A Woman Like Me Read online

  “I’m not a teacher. I’m a rhythm-and-blues singer trying to help these girls. I’ve been all over the world, and if they listen to me, they just might learn something.”

  “You still don’t got no business being here.”

  The mother was right, even if it took me another month to admit it.

  As a teacher, I tried, but I got nowhere.

  “When you’re waiting for a bus,” I told the girls, “and you got a cigarette dangling out of your mouth and you’re chewing gum like a cow and you’re wearing short shorts riding up the crack of your ass, what do you think you look like?”

  “Who cares,” said one of the girls.

  “What business is it of yours?” asked another.

  These girls were impossible. Nothing I said made even the slightest impression. Every night I’d call up Robert Hodge, then my main man, and say, “Why am I fooling with these bitches when they couldn’t care less about how they look?”

  “Good question. What’s the answer?”

  “I got nothing else to do.”

  “We can get some more flyers out. We can send out more of your CDs.”

  God bless Robert. When the world had given up on me, he hadn’t. He put his money where his mouth was. He worked tirelessly to promote me to an uninterested music industry. He’d put together sample CDs of tracks from old records, he’d write bios and press releases, he’d send out mailings to record companies, big and little, all over the country. When I needed a car, he’d buy me one. When I needed a good meal, he’d take me to a fancy restaurant. When I needed a shoulder to cry on, he was always there.

  One of those times I needed to cry most was during the summer of 1991 when I got word that my friend David Ruffin had died in a Philadelphia crack house. David and Marvin were two of the best singers to come out of Motown. I knew them back at a time when the crack pipe—apparently a cause in both their downfalls—had not yet swept through the neighborhood. I knew them at a time when they were still clear and creative, artists operating on the highest level imaginable. These were beautiful men with beautiful poetry in their souls. Then in 1992, Eddie Kendricks, Ruffin’s fellow Temptation, died in his hometown of Birmingham, Alabama.

  Why some of us who drank heavily, smoked weed continually, and blew cocaine did not submit to the pipe while others did remains a mystery. In my case, maybe I sensed its deadly property. Just as I had seen how heroin could make me nod out like Esther Phillips, I saw how the pipe could do the same. I’ve never been afraid of experimenting with sex or drugs, but I have been afraid of falling apart physically. That fear has kept me away from the pipe. Maybe it’s my vanity or my common sense. Whatever it is, it’s kept me alive.

  My active role in the political life of Detroit also helped. That was part of Jim Lewis’s legacy. He had introduced me to many of the city’s leaders and arranged my appointment to several boards, including the ones overseeing the public library and city zoo. These led to my performing at formal functions. I was also an active Democrat and supporter of Mayor Coleman Young, a friend, from the outset of his political career. I sang at dozens of the mayor’s events during his nineteen years in office. Because I knew many members of the Board of Education and some of the higher-ups in the police department, I was often called to perform at fund-raising dinners. My friends in local government helped see me through.

  In 1992, I surprised myself by getting involved in presidential politics. I was one of the earliest and strongest backers of Ross Perot. In fact, I was the first black in Michigan to volunteer in his campaign. My boyfriend/manager Robert was working for Electronic Data Systems, the company Perot founded, and had good things to say about him. He showed me videos of his speeches. I liked what Perot had to say. I liked his independence. He was pro-choice and took a bold stance in advocating an Environmental Protection Agency. Black-centric candidates like Jesse Jackson did not appeal to me. (His status as a preacher lessened that appeal even more.) I also took the position that we weren’t looking to elect a president of black America, but of all America. I didn’t trust Clinton and couldn’t stomach old man Bush. There was a moment when Perot’s campaign caught fire and, as assistant to the president of his Michigan chapter, I liked being on the front lines. His loss was disappointing but not unexpected. I felt good about backing someone with integrity.

  I have a knack for staying organized. I’m almost obsessively efficient as a gardener and housekeeper. Those qualities aided my ability to get through the lean years without losing my mind. So did my drive to get back in the limelight, even on a local level. I became a big fish in a small pond.

  Because everyone from the black radio stations knew me from the sixties, I was well connected with the media. One of those connections led to my hosting a Christmas special on local cable TV. I wore a red velvet gown and, like Loretta Young, made a sweeping entrance walking down a long spiral staircase as I sang “The Christmas Song.” I had the Contours, one of the original Motown groups, on the show as well as my grandkids and cousin Margaret’s nephews and nieces. For a short while, I had my own afternoon TV show where I interviewed entertainers and politicians. I thought all this exposure might help me get a record deal.

  But who was I fooling? Detroit looked like Dresden after World War II. There was absolutely nothing happening. The nineties were rough. Celebrating my fiftieth birthday, I was happy to be alive and kicking, happy to be in shape. I hadn’t gained weight and was basically the same dress size I was in high school. I was happy to have my voice sounding as strong as ever. I was happy to have a man like Robert Hodge devoted to my well-being and willing to give me whatever I needed. I was happy to have him looking after my career.

  But what career?

  The same local clubs, the same local political dinners, the same local radio or TV appearances. After fifty years, I was still stuck in Dodge.

  Cousin Margaret was a constant comfort and so was Mama. Never once did my mother even hint that I should give up on show business. She watched me live my life in an extremely unorthodox manner and yet never passed judgment.

  “You can sing, baby,” she’d say, “and you got to keep trying. You know what’s happened in the past, but you don’t know the future. Your future looks bright to me.”

  At ninety-one, she was going strong. Her only problem was arthritis. But that didn’t stop her from drinking. She drank in a peculiar way. She kept a glass on the kitchen counter and poured a shot of vodka. Then she walked out of the kitchen, did some little housecleaning chore, and fifteen minutes later came back and took a sip of vodka along with a sip of water. The pattern continued all day long. It was hard to tell just how many glasses of vodka she downed by the time she went to bed, but it was more than a few. Never a fall-down drunk, she was often tipsy. I was hardly in a position to criticize her behavior. First of all, she was ninety-one, and no matter how you looked at it, she had beaten the odds. And second, as a drinker and marijuana smoker myself, who was I to pass judgment?

  The truth, though, is that booze caused her to fall. She was wobbly when she reached out for her great-granddaughter Marissa, lost her footing, and landed on the floor.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said. “I can’t get up.”

  “Don’t try, Mama. I’m calling nine-one-one.”

  After she was examined in the hospital, the diagnosis came quickly. She’d broken her hip.

  “I’m dying,” she said, in her typical dramatic fashion.

  “No, you’re not, Mama. You just broke your hip.”

  The next day she came out of surgery with a good report from the doctor.

  “It went flawlessly,” he said. “However, I have to tell you that even with successful surgery most people her age don’t survive very long. The operation itself takes a terrible toll on the body.”

  “Mama’s different,” I assured him.

  “She has to give
up her snuff and her vodka.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “I did.”

  “And what’d she say?” I asked.

  “She laughed at me like I was crazy.”

  “That’s Mama.”

  “And she also has to stay put. Keep her from getting up and moving around.”

  “That’s like telling the sun not to rise.”

  “You must try.”

  I did, and I failed, and two weeks later Mama was dead.

  We buried this good woman, this crazy but absolutely devoted mother, this lady who gave me my tenacity and spirit of survival.

  There are mystics who say we choose our own parents, intuitively knowing what we need to survive this mean ol’ world. If that’s true, I picked the right people, a father who adored me unreservedly and a mother who stuck with me through thick and thin. Their love was the powerful nourishment I needed—and still draw on—to do what I have to do.

  • • •

  Marrie Early had come to live in Detroit. Her children and many relatives were there. Her presence brought great comfort to me because her spirit was so unique and absolutely positive, no matter how complicated her love life.

  Every time we spoke, which was often, she had an encouraging word for me.

  “I know you’re going to be a bigger star than all of them,” she’d say, when I had gone through an especially tough week.

  “How can you say that,” I asked, “when last night I was singing at a club in front of three people—and that includes the bartender?”

  “But I bet those three people loved every note you sang.”

  “You aren’t gonna let me get depressed, are you, Marrie?”

  “Not with your voice. Not with your talent. You ain’t got no reason to be depressed. You got everything to live for.”

  “So do you, baby. You’ve got to be the most loved woman in all the world.”

  Marrie laughed off my compliment, but I meant it with all my heart. Next time I heard from her, the cheerfulness was still in her voice, in spite of the worst possible news.

  “I guess you better come over here and visit me, Bettye,” she said, “or there won’t be anyone here to visit.”

  “What are you talking about, Marrie?”

  “They tell me I got cancer.”

  I couldn’t say a word. I had to catch my breath. “I’m coming over right now.”

  The last days of Marrie Early were unforgettable. She was in a hospital bed in her living room where, despite her disease, she appeared healthy and gorgeous. Her house was always filled with friends, neighbors, and children. It felt more like a party than a death watch. In attendance were also many of the men who had been her lovers. None of them were angry or jealous of one another. They were there simply because they adored Marrie. The most remarkable thing, though, was Marrie’s attitude. She was so cool with dying that she made us all comfortable. I held back my tears, yet none of those men could. They were crying like babies, while Marrie was comforting them. Because she had been a nurse, she was doing most of the caretaking.

  “It ain’t no thing,” she said.

  “Ain’t no thing! Marrie, I can’t even think about what this world is going to be like without you.”

  “It’s gonna be fine. Gonna be a world where Bettye LaVette will be seen as the best singer there is.”

  A record by Yanni, the New Age musician, was playing on the phonograph. I couldn’t stand it.

  “I don’t want you dying with this music playing,” I said. “You deserve something better than this.”

  “It keeps me calm. It’s what I want,” she said.

  There was no arguing. Marrie Early was orchestrating her final days and doing a beautiful job. She had me make her gumbo. She had her table set with her best sterling silver and Wedgwood. She had her children seated on a lovely silk turquoise chaise longue so she could take pride in their appearance. They in turn had made a collage of photographs of Marrie with all her famous friends—Sam Cooke, Brook Benton, the Midnighters, Little Willie John, Redd Foxx, Jeffrey Osborne. There was a blowup of a picture of her in a bikini that looked like it was sewn with shoestrings.

  This lady who was as sexually free as anyone somehow found a way not to alienate anyone, not even the men she had been with. Every last one of them not only still loved her, but was willing to honor her as she breathed her last breath.

  In a world where human beings are the most messed-up creatures of all, Marrie Early was a miracle.

  A Woman Like Me

  In 1999, as people starting talking about the start of a new millennium, I could hardly get excited. I had a distinct feeling that the new millennium would bear a striking resemblance to the old one. If I hadn’t made it in my twenties, thirties, or forties, what were the chances of making it in my fifties? Cold-blooded objectivity said not so good. Hope and optimism said keep on keeping on. Fortunately, hope and optimism won out.

  I was still hustling for work, still local as local can be. As much as I love Detroit and as proud as I am of our rich musical heritage, I was stuck in a city of broken dreams and faded glory.

  Then the phone rang.

  “Bettye LaVette?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name’s Randall Grass, and you don’t know me.”

  “I sure don’t.”

  “I run a record label.”

  “Well, then I want to know you.”

  “I’ve been a fan of yours for years.”

  “What’s the name of your label?”

  “Shanachie Records.”

  “And you want to record me?”

  “Wish I could. I’m afraid I’ll never get the approval of my board.”

  “Then why the fuck are you calling me?”

  “I just wanted to tell you . . .”

  “Listen, mister, I appreciate my fans, no matter how few they may be. And if you’re a fan, I appreciate you. But to get me on the phone to say that number one, you’re a fan, and number two, you have a record label, but number three, you can’t record me . . . well, that seems like an exercise in cruelty.”

  “I didn’t mean to be cruel, only honest,” said Grass. “I honestly feel you’re a great singer, but Shanachie is extremely concerned about the commercial potential of each artist. We have supertight budgets, and I’d have a hard time arguing that your record would sell.”

  “I’m not interested in any arguments. I just want another record out, and if you can help to that end, then we have something to talk about.”

  “I think I can.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to find you a booking agency, a record deal, or a gig.”

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  “It just might take a while.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Yet in truth, I was. As the millennium ended and America remained indifferent to Bettye LaVette, Europe was starting to show real interest. I was gigging at blues festivals in France, Italy, and Germany. I played the Blues Estafette in Utrecht, Holland, where Munich Records producer Ben Mattijssen saw my performance. He was so impressed that later he recorded a concert and did a TV special with me and Rudy. Let Me Down Easy: In Concert became my first live album.

  • • •

  I was rummaging through my attic when I came across a box marked “LaVette Sessions.” Inside was a tape. When I went to a local studio to hear it, my hope was confirmed. It was the unreleased album that I did with Brad Shapiro back in 1972 for Atlantic’s Atco subsidiary. Due to a big warehouse fire that had destroyed hundreds of Atlantic masters, most collectors had presumed my record had gone up in flames. Yet here it was! It wasn’t the master, but it sounded great. Because I had almost no proof of my existence during my long down years, I kept these reel-t
o-reel tapes close to my heart. They were proof that I had done something.

  After my friend Paul Williams at Sony transferred my reel-to-reel to cassette, I sent it to my friend Gilles Petard, whom I had met in Grace Jones’s dressing room during the disco era. Gilles had long championed my music.

  Gilles called me on the very day he received the music.

  “C’est magnifique!” he cried.

  “Magnificent enough to put out?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding, Bettye? Is the Mona Lisa magnificent enough to hang in the Louvre? I’ll arrange for a European release of this material—and I’ll do it this year.”

  Gilles flew to America, searched the Atlantic vault, found the master, and put it out.

  Suddenly, with two European releases in 2000, the European soul magazines gave me more publicity than I had received in years. I won’t say I was hot, but I was certainly lukewarm.

  Back to square one.

  I was back to trimming hedges.

  Robert Hodge stayed steady. He kept sending press materials to anyone with the slightest connection to a label.

  My old friend Mack Rice had been working with producer Jon Tiven, who had produced Wilson Pickett. Mack said that Tiven had contacts with big labels and was interested in me. Was I interested in him? I was—mainly because no one else was calling.

  When word got around that I was considering going into the studio with Tiven, I got an e-mail from someone I’d never met.

  Dear Bettye,

  Hope you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, but I’ve been listening to your records for years and consider you the best singer out there. I’m writing not only to tell you how much I admire you, but to say that I hope the news I recently read on the Southern Soul website isn’t true. There was a post saying that you’re going to be produced by Jon Tiven. I think that’s a mistake and hope you’ll reconsider.

  The e-mail ticked me off, and I found myself responding immediately.

  Listen, muthafucka, who are you to tell me what producer to use? Are you a producer? Do you have money to buy me studio time? Do you have any fuckin’ idea how hard it is to get a deal?