiate this seemingly simple guideline. We can’t have my father, my two brothers, and myself all showing off our tricks at once. Back in the day, my brothers and I didn’t quite get this. We’d be in the garage or at house parties, all trying to take the solo. Juan and Peter Michael would each want to take a timbale solo, one after the other. And then me.

While that’s fun, and the solos might even be halfway decent, we had to learn how to give each other space, how to be not only good musicians but good musicians who know about musicianship. Talent and musicianship are two very different things.

•  •  •

When I was on tour with Marvin Gaye, my contact with Prince was pretty minimal—though often when I opened the door to my hotel room after arriving in a new city, I’d be delighted to find a beautiful bouquet of flowers, accompanied by a really touching card. Such surprises certainly provided a happy distraction and made the challenging times on the tour more bearable.

Every person on that tour has a different story to tell, but I think we can all agree that as lucky as we were to be there, we were equally stressed. Our beloved drum tech, Eric Sharp, so young and
vital, was found hanged in his hotel room during the tour. His loss was traumatic to Peter Michael, Tony, and me. I often think of him and will always miss him. After his death, it felt like a dark cloud was hanging over the entire tour. There was such a strange energy, and I never felt completely safe.

Some of the attention I was getting from men only made things harder. Playing on that tour signified another level in my career, and yet I quickly discovered that with these new opportunities came new challenges. Once again I had to navigate around some unsavory invitations from various music-industry insiders who attended the shows.

Different tour, same proposal: sleep with me and I’ll advance your career. The proposal was the same, even if now it was more frequent and more dressed up.

I was now being told that I could have money, drugs, cars, houses, and record deals if I would just give up my body for the night. Turning down offers like this was a no-brainer. I became increasingly grateful for my upbringing, for Moms and Pops raising me with such a strong moral code. Besides, I wanted an honest man with a sense of humor who would sweep me off my feet. And, of course, he had to be fine!

Even though I was still pretty young at twenty-five, I was getting better and better at trusting my instincts about people—who would support me and uplift me and who was there to use me or bring me down. I’m grateful that my devotion to the music kept me focused and kept me from straying from who I really was and what I felt I was called to do. While my increasing resolve didn’t stop guys from making aggressive pitches about how they could make me a star, I was becoming better at defending myself against the onslaught of disingenuous lines. I just wasn’t interested in that kind of pitch. I was satisfied with where I was in my career and constantly excited by all that I was learning.

While I was creating the foundation for being more than a backup singer and featured percussionist, I didn’t have any conscious plan for anything more. Divine timing was working it out for me.

By this time I was already writing my own songs—carrying around notebooks and journals filled with lyrics, experimenting with music, playing with my drum machine and keyboard, navigating the gear, working my four-track and my eight-track. So I’m sure it was in the back of my mind somewhere: being a solo artist or, more vaguely, moving beyond whatever constraints band membership might create. And yes, it did occur to me that I could maybe solo one day, but I didn’t have a conscious plan. Besides, there weren’t any women who were solo percussionists/singers/drummers who played different genres of music while integrating dance routines.

A few friends had small studios in their homes and were making demos, so I taught myself to do the same. No one ever sat me down and showed me how to make a demo, and I didn’t like reading a manual. I just bought the most professional equipment I could afford at the time and started to play.

Being on tour with a Motown icon like Marvin, I was exposed to lots of perks like extra amenities or special access to restaurants and clubs—just special treatment all around. Sure, I thought, I can get used to this. But I was also being exposed to something greater that I wanted to get used to: respect for the artist.

While intellectually I understood that Marvin was a huge star whose songs affected so many, I was continually blown away by the reaction he’d get onstage. Hearing people sing along to his music and thank him for his impact on their lives, I was beginning to fantasize about somehow doing the same.

Of course, it’d have to be my unique version of the same. Can’t nobody even touch Marvin. But he inspired me to want to
continue being the best Sheila-artist I could be. What lyrics and arrangements and showmanship could I develop within myself? What if my own music could move people? What would it feel like to inspire others—to allow for even just 1 percent of the kind of inspiration Marvin provided? I didn’t know how any of this would actually happen, but I was more than ready—thrilled, really—about the prospect of finding out.

Toward the end of Marvin’s tour, my schedule got crazy: I’d fly to Los Angeles to rehearse with Lionel during the day and fly back to whatever city Marvin and the band were playing in that night. Only when the tour finally ended was I able to practice full-time with Lionel and his band. It was during one such rehearsal with Lionel’s band that I learned the shocking news of Marvin’s murder, an unthinkable tragedy only compounded by the horrifying detail that it was his father who had pulled the trigger. I kept thinking about how much security he had with him when we were on tour. There were always four or five bodyguards protecting him. Then he went home and was killed by his father.

The thought haunted me—how home, what should be the epitome of safety, was the place he was ultimately the least safe. Perhaps something about that was painfully familiar to me. Marvin’s death continues to evoke a sense of horror within me—the loss of this gifted man and the reminder that regardless of environment, safety is never a guarantee. I suppose that’s one of the reasons that developing my spiritual self began to feel so crucial. Within the realm of spirituality, there is everlasting safety.

Rehearsal was canceled that day out of respect for our beloved Marvin, and because we were all too upset to continue. Although there had been some dark omens on the road, none of us could have predicted that that was his last tour, that those would be his final performances.

As the days passed, my grieving only intensified. The pain of
his loss is still so profound for me. And the grief has given way to a deeper understanding of my purpose.

Peter Michael, Tony, and I would come to understand the true honor it was to play together in Marvin’s last tour; to share the stage with a musical genius gone much too soon. I got to play with someone I idolized. But I didn’t know the amount of pain he was living with, all the internal suffering he was enduring. I would later come to learn about his financial, spiritual, creative, and professional struggles.

His legacy has been a blessing to so many, and I can only pray that he had a glimpse of understanding his purpose in his lifetime.

May he finally rest in peace.

19
. Brushes

A drumstick with long wire bristles to make a hissing sound on cymbals

Ain’t no turnin’ back now, got my whole body sweatin’

I can do this all night, ain’t got long before the last song

“DO WHAT IT DO”

THE E FAMILY

W
orking with Lionel Richie couldn’t have been a more different experience. He had a wealth of experience from his time with the Commodores, and now as a solo artist he was unstoppable, soaring up the charts with his latest blockbuster album
Can’t Slow Down,
which featured the Grammy-winning hit “All Night Long.”

His on-tour rehearsals were a revelation for me because for the first time I was working on a proper soundstage that had to be built months in advance. The stage show was much more of a spectacle than Marvin’s: so many more technical effects and lighting cues. Not that it’s better—I’m also all for simplicity and purity—it’s just a new level and different.

That tour was just like the tours you hear about or see on TV. Lionel was even more popular than Marvin Gaye at the time, and once I saw him in action I realized why. He’s not only an amazing songwriter, but he’s also funny, personable, and charming.

It was while I was working with Marvin and Lionel that I made the decision to leave home and move to Los Angeles with my friend Connie. I didn’t want to go alone, and since she had great business instincts and a desire to build upon her skills in the entertainment industry, it wasn’t too tough to convince her to make the move with me.

We packed up our belongings and hit the highway. Six hours later (maybe less, because I like to drive fast), two brown girls from East Oakland were taking pictures of each other at all the major tourist spots like the Walk of Fame, plus a few of the lesser-known ones. Hollywood was a dream come true, just like I’d pictured it.

I’d been to LA before—for gigs and on road trips with my family—but now I’d made the leap to live there officially. I loved the idea of having a roomie, but it didn’t last longer than twenty-four hours. On the day we moved in, after we’d just finished unpacking the truck, it was time for me to go out on tour again and for Connie to begin working as a studio assistant for George Duke.

The people who toured with Lionel were an intimate bunch made up of band members, security, crew, and relatives. We were family.

Mideighties fashion was all about shoulder pads and big hair, all glitter and glam. The show featured synchronized flashing lights and multiple stage levels, with dancers and ramps. The greatest thing for me was being allowed my own little spot where I could play a solo, sing along with Lionel, or be featured in some other way. Everyone was so gracious; they really allowed me to shine.

Even though Lionel’s tour was pretty grueling and I didn’t get
the rest I needed, given that it came on the heels of so much else I was doing, I loved every minute. This was what I wanted. It was 1983 when I first toured with him, and even though my solo success was a few years away, I was getting some invaluable experience and a taste for a certain kind of life. The most obvious step up for me was that I went from traveling in a car or a van and commercial flights to private buses and then—my all-time favorite—a private jet. Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved having my own tour bus and the experience of traveling with all the other artists—I almost sold my house once to live on a bus. I loved the simplicity of having your transport and your home as one, and not having to worry about anything else. No mortgage, just gas. (These days, I’m not sure there’s much difference!)

Private jets, on the other hand, made a whole lot of other fun stuff possible. There’s no security at the airport (and therefore no flashbacks to Colombia); you never have to wait in line; there’s hot food once you get on the plane; you have the option of sitting with the pilot during takeoff and landing (feeling a bit like the astronaut I’d always longed to be); and you can help yourself to hot chocolate-chip cookies, in-flight massages, and glasses of wine. I would gaze out at the sky in wonder and count the real stars as well as my lucky ones.

Sometimes I had to pinch myself when I realized that the high school dropout whose family occasionally had to rely on welfare stamps was now enjoying the kind of life I’d only seen in movies. I was living larger than I ever could have imagined.

I was so busy and having so much fun that there wasn’t room in my life for anything but work and music, which was just as well, because Prince was co-coordinating three or four projects at a time, including several protégé bands.

We spoke when we could (before mobile phones, e-mails, and Skype), but each time we did, he slowly chipped away at my
defenses. He was very smart. On the Lionel Richie tour, he sent enormous bouquets to every hotel room in every city where I stayed.

There was definitely some serious wooing going on.

It’s a good thing I didn’t suffer from hay fever, because he’d send an embarrassing amount of blooms. The different arrangements had cards that read
HAVE A GREAT SHOW
or
LOVE YOU, PRINCE.

With every bouquet I’d wonder where all this was leading. We had always been such good friends and, although he’d hinted at moving our relationship to another level, I was happy for things to stay as they were—for now. Not only was he as busy as I was, traveling and working, but women constantly surrounded him, and that wasn’t the kind of relationship I wanted with anyone—especially after Carlos.

Inhaling the scent from his bouquets, I’d think, Heck, what am I going to do with this huge arrangement? The band members would have to make room for my flowers and me—even on Lionel’s private plane.