A Woman Like Me Page 18

  But then word came down that Joe had gone in a different direction and didn’t have time for me. I suddenly saw that old pattern again. Was this a reemergence of my buzzard luck? Another instance of my finding the right musical companion only to have the companion disappear? I couldn’t help but worry.

  Thankfully, Joe reconsidered and came on board. He wanted to produce me after all. So Joe, Andy, and Kevin, with his encyclopedic knowledge of music, went to work. They must have come up with a hundred tunes before we picked ten. None of them were R&B vehicles. Because I felt I had mastered the R&B song—nothing would ever outdo A Woman Like Me—I wanted to be challenged by other genres. For instance, I’ve always loved country. I adored Bobbie Cryner’s “Just Say So.” In figuring out Dolly Parton’s “Little Sparrow,” a real heartbreaker, I felt the lyrics were too wordy for me. I took lines like “Oh, but I’m not a sparrow” and cut them to “I ain’t no sparrow.” In rendering rock songs, I also had to find myself in the stories. Lucinda Williams’s “Joy” took on a slightly different lyrical form. Lucinda implied that she was looking for love; I was looking for Bettye LaVette. Later, by the way, I got to meet Lucinda, whom I liked immensely. (She’s also one of the few women who can possibly outdrink me.) Songs by Joan Armatrading and Aimee Mann became highly personal statements for me. And in one case—Sinéad O’Connor’s “I Do Not Want What I Have Not Got”—the lyrics became a statement of what I saw as a new chapter in my life. To this day, it’s the encore to all my shows; it’s become my anthem.

  I’m walking through the desert

  and I’m not scared though it’s so hot

  I have everything that I’ve ever requested

  and I do not want what I have not got

  I have learned so many things from my mother

  Oh, see how happy she has made me

  I will take this road so much further

  Though I know not where it takes me

  I have water for my journey

  I have bread and I’ve got my wine

  No longer will I be hungry

  For the bread of life is mine

  I’m walking through the desert

  and I’m not scared though it’s so hot

  I have everything that I’ve ever requested

  and I do not want what I have not got

  I’ve Got My Own Hell to Raise got great reviews and sold more copies than anything I had previously done. Andy and his ANTI- band of tattooed elves established me as a serious artist. Joe Henry produced the record tastefully without diluting the funk. There was a story line that ran through the album. It was the story of a woman who had suffered but survived. The sparrow could still fly. Joy was possible. I could truthfully say, “I do not want what I have not got.” I could claim victory.

  I also saw that, even though there wasn’t a single traditional R&B song on the album, this suite of songs was shot through with soul. Because I had to search, and sometimes struggle, to find the meanings, I went deeper than I had gone before.

  I was also sure I had a chance for a Grammy. But the fates were against me. A clerk at ANTI- forgot to submit it. Bonnie Raitt tried to rectify the situation; she and other Grammy winners asked that the deadline be extended so I might be considered, but no such luck.

  I did, however, get to sing “Little Sparrow” on David Letterman’s show. The next day I got a call from Steve Buckingham, my former producer who had collaborated with Dolly Parton, the composer of the song.

  “You were beautiful, Bettye,” he said. “Just as beautiful as ever. I’m glad your career is taking off.”

  I wanted to say, Where were you when my career was in the toilet and you were too busy working with Dolly to answer my calls, muthafucka? But I decided to hold my tongue.

  “Thank you, Steve,” was all I said.

  My personal life had changed as dramatically as my professional life. I moved from Detroit to the lovely home Kevin and I share in West Orange. The move made my dear cousin Margaret absolutely furious. She didn’t speak to me for a year. I could understand her anger. She felt like I was deserting her—my best friend—as well as the city that I loved so well. There was no arguing with those facts. But there was also no denying the truth—that life looked brighter in a prosperous bedroom community in northern New Jersey than in forlorn Detroit.

  In 2007, Donnie Sadler’s mother called to say that he had passed. Kevin and I went to Philadelphia for the funeral. His demise had been slow and devastating. He was down to skin and bones. I sat in church and thought about that period in my life when Donnie had represented the hope of a future that never materialized for either of us. Death at an early age, especially for a man as sweet as Donnie, is inconsolably tragic.

  The next day, tragedy was on my mind as I flew to Nashville to record, ironically enough, my version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Streets of Philadelphia.” It was written about AIDS for the movie Philadelphia, and while I had many dear friends who were struck down by that disease, I was thinking of Donnie’s battle with MS when I sang about how he’d been bruised and battered, how his legs felt like stone, and how he was unable to recognize himself in the mirror.

  My interpretation was included in Song of America, a three-CD selection of seminal compositions that tell the history of the country, collected by, of all people, music fan and former U.S. attorney general Janet Reno.

  • • •

  What’s next?” I asked Andrew, referring to my second ANTI- record.

  “I have an idea.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Ever hear of Drive-By Truckers?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t heard their music.”

  “Remember David Hood, the bass player in the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, his son Patterson and another musician, Mike Cooley, formed this southern-rock, country-flavored band called Drive-By Truckers.”

  When I listened to them, I didn’t think they matched my style. But Andrew assured me that they would bend my way. I had doubts. I didn’t think, for example, you could get the Basie band to play hip-hop.

  Andrew made more arguments for the Truckers.

  “They have an audience you need,” he said. “Plus, they’re a working band, and I love the idea of you going into a studio with a self-contained, hot-off-the-road working unit.”

  “That’s because I’m a hot-off-the-road working singer.”

  “Exactly! It’ll be a dream.”

  It was a nightmare, but the nightmare had a happy ending.

  • • •

  Patterson sent me sixty songs and I rejected all sixty. It felt more like six hundred. Andy sent me another batch. I didn’t hear anything I liked. Kevin pitched in and found most of the ones I wound up singing. After weeks of deliberating, it came down to ten eclectic numbers, including Elton John’s “Talking Old Soldiers,” Don Henley’s “You Don’t Know Me at All,” Willie Nelson’s “Somebody Pick Up My Pieces,” and “I Guess We Shouldn’t Talk About That Now,” cowritten by the brilliant Kim McLean.

  At Kevin’s suggestion, we recorded at FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals. I arrived with an expression on my face that Patterson Hood later described as “respect me or I’ll whip your ass.” The truth is, in the beginning of this project, I didn’t feel respected. Drive-By Truckers had written no arrangements. Nothing had been planned. They wanted to wing it. I wanted to kill them. At this stage of my life, I’m an artist who wants to knock it out quickly. I don’t have time to watch the musicians “find themselves” in the studio or in the song. When I saw the lack of preparation, I wanted to walk out. But Patterson proved to be as stubborn as I am.

  For days we went to war in the studio. As they developed their approach to the music, I insisted that they heed my approach. The struggle wasn’t easy. Finally, I threw a fi
t. I told them in no uncertain terms to stop doing it their way. “Goddamnit,” I demanded, “just do it the way I’m singing it. Follow my body language.” After my fit, the songs started coming together. It helped when Patterson brought in old-timers like his dad and keyboardist Spooner Oldham.

  Patterson kept pushing me. He said, “I think we should write a song together.”

  “I don’t write songs,” I shot back. “I interpret them.”

  “But I’ve been taking notes of the things you’ve been saying since you got here, Bettye,” Patterson explained, “and wrote a song.”

  He called it “The Ballad of Bettye LaVette.” I rewrote it. Andrew got on piano and helped us find the right form. The song turned into “Before the Money Came.” Kevin rewrote the subtitle: “The Battle of Bettye LaVette,” a reflection of the creative fighting that characterized my work with the Truckers.

  Close shooting don’t kill no birds

  I’m standing tall with the rest of the girls

  Hanging on to my mama’s every word

  Gonna sing them out loud and conquer the world

  All them faces on the pictures up there

  Make me remember when my table was bare

  Living at my mama’s house

  Taking food from my family’s mouth

  Before the money came

  I was singing R&B back in ’62

  Before you were born and your mama too

  I knew David Ruffin when he was sober

  Sleeping on my floor before he crossed over

  All my friends on the Grammy shows

  I was stuck in Detroit trying to open doors

  Record deals kept falling apart

  One with Atlantic nearly broke my heart

  Before the money came

  I got a lot to say

  So proud I was built this way

  Some folks didn’t see my worth

  Didn’t know where I fit in

  Forty years I kept on singing

  Before the money started rolling in

  There was a time when I would call it luck

  If I got me a gig for fifty bucks

  Now I’ve got all these big decisions to make

  Never thought success would be hard to take

  Shoes on my feet, more in the closet

  Silk on my skin and more if I want it

  All these years I’ve kept my style

  I wouldn’t cross over so it took me a while

  Before the money came

  Long time coming, it’s just about time

  I ain’t never been afraid to speak my mind

  I’ve always had a lot to say

  So proud to be here, I’m gonna stay

  I realize that I can be a stubborn bitch. I like things my way and I like things done promptly. The Scene of the Crime was not done promptly. The experience drove me up the wall. But in spite of my bellyaching, I have to admit it was worth the struggle. Drive-By Truckers really did have a sound. These songs required all the effort I had to give. When it was over, I was exhausted, pissed but pleased. ANTI- album number two was another worthy project that was well received. I had to admit that Andrew’s idea was brilliant after all. He saw the title as an ironic reference to my initial recordings in Muscle Shoals. I didn’t agree. But while I was doing Crime, I did notice the pictures of Aretha, Otis, Wilson Pickett, and many other superstars hanging on the walls of the studio. And I did tell owner Rick Hall, in no uncertain terms, that my picture needs to be up there as well.

  For all the turmoil, I wound up loving the Truckers and the album we made together. I couldn’t have been happier when it was nominated for a Grammy as Best Blues Album, even if it wasn’t blues, and even if the artist who won wasn’t a blues artist.

  Muthafuckas.

  • • •

  There’s a visual footnote to The Scene of the Crime, a poignant video where I sang Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s “Talking Old Soldiers,” a sad, sad song about days past and dreams lost. We shot it at the Locker Room Lounge in Detroit, one of my hangouts during my down days. Performing it, I sat at the bar, my head filled with memories. This was a bar where the big shots sat at one end and the no-counts sat at the other. I sat with the no-counts. I remember the stools reserved for the numbers girls. I remember the stool where Pervis Jackson of the Spinners sat. He’d have me climb on his lap, and he would give me a hundred-dollar bill so I could buy the family groceries. Pervis was one of the good guys. When he died, no one could sit on his stool in the Locker Room Lounge for a year. The old soldiers were gone, and it was a privilege to sing a song in their sweet memory.

  My Nemesis, My Gratitude

  Kevin had a brainstorm. Country singer George Jones was to be one of the recipients of the 2008 Kennedy Center Honors. I had done what many considered a killer version of his “Choices” on The Scene of the Crime. Maybe I could perform it at the Kennedy Center.

  My agent at Rosebud wrote Michael Stevens, the show’s producer, who looked me up on YouTube where he saw me singing “Little Sparrow.” That was enough to convince him. But since everyone and his mother in Nashville wanted to sing a George Jones song, there was no place for me in that segment. On the other hand, how did I feel about singing a Who song?

  I didn’t know any. And when they sent me the one they wanted to do—“Love, Reign o’er Me”—it had nothing to do with my sensibility. It was wrong. But it was also a take-it-or-leave-it situation. If I wanted to sing in front of the president of the United States on national television, it was either that or nothing. Well, I wasn’t about to miss this chance. I had watched the Kennedy Center Honors for years. It was a show I had longed to be part of. Give me the goddamn song. I’ll learn it. I’ll sing it. I’ll kill it.

  I worked on a beautiful arrangement by Rob Mathes and located what I thought was the soul of the song. Naturally, I had to change some lyrics around because that was the only way it could work. This was a moment in the national spotlight, and I’d be goddamned if I wasn’t going to make the most of it.

  Slowly and proudly I walked to center stage at the Kennedy Center. I felt confident in a slim sleeveless maroon gown and matching maroon bejeweled earrings. I looked out in the audience. To my right was Aretha Franklin. To my left was Beyoncé. Up in the box, I saw Barbra Streisand, one of the honorees. With my well-honed sense of competition, I saw these women as my rivals. They were colleagues. Aretha and Barbra were my contemporaries. These were women I had wanted to engage with for years. I wanted to demonstrate to them that I was their equal, and then some. This was my chance to do just that.

  I thought of Jim Lewis, who had said, “Learn to sing and you can sing anything anywhere.” Well, that’s what I was doing—singing an English rock song, in soul-ballad style, to an audience of dignitaries at one of the most prestigious venues in the country.

  As I looked up, I saw tears on the face of Pete Townshend. I saw that Barbra was spellbound. Aretha did not let me out of her sight. Beyoncé held her breath.

  When I sang the last line, the applause was thunderous.

  At the post-concert reception, Roger Daltrey kneeled before me as though I were a queen, and sang my praises.

  This, I thought, is as close as I’ll ever get to heaven.

  The video clip went viral on the Internet, and the next thing I knew, I was asked to sing a duet with Jon Bon Jovi on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial for President Obama’s pre-inauguration concert aired on HBO around the world. This time they couldn’t have picked a better song. Nothing could be more appropriate than Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.” For many white people, the song was new. I had known it since the first week Sam sang it. For me, singing it was as easy as breathing. And yet singing in front of this international audience was the most overwhelming experience of my life . . .
except when I had to learn to tap dance.

  • • •

  Change Is Gonna Come Sessions was the title of a download-only CD Andrew let me record for ANTI- in 2009. I was especially happy to have an opportunity to cut two challenging jazz standards—“Lush Life” and “’Round Midnight”—that had been haunting my heart and rattling around in my head for years. I sang it with the great Jim Lewis in mind, the man who described the accomplished vocalist as one for whom the boundaries of genre do not exist.

  • • •

  Genre jumping became my thing.

  Because of the sensation caused by “Love, Reign o’er Me,” Kevin and Andrew Kaulkin thought my third ANTI- album should be a collection of such songs. My husband suggested the title Bettye’s Banquet. I had never heard of the Rolling Stones album that he was referencing, but I liked the way it sounded. My co-producer, Michael Stevens, wanted to call it Interpretations: The British Rock Songbook. Michael won. Since I really didn’t know these songs, it would be another stretch. Stretching seems to be the theme of my old age.

  At a time when many artists my age were singing the great American songbook, I asked myself some questions—Why am I asked to stretch? Why do I have to fool with English rock tunes? Well, why not? It worked with the Who and I figured it might with similar songs. Besides, I liked the irony that while Rod Stewart, the English rocker, was settling down with Gershwin, I, the American R&B singer, was tackling Pink Floyd.

  There was an additional irony: These British hits dominated the airwaves at a time when I was struggling to keep my career going. The major soul singers like Gladys Knight and Aretha survived the British invasion, but many of us never found crossover success because America had gone crazy for the English. Now, in my golden years, here I was singing English rock. These songs, once my nemesis, might be my salvation.

  After going over dozens of tunes, I realized there was a good reason I didn’t know what they were about. When they wrote them, the rockers were stoned out of their minds. Acid scrambled many a British brain. So once again, I modified lyrics and sometimes rearranged the songs’ structures so they made sense to me. In the case of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here,” I thought about my fallen friends like Marvin Gaye, David Ruffin, and Eddie Kendricks. With Paul McCartney’s “Maybe I’m Amazed,” I told the story of the difference my husband Kevin has made in my life. The Moody Blues’ “Nights in White Satin” became a meditation on my relationship with my daughter. I was able to cast George Harrison’s “Isn’t It a Pity,” Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me,” and Traffic’s “No Time to Live” in a personal light. And in the end, strange as it seems, this album of British rock and roll—this collection of songs that a decade earlier I would have considered completely foreign to my identity—became highly autobiographical.