A Woman Like Me Read online

  I had to run upstairs and tell Mama and Sister the news. And naturally they had to come down and meet him. It was a thrilling moment for all concerned. And even though all the cocaine we blew diminished Jackie’s sexual drive—it was mainly a matter of hugging and kissing—I was nonetheless honored to be in his arms. When I awoke the next morning, I looked over and saw Jackie Wilson sleeping in my bed. Happiness was mine.

  • • •

  What do you mean you slept with Jackie Wilson?” asked Clarence, who was calling from L.A. No longer with Motown, he was doing freelance music hustles in Hollywood.

  “You know how they have those signs on some houses in New England that say ‘George Washington Slept Here,’ well, I’m putting up a sign outside my house that says ‘Jackie Wilson Slept Here.’”

  “Was he good?” asked Clarence.

  “He was tired.”

  “And how about you, aren’t you tired of Detroit?”

  “I do admit the city feels a little lonely.”

  “Come out here. I’ll send you a ticket.”

  “What am I going to do out there?”

  “That producer who did your last record is out here.”

  “Brad Shapiro?”

  “That’s the one. Maybe he can still help you.”

  “Atlantic in New York shut me down.”

  “I know. But Atlantic in L.A. has its own money to spend. Besides, how cold is it today in Detroit?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “How does seventy-five degrees sound to you?”

  “When did you say you’re sending that ticket?”

  The Institute for Sexual Intercourse

  At the start of the seventies in L.A., land of eternal sunshine, I was looking to get out of the dark. After Atlantic dumped me, I had enough depression to last a lifetime. Despair was not my friend, and now I was about to see whether Brad Shapiro was. Brad tried. He turned me on to some of the Atlantic folks in L.A., who found a little money for me to go into the studio with Clarence. This time I wrote two songs that described my situation with perfect accuracy—“Waiting for Tomorrow” and “Livin’ Life on a Shoestring.” Leslie Drayton wrote the charts. Because Clarence was close to Ike Turner, we recorded at Ike’s Bolic Sounds studio, where Ike and Tina cut most of their material. That’s where I met Johnny “Guitar” Watson, the original “Gangster of Love.” Like Ike, Johnny was one of the major architects of the tight funk that groups like the Ohio Players and Rufus were building careers on. Also like Ike, Johnny could snort up more blow than a brand-new Hoover.

  I’ve been told that the songs I did at Bolic have a definite sound—the highly orchestrated “Curtis Mayfield meets Isaac Hayes meets Marvin Gaye” early-seventies feel. I wasn’t thinking that way. I was just singing my heart out. I was singing, “A wing and a prayer is all I got to lean on.” I was singing for my supper, for this new group of Atlantic execs who might finally put out something people would buy.

  We had a blast in the studio. The blow was plentiful. The compliments were generous. Clarence loved it. Ike loved it. Tina loved it. The Atlantic people said they liked it and would get back to me.

  “While we’re waiting,” said Clarence, “let’s catch up with Marvin. Him and Ed Townsend are in the Motown studio up in Hollywood.”

  Since he put out What’s Going On, Marvin had done an edgy sound track for the movie Trouble Man. It was a slyly autobiographical, mainly instrumental suite of songs. Now everyone was waiting to see what he’d do next.

  Like Clarence, Ed Townsend was a veteran singer/songwriter from the fifties. His big hit was “For Your Love.” He and Marvin were in great spirits when we arrived. It was a wonderful reunion. Ed had introduced Marvin to a sixteen-year-old girl, Janis Hunter, who had rocked his world. He was crazy in love. He had only one thought in his head and, together with Ed, was able to express it in a song that said it all: “Let’s Get It On.”

  “What do you think?” he asked Clarence, after playing us the track.

  “You’re the only guy I know who can go from ‘What’s Going On’ to ‘Let’s Get It On,’” said Clarence.

  “Is that good or bad?” asked Marvin.

  “Don’t matter none,” said Clarence. “’Cause whatever it is, it’s a stone smash.”

  Marvin asked all of us—Clarence and me included—to help on backgrounds. Before that happened, Marvin talked about Jan for an hour. Then he and Clarence played poker for another hour, arguing and joking back and forth, all the while smoking joints and blowing cocaine. When it was finally time to record the backgrounds, everyone did something. That was always the case when Marvin made music. He had his friends help out—whether patting our feet, snapping our fingers, or, in this case, clapping our hands. We had a large time.

  We were all hoping that Marvin’s new love, even though she was seventeen years younger than he was, would make him happy. His ex-wife, who was seventeen years older than Marvin, certainly had not. Whatever craziness Marvin might be going through made him even more lovable to his closest friends. His mentors—Clarence Paul, Ed Townsend, and Harvey Fuqua—thought Marvin could do no wrong. For ladies like me, Marvin’s charm was singular. The irony was that he wasn’t the macho man he wanted to be, and yet that gentleness—that extreme vulnerability—is what women loved.

  • • •

  In contrast, Mac Rebennack, known to all as Dr. John, hardly seemed vulnerable at all. That’s not to say he didn’t have his own flavor of funk and homegrown charm. Allen Toussaint had used the Meters in cutting Dr. John’s Atlantic album In the Right Place, which included his big hit, “Right Place Wrong Time.” I liked the record but wasn’t sure why Atlantic was pushing his while mine was still in cold storage. Anyway, Dr. John and I bonded over our love of weed and straight-up R&B. I needed work and he hired me to sing background on his Right Place tour. During rehearsal, I couldn’t help but sing little fills in my parts. I thought they were tasty and added to the overall vocal vibe. Dr. John didn’t agree.

  “Can you sing it straight, Bettye?” he said.

  “Probably not.”

  “Can you try?”

  I tried, failed, and got fired. Dr. John gave me some money anyway—and an ounce of pot. For years I maintained that my greatest claim to fame was being fired by Dr. John. When I saw him recently, he said, “Baby, you gotta stop telling people that I fired you. I’d never fire a singer as good as you.”

  “Well, you did,” I said. “But I love you anyway.”

  We hugged and renewed our friendship, and it’s still going strong.

  • • •

  Back in the early seventies, I was still dead broke. I had started my L.A. journey in Hollywood, and as my money ran out, I found myself down-and-out in Watts. Something had to happen fast. Maybe Atlantic would like those Clarence Paul–produced songs and release them. Maybe Atlantic would finally give me some real money.

  Wishful thinking. “Waiting for Tomorrow” and “Livin’ Life on a Shoestring” were the real-life truths about my situation, but Atlantic didn’t feel it. They weren’t about to release my stuff.

  I finally got an honest answer from one of their L.A. execs. “Look, Bettye,” he said. “Wexler is long gone and Ahmet is busy signing white rock and rollers. Jerry Greenberg isn’t inclined to champion you, and Brad Shapiro is getting ready to work with Millie Jackson in Muscle Shoals.”

  “Why does he think Millie Jackson can have Muscle Shoals hits and I can’t?” I asked.

  “Brad’s not the problem. Atlantic is. Forget Atlantic. If you need some quick money, I know a place where you can get it.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a sex clinic.”

  “A sex clinic? What the hell is that? A fancy name for a whorehouse? I’m not turning tricks.”

  “It’s not a whorehouse and you won’
t be turning tricks. A lot of actresses and singers work over there. Just go by and see what they have to say.”

  When your money is funny, you do funny things. When I was twenty-seven, my money was very funny. That’s why I went to this building on Santa Monica Boulevard, right next door to the Pussycat Theater, where the recently released Deep Throat was playing. I looked at the directory in the building lobby and there it was, in plain language, INSTITUTE FOR SEXUAL INTERCOURSE, located on the second floor, Unit B. I sighed and walked up the stairs, opened the door and introduced myself to a lady sitting behind a receptionist’s desk.

  “I’m here to see about work,” I said, swallowing all pride.

  “Have you been recommended?”

  “I have.” I gave the name of the man who told me about the place.

  “Have a seat. Our director will see you in a moment.”

  The director was a middle-aged man with six chins. He sat in an office overlooking the marquee for Deep Throat.

  “This is a reputable clinic,” he said. “We’re here to help men with sexual problems.”

  “How does that work?” I asked.

  “They come for instruction.”

  “And not to get laid?”

  “No, not at all. You are never completely nude.”

  “Only half nude?”

  “You wear a bikini.”

  “And what does the john wear?”

  “He isn’t a john, he’s a legitimate client.”

  “What does the legitimate client wear?”

  “His underwear.”

  “So I’m in a bikini, he’s in his drawers, and then what happens?”

  “You show him what positions are most suitable for sex.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. Many men have no idea about what positions to take.”

  “You mean to tell me men don’t know they go on top and we go on the bottom?”

  “Maybe they know that, but maybe they don’t know it can work the other way.”

  “It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to figure that out.”

  “Not all men have a lot of imagination.”

  “Can I be honest?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m supposed to teach these men about fucking by pretending to fuck. Is that it?”

  “So to speak.”

  “So it’s about dry fucking. It’s about humping. They’re bouncing on me with their shorts on and come all over themselves.”

  “Different men have different experiences. Some do ejaculate, but others can’t even achieve erections.”

  “And I’m playing the part of Dr. Feelgood.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Mister,” I said. “I’ve done a lot worse.”

  “Fine. Your first client is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

  My first client wore boxers with bunnies all over them. He was a shy guy who just wanted to get on top of a woman. He didn’t even want to bounce, just feel some flesh.

  Other clients were far more aggressive. They thought they were paying to actually fuck me. I set them straight in a hurry. If they didn’t get the idea, we had a big bouncer outside the door who’d come in and knock them on the head. The bouncer made me feel secure.

  I worked four, five days a week. I got used to it. The lack of penetration made all the difference in the world. A lot of these guys were afraid of penetration. They just wanted to bounce up and down a few times, come, and get the hell out. It was easy money.

  Then one day we got raided. I didn’t understand what for until the owner said that some of his girls turned out to be working women using the institute as a place to fuck their johns. It turned out that at the Institute for Sexual Intercourse there was plenty of penetration—which was when I decided to get out. After a month and two separate police raids, enough was enough.

  • • •

  Solomon Burke is one of my all-time favorite singers. When someone asked Jerry Wexler who was the best soul singer, he said, “Solomon Burke with a borrowed rhythm section.” Wexler wasn’t wrong. So when the phone rang in my down-and-out Watts flat and the man said he was Solomon Burke, I couldn’t have been happier.

  “I know who you are, Bettye LaVette,” he said. “I like the way you sing, and I want you to open my show.”

  “I want to sing with you, Solomon Burke,” I said. “I’d love to sing with you.”

  “When can you be ready to rehearse?”

  “In about an hour.”

  He laughed and that was it. Two weeks later I was onstage with Solomon Burke in San Francisco.

  It had been ten years or so since Solomon had gone to Atlantic and saved the label after Ray Charles had gone over to ABC. Like a lot of singers who had at least one strong string of hits, Solomon’s popularity with his core black audience was solid, and whether he was on the charts or not, he could always work. He’d gone from big auditoriums to small clubs, but small clubs were okay with me, especially one called Small’s Paradise in Harlem.

  “Ever hear of it, Bettye?” Solomon asked.

  “Daddy,” I said, “I played that club for years. It was my home base.”

  Solomon loved to be called Daddy. He had dozens of women and hundreds of children. He liked to call me into the bathroom when he was sitting in the tub, naked as a beached whale and nearly as big.

  “Bettye,” he said, “I still haven’t gotten you in my church.”

  Solomon was a preacher with a mail-order divinity degree. In church, he sat on a throne and wore a crown on his head.

  “And you won’t be getting me in that church anytime soon,” I said.

  “You don’t think it’s good to praise and worship God?”

  “If this God of yours is so perfect, I’m wondering why he needs all this praise and worship. Is he that insecure?”

  “He’s not insecure. We are. We need the security we get when we tell him he’s worthy.”

  “So that’s the deal—kiss God’s ass and God makes you feel okay.”

  “You twisting it around.”

  “You’re the one who’s twisting to make sense out of something that’s plain nonsense.”

  “How can you live without faith?”

  “You need faith, I agree. But faith in what? Faith in the fairy tales you read about in the Bible? I don’t think so, Solomon. Faith in other people, faith in yourself.”

  “But what about faith in a spirit you can’t see?”

  “If I can’t see it, what’s the point?”

  “Salvation.”

  “Oh, Lord, save me from this preacher man!”

  Solomon laughed and got out of the tub. I liked our conversation, not because I was about to convert to whatever form of Christianity he was peddling, but because he was a genuinely nice guy.

  “How you make love to someone that big?” my cousin Margaret asked me.

  “Simple,” I said. “You sit on him.”

  When we got to New York, Solomon was surprised to learn that I had my own cadre of fans at Small’s. Besides the fans, there were also former boyfriends eager to reignite the flames.

  After our last show on our last night, I quietly took one of those boyfriends back to my hotel room. I didn’t want to aggravate Solomon, but at the same time I was still singing that song that said, “Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.” We had closed the door behind us and started the first phase of the game of love when we heard Solomon banging on the door.

  “You in there, Bettye LaVette?”

  I didn’t say anything. We waited until we heard his heavy footsteps moving away from the room. Then we got the game going real good.

  Next morning when I went down to breakfast, the man in the hotel coffee shop asked, “A
ren’t you with the Solomon Burke group anymore?”

  “I sure am. What do you mean?”

  “They left out of here an hour ago for the airport.”

  I came to find out that Solomon alerted everyone but me that they were flying to Chicago a day early. When I finally contacted the tour manager and asked about my plane ticket, he said, “Solomon told me to cash it in.”

  “What about paying me my four hundred dollars for this gig in New York?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Solomon about it.”

  Flash forward a few decades.

  Solomon and I shared the bill for a show in Norway. I was singing “Your Turn to Cry.” While I was performing, Solomon sent his son onstage to put a hundred-dollar bill in my hand.

  When Solomon died shortly after that, I was certain he did so to avoid paying me the three hundred dollars he still owed me.

  Before My Sugar Turned to Shit

  In the mid-seventies, the world wasn’t cooperating with me one goddamn bit. In thirteen years, I’d recorded some sixty songs. That’s enough for six albums. And yet I still didn’t have a single one. I’d been through more labels than I wanted to remember. Even had a small one of my own with Jim called TCA (Twentieth Century Attractions) that didn’t go anywhere. In my hometown of Detroit where Motown had exploded in the sixties, Al Green was forging his sound and exploding on the R&B and pop charts. It was water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink.

  There were singers like Ortheia Barnes who, because she never left Detroit, established a beachhead and played lucrative gigs. But because I was out there chasing rainbows in New York and L.A., I was gone too much of the time to solidify a local base.

  After the episode with Solomon Burke in New York, I dragged my broke ass back home. I could always count on the love of Mama, Sister, Terrye, cousin Margaret, and Jim Lewis. That was comfort, but that wasn’t enough. Despite my defeats, my ambition had not died. Neither had my need to pick up where I’d left off with the party people.