The Beat of My Own Drum (28 page)

In an environment where everybody led me to believe there were no limits, I only had to ask to get what I wanted. If I wanted my sticks to light up when I played them, I could have it. If I wanted two two-thousand-dollar outfits for every show, that was fine too. The response was always “Sure!” or “No problem! We’ll get that sorted for you.”

The sky was the limit—I could have anything I wanted—and, in that environment, I became increasingly impatient for that “anything” to come to me
now
. In my extreme moments of delusion, when they told me that the fabric I wanted for a coat was French, I’d say something like, “Well, then fly to Paris and get it for me!”

I became mean, demanding, and angry. I stopped asking and started telling. I began to see my team as a group of people working
for
me, rather than as individuals who worked
with
me. I didn’t give them the acknowledgment and appreciation they deserved. I didn’t say “please” and “thank you.” I was becoming a nightmare.

In turning into a diva, I was a million miles away from the Sheila Escovedo my parents had raised me to be—the kid who bought her Christmas gifts at the ninety-nine-cent store and needed nothing but a trash can and a few spatulas to make some satisfying beats. I take full responsibility for becoming this person, and when I began to do some soul-searching, I realized I had a lot of apologizing to do.

I’m still apologizing. I think that, for the most part, my diva ways are a thing of the past. However, my experience in an elevator relatively recently taught me I still might have a ways to go.

I was with a guitar player I hadn’t seen for a while, and we were in a five-star hotel. Dodging paparazzi when we got out of our limo, we eventually made it to the elevator breathlessly, but then stood there for a minute or so before I realized that it wasn’t moving. I looked at him.

“Is it broken?”

“I was just wondering the same thing,” he said. “Why aren’t we moving?”

We looked to the floor buttons. None were lit up.

Then we looked at each other.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You didn’t push the button.”

“You didn’t, either?” he asked.

We suddenly cracked up, realizing that we were both so used to having assistants or security push the elevator buttons that neither of us had even thought of doing it ourselves.

“Which one of us is going to press it?” he asked.

“Which floor?” I asked.

“Penthouse.”

“But of course.” I leaned in to press the button. “I got this.”

Fortunately, when fame struck and then threatened to spoil me, I always had my friends and family to keep me grounded. They knew how to make me remember who Sheila Escovedo was, even as Sheila E’s star was on the rise. When I flew back to LA one day midtour, Moms came to meet me. I walked through the airport looking every bit the star, taking my
Glamorous Life
role a bit too seriously—flanked by security, wearing a fur coat, sunglasses, and in head-to-toe couture.

That’s when I spotted a crazy lady running toward me shouting, “I’m Sheila E’s mama! I’m Sheila E’s mama!” Moms was dressed in red onesie pajamas with the back flap open, multiple Pippi Longstocking braids sticking out of her head, and a blacked-out front tooth. She had a sign taped to her behind that said,
I’M SHEILA E’S MOTHER
in big black ink. She was jumping up and down with bells on her ankles so everyone could hear, laughing and waving for all to see—including the press. Zina was running alongside her, laughing so hard I thought she’d fall over.

Welcome home, Sheila. Back to
The Goofy Life
.

The trouble was, no matter how normal my life away from Prince was, I was madly, crazily in love with the guy who had shown me what it was like to live in that kind of rarefied world.

On tour all of the girls had hooked up with someone, and Connie started dating one of the security guards, Gilbert. None of us had any inkling back then, but it was the love of a lifetime for Connie and Gilbert, and they ended up with six kids—my godchildren. Connie and Gilbert’s relationship was surely one of the best things ever to come out of
Purple Rain.

When the tour finally ended (with plans for the next already in hand) and I returned to LA to recover from the madness, I didn’t have anywhere to call home. Connie and I had given up our apartment because we were never there, so my life was packed in boxes. Luckily, I had plenty of friends and stayed in close touch with Lionel Richie and his wife, Brenda.

She and Lionel had been teasing me over the fact that I didn’t have my own place, and she suggested I move into one of the empty wings of their house in Bel Air. I wasn’t sure at first—it was very different from what I was used to, but at least my months in fancy hotel rooms had prepared me a little. In the end, though, I thought it would be fun. I hated being on my own and was used to being surrounded by a lot of people.

Taking me in meant taking in my family, too, of course, as we were virtually inseparable. Not that Brenda and Lionel minded one bit. They had tried without success to have children of their own, so they loved having a big family around. The Escovedo entourage generally included my whole family along with Connie
and Karen, with her two-year-old daughter, Nicole, my adorable niece—known to everyone as Nikki.

Although Karen and Peter Michael weren’t together anymore, they were still a big part of our lives—not least because of their much-loved daughter.

Brenda adored Nikki, too, and suggested that my niece stay with them whenever Karen was on tour with me. She insisted it made sense. She provided her with a beautiful bedroom and showered her with toys and clothes. She even bought her a puppy.

As a single working mom, Karen was extremely grateful, but very torn.

Brenda enrolled Nikki at a local primary school, where she was getting a great education. She had everything she could possibly need. Peter Michael (who’d married someone else) visited whenever he had breaks from his music career too. If Nikki stayed where she was, rent-free, then Karen could earn enough for their future without disrupting her child’s life. It seemed like letting Nicole stay there was in her best interests.

Things changed, though, once I moved away to Minneapolis to work and rehearse for the next big tour. Nicole stayed in her pretty pink bedroom and Karen kept visiting. When Brenda started to talk about adopting Nicole, Karen didn’t know what to do. Lionel, who was Nicole’s official guardian, would do anything to keep Brenda happy. In the end, the Richies convinced Karen and Peter Michael that they could give Nicole the kind of life her birth parents never could. They told us that we would all be in her life as much as before, and they acknowledged that we were always her family.

The heartbreaking part is that once Nicole Escovedo legally became Nicole Richie, it felt like we lost her. We all lost her—me, Karen, Peter Michael, Patrice, Moms and Pops, Juan, and Zina.

People have lots of questions about Nicole. There’s been a
ton of false and upsetting information put out there by the media from completely inaccurate sources surrounding Nicole’s early life and the circumstances around her open adoption. While there are many more things I could share from my personal perspective, out of respect for Nicole and others in the family, as well as out of respect for the Richies, I have to emphasize that the rest of the story isn’t mine to tell in a public forum.

I can, however, share this. She’s my niece, whom I love to pieces. She’s my brother Peter Michael’s biological daughter. Her mother was and is a good friend. Lionel and Brenda Richie adopted her and gave her a life full of love and great privilege. She was a precious little girl and has grown up to be a remarkably intelligent, talented, creative, funny, and beautiful young woman. All of the Escovedos love her madly and always will.

The rest, as I say, is not my story to tell.

24
. Drum Break

An instrumental or percussion section or interlude during a song

You don’t have to send me flowers like you used to,

You don’t have to buy me candy, I’ll still be your fool

All I ask for is a little decency and class

“NEXT TIME WIPE THE LIPSTICK OFF YOUR COLLAR”

SHEILA E

T
here was no jumping off the juggernaut that was Prince’s life. In 1987, the industry rumors were confirmed when he officially separated from the Revolution and promoted me to the role of band drummer for his next tour, Sign of the Times, which was due to begin that spring.

Being Prince’s drummer was a position I’d hold for two crazy years during another of his most intense and creative phases. As well as writing and playing music on his next album, I was asked to contribute to the songs of his latest protégé band, Madhouse, and be the musical director of his backup band, the New Power Generation.

Sign of the Times
was a double album on which I collaborated with him on a number of songs, at the same time releasing singles and videos from my third album. My single “Hold Me” did well on the Billboard charts and continued to improve my reputation as a solo artist.

My hunger for the work wasn’t purely creative. When I came off the Purple Rain tour, I believed that I’d be rich. I’d been working flat out for well over a year on the biggest tour in the world. I never did it for the money—that was never what had motivated me—but it was comforting to think that I could maybe find myself a nice house and really fill the family fridge.

So it came as the most dreadful, terrible shock when Prince’s account managers told me that I was a million dollars in debt. “You owe us a lot of money, Sheila,” they said. “How do you want to start paying us back?”

I was shattered.

It turns out that every time people told me, “Sure, we’ll fix that for you,” my account had been charged. I’d been so naïve. I thought all the expenses for costumes and hair, equipment and staff would be covered by Prince and his team as part of the tour—as they had been on my previous tours with Lionel and Marvin.

I had no idea I was expected to pay for it all myself.

Prince’s managers were my managers, and yet nobody had advised me separately. I bear full responsibility for the bills I incurred, but I have to say it hurt to think that neither Prince nor his team came off that tour in debt, as I did.

When I went through the final accounts for equipment, wardrobe, hairstylists, flights, food, and drink, I realized that they’d made me pay for everything. They even charged me to use sound equipment that was already there.

I felt like such a fool.

As with all big music events (and I’d seen it with Marvin Gaye
especially), there was a lot of stuff going on behind the scenes that I didn’t understand or want to know about. I never worried about it because I didn’t think it related to me. Now I realized that some of it did.

There was no escaping the truth—I owed the money, and that was that. I was still signed to Prince’s management company and to Warner Brothers. He had casually told me at the start that it would be easier to go in with him. It never even occurred to me that I shouldn’t, or that there might be a conflict of interest. I didn’t even ask anyone to study the paperwork for me.

Not checking the small print was a salutary lesson for me, and one I paid dearly for. I spent years paying back what I owed. This meant that—whether I wanted to or not—I’d have to carry on working at that level and that pace for some time to come.

Creatively and personally, that was a bitter pill to swallow.

People are surprised to learn that I’m not what they would consider “wealthy,” even though I am rich in other ways. What is rich? In truth, I have turned down more than I’ve made. In the early nineties, I was approached to participate in a TV infomercial about psychics. I declined, explaining that I didn’t believe in their product. They assured me that that part didn’t matter. They just needed my name, offering half a million up front and another half a million once they filmed the ad. It was still easy to say no.

All money is not good money.

“You know,” I told them, “if you guys wanted me to endorse Tupperware, I would’ve taken the check, no problem. I believe in Tupperware. It keeps my food fresh. And me and my mom are big on leftovers. But I don’t believe that you’re offering something valuable. So thanks, but no thanks.”

I called Moms and Pops immediately.

“I just turned down a million dollars,” I told them.

“You what?” they asked.

“I don’t believe in the product they wanted me to sell.”

“Well, can’t you believe in it just a little bit?”

It took a minute, but once I really explained where I was coming from, they were proud of my conviction. I never would’ve imagined that turning down a million dollars in an instant would be such an easy choice.

I guess that for me, chasing the light of stardom was never that important. And chasing the money wasn’t, either. I think at times I got off course, rerouted a bit. Fame can be intoxicating, and it’s easy to misplace your moral compass. I definitely made some mistakes along the way and had to learn some valuable lessons about maintaining my personal values. But ultimately, when it came to the big decisions, it was always more important for me to maintain my integrity. I can’t bear the thought of doing something I don’t believe in. Whatever decision I make, I want to be able to sleep at night.

I was also offered a lot of money to pose naked for
Playboy
and quickly turned it down. The offer made sense, given that I was being paid to be half-naked onstage every night. So what was the difference? It’s a question I’m still asking myself.

It’s hard to remember some of the thoughts I had back then, since my spirit has changed so much. But I can recall thinking that posing half-naked for a magazine seemed like a very different thing from being half-naked while making music, which was an expression of my soul.