The Beat of My Own Drum (7 page)

In my thirties, after decades of venting my emotions through hitting a drum, I rediscovered that sweet little girl inside me. I now know in my heart that she was never to blame.

Music helped me to move beyond the events of that night and to no longer allow them to define who I am.

6
. Rest

An interval of silence of a specified duration

Sometimes raging wild

Sometimes swollen high

Never once I’ve known this river dry

“RIVER GOD”

SHEILA E (WRITTEN BY NICHOLE NORDEMAN)

A
fter a short stay in our next home, which we always refer to as the White House (and which we left after Juan and Peter Michael started a fire in the bedroom that burned half of it down), we moved to my favorite home—a house on East Twenty-first Street in East Oakland.

Our new address was right across the street from my uncle Coke, who was a loving and fun presence in our lives. Coke’s real name was Thomas, but he was given the nickname after a winning horse called Coco Mo Joe for some reason no one can recall. Later, when he became a party animal and known for his love of alcohol and recreational drugs, his name suited him more and more. Everybody loved Coke—he was a sweetheart
and, although he ended up a substance abuser, we always think of him fondly.

Although I was still haunted by the Bad Thing and scared of the dark, I longed to put the memories behind me and start afresh. All I needed to heal was right there within our four new walls, and it felt to me like a place where I could learn to smile again.

Pops was always looking for work and we weren’t much better off financially, but we did have some of our happiest times there. We’d belly-laugh together at our favorite TV shows, we played with the neighborhood kids, and we devoured Moms’s special-recipe meals, including her famous chili beans and rice, potato salad, or tortilla creations dressed with mayonnaise.

As soon as anyone walked in the door, Moms would ask, “Are you hungry?” We never knew how she whipped up a full meal in ten minutes when there never seemed to be enough in the fridge. And, of course, there was always music, which continued to provide a constant source of pleasure and—for me—salvation.

Just as before, our home was rarely empty, and the door stayed open, especially in the summer. Almost every night there were parties and jam sessions whenever friends and family dropped in to eat, drink, and play.

Pops’s fellow band musicians continued to rehearse with him in our tiny front room, but his bands grew bigger and bigger as more people wanted to join. One night they had timbales, congas, bongos, singers, dancers, horn players, guitar, bass, and piano all squeezed into one room.

My brothers and I would peek out from our bedroom door to watch them play, or—if it was especially good—we’d wander out in our pajamas.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” the adults would ask.

“Can’t sleep.” (What child could when there was a live band in the front room?)

Giving in to our pleading, the grown-ups would often let us stay. There wasn’t exactly a lot of structure in our house—even on school nights—although we must have got used to late-night jamming as lullabies or we’d never have slept.

On the rare occasions that we had the place to ourselves, Juan, Peter Michael, and I would put on our favorite records. The very first 45 single I bought was Edwin Starr’s “25 Miles” from the little record store on East Twenty-first Street. Sometimes we even played our own discs when Pops was home, so at any one time there might be his Latin music blaring in the front room while my brothers and I were in our room trying to drown him out with the Temptations or James Brown.

We must have driven the neighbors crazy with the sounds of overlapping musical genres—a strong mix of clave and congas and a hearty bass line blasting out of the open windows. In other words, cha-cha with a distinctive Motown flavor.

All of this music continued to envelop me, blend within me, and become even more of who I was. The boundary between music and me became increasingly blurred.

Without even realizing it, whenever Pops had his friends over, my brothers and I were soaking up the sounds of some of the most talented musicians of their era, sitting right there in our front room. These were mostly people from the Bay Area of Oakland, San Francisco, and Berkeley, but many had traveled there to work with like-minded musicians.

Slouching around on any given day might be the legendary Cuban jazz percussionist Mongo Santamaria, the Puerto Rican pianist Eddie Palmieri, or the Latin jazz and salsa composer Tito Puente.

Even though we were “family,” it was still a bit more of a deal when Tito came to the house; it was a bit like Frank Sinatra dropping by. He had an entourage that included security guards and
a bunch of guys who reminded me of what I’d seen of the Mafia on TV. At home my father wore mostly flared slacks and brightly colored hippie shirts, so by comparison Tito was extremely well dressed in a smart jacket, pants, shirt, and tie.

The community loved Tito—he did so much for kids and schools—and Pops really looked up to him, too. He later became famous with a younger crowd when he wrote “Oye Como Va” for Carlos Santana, yet he always seemed so reachable and humble. Tito wasn’t directly related to me, but I felt like he was my uncle, and I never knew what to call him. When I was about seven I settled on Grandpa, but he complained that made him feel old (he was forty). We agreed that he’d be my “godfather” instead.

He and Pops had been friends since the fifties and had become two of the world’s most famous
timbaleros,
or master players of the timbales. Tito had played on many of the records we owned in the house, but that didn’t mean that much to us kids back then, surrounded as we were by numerous musicians with record deals. So Tito Puente jamming with our father was just a normal event in the Escovedo household as far as we were concerned.

We might not have been wealthy, but musically we sure were rich.

Lou Rawls was another guest, a chilled-out R&B singer and a really nice guy who was always smiling. He was Mr. Smooth, with a deep voice like Barry White, and he talked real slow and casual. Other visitors might include Bill Summers, Ray Obiedo, Willie Bobo, Cal Tjader, Neal Schon (later of Journey), or members of Con Funk Shun. The Whisperers were another group who hung around a lot, too. Their drummer, James Levi, was especially close to my brothers and me and would take us to the YMCA or a community facility to play basketball.

Pops’s band, the Escovedo Brothers, was doing well and playing at venues like the Jazz Workshop, the Matador, and the Basin
Street West. They were gathering quite a following, which meant even more visitors. This eventually prompted Pops to buy more furniture—something he’d been waiting for more money to do—as the house lacked what most people would consider standard items such as comfortable chairs.

“I had to do something,” he explained. “I couldn’t have all those cats hanging out on the floor.”

We had to sit on the hard plastic chairs or the yellow shag rug whenever we huddled around our Zenith TV to watch our favorite shows. That funky old set didn’t work very well, and he always had to get it fixed, but as soon as the picture warmed up we’d be transported inside the box to the music shows and the fantastically glamorous lives that seemed a million miles away from ours.

Moms and Pops loved old black-and-white movies like
It’s a Wonderful Life
,
The Philadelphia Story, Bringing Up Baby
, and
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
. They were also crazy about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. I watched
Top Hat
so often I knew almost every line. I loved
The Wizard of Oz
and
West Side Story
. We all watched Goldie Hawn and the gang on
Laugh-In
along with Johnny Carson, Ed Sullivan, and Carol Burnett.

We kids were especially gripped by programs such as
Gilligan’s Island
,
Leave It to Beaver,
and
Lost in Space
. There was
The Mod Squad
and
The Flip Wilson Show
. We loved
American Bandstand
and
The Andy Williams Show
. Family acts struck a real chord in my household, needless to say. I watched five-year-old Donny Osmond perform
You Are My Sunshine
for Andy Williams and thought to myself, “He’s almost the same age as me and yet he’s on TV. Why aren’t I?”

Lucille Ball remains one of my all-time favorite entertainers. I knew every story line of the
I Love Lucy
shows by heart. I especially liked that she was married in real life to her TV husband, Ricky, played by Desi Arnaz. The show’s dynamics reflected those of my
own family, and not just because Ricky was a musician. We still call Moms Lucy, because she’d always yearned to be in show business and couldn’t help but try to get in on the act—just like Lucy always did. You’d understand if you saw how Pops shakes his head with a grin and a Ricky-like expression that says, “What am I gonna do with her?”

Meanwhile, Moms still stands behind me patting my head when I play even now, or jumps in to slap her hand on a conga drum while Juan keeps time, or grabs the mic when Peter Michael’s singing vocals. Mostly she’ll freeze up in the end, but for a short while she
is
Lucille Ball.

As kids, what we saw and heard on TV and the radio influenced us massively. Every night was showtime as my brothers and I worked on mimicking our favorite acts and tried to replicate their dance moves—even their outfits. We constantly refined our impressions. We regarded bands like the Osmonds and the Jackson 5 as equals; the only difference was that we had no record or TV show.

We practiced our “One Bad Apple” routine for hours on end, integrating our impressions of their dance routines while singing our hearts out: “
One bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, girl . . .
”

Yes, we little brown kids from Oakland got down with some Osmonds music. Those Osmonds have serious
soul
!

And when we pretended we were the Jackson 5, we practiced their harmonies and steps over and over. As far as we were concerned, the Escovedo 3 could still give the Jackson 5 a run for their money.

One day Pops brought home another new record and put it on the turntable. It was Sammy Davis Jr.’s
The Sounds of ’66
. As it began to play, I walked slowly over to the speakers as if in a trance and sat down. The voice, the instrumentation, the musical dynamics—Sammy sounded ultracool, and Buddy Rich played the drums brilliantly. He was phenomenal. The recording had been
done live at the famous Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. The overall concept of it was so great—the arrangement and the composition and the horns. I was in awe.

I listened to that album a hundred times over, sometimes with Pops, sometimes with my brothers. Often by myself. While songs like “Come Back to Me,” “What Kind of Fool Am I?” or “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone” played, I’d stare at the album cover and admire its classy minimalism—that black background with a kind of halfway silhouette in blue. Tapping my feet or my hands on the sofa, I’d let my imagination drift into a musical wonderland where Sammy was performing and I was in his band, singing with him.

Within a week, I knew each part of every song, from the vocals to the horns to the drums. I even learned the minute-long introduction word for word. My mother thought this was great, and at any family gatherings she’d put the record on and say, “Okay, Sheila—showtime!”

As everyone watched, the drumroll would begin, and I’d lip-sync Sammy introducing himself and the band to the audience:
“For you folks at home who might listen to this record eventually, I would like to say that this is a very special night for me.”

I did the whole thing in perfect time. I even wore a hat, a trench coat, and dark glasses. I tried to half close my eye to look like his fake one. Crazy! It was the start of a lifelong love affair with Mr. Sammy Davis Jr., such a consummate performer who could do everything—sing, tap-dance, play the organ and the drums, do impersonations, and even act. His versatility astounded and inspired me.

I wanted to be just like Sammy!

Probably the most remarkable aspect of my childhood is that in spite of what had happened to me and the insecurity that plagued me at a much deeper level, I was raised to have such belief in my
own abilities that whenever I heard or saw someone doing something I liked, I immediately pictured myself doing the same.

“I can do that!” was a common cry in our household, thanks to our parents.

I remember seeing Karen Carpenter on television once and telling Pops, “I can sing and play drums! Why aren’t I on TV?”

Pops smiled and told me knowingly, “You will be.”

The Beatles were another big deal in our household. I was six when the Fab Four first arrived in America. My family gathered around the black-and-white screen to watch them descend the steps from their plane, smiling and waving to their screaming fans. We all thought their performance on
The Ed Sullivan Show
was the best thing that we’d ever seen. Their music was so cool and different.

I sat there in my bunny-printed flannel pajamas, wide-eyed and speechless. I had a crush on all of them. Paul McCartney reminded me of my brother Peter Michael, but I thought George Harrison especially cute. The drummer, Ringo Starr, was—to use an expression of the time—groovy. Watching them all arrive in my country, I fell in love. When they sang “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” I was even more smitten.

I want to hold your hands too!

My brothers and I were fascinated and full of questions: “Who are they? Where’s England? When can we play with them?”

It never once occurred to us that we couldn’t.

I was in second grade when I first got my hands on James Brown’s single “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.” Man, my brothers and I wore that record out. We’d lie on the floor between the speakers that were raised on bricks and soak up every note. Later we’d practice James’s famous dance moves, such as the skate and the splits, in the living room or on our “stage” (outside) until we had them down solid.