Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,26

melodies on the grooves, singing to myself. The ride took an hour, but the music kept me happy. By the time I got off, my heart was singing. I passed by the Baldwin Theater where, stoned, I’d spend Saturday afternoons watching out-of-date films like Blacula and The World’s Greatest Athlete.

Then I’d hike up the big hill to our house and get even happier when, after walking into my room and ignoring the mess, I’d pop in a cassette of KISS’s Hotter than Hell or Steely Dan’s Aja or John Coltrane’s Ballads.

* * *

Like all good mothers of her generation, Mom was looking for ways not only to keep me off the streets but also to engage me in creative activities. She saw I had all this energy that needed to be channeled. Take acting, she said. Because I’m such an extrovert, she clung to the belief that I had dramatic talent. That’s why she introduced me to her friend Whitney LeBlanc, who was directing a play called Baker’s Dream, featuring Hal Williams, famous for his role as Smitty the cop on Redd Foxx’s Sanford and Son. I auditioned and got the role of the son, Kevin. I memorized my lines, and in rehearsals, I enjoyed the creativity of these players I had watched on TV for years.

The play ran for a few weeks at the Apex Theater on La Brea Avenue. When I came out for curtain calls, the adulation from the audience felt great. Acting was fun, but it wasn’t music. I didn’t dream of becoming a professional actor the way I never stopped dreaming of becoming a professional musician. I also never dreamed that my childhood nightmare would give way to light.

SACRED AND PROFANE

LIKE ANGELS SINGING

What happened next transformed my life forever.

Through a friend from her New York NBC days, Mom heard about the California Boys’ Choir. Knowing how much I loved music, she thought this could be an experience and an education. She took me to one of their concerts in Century City. I wasn’t dying to go, but she didn’t give me a choice. It turned out I liked the music. Forty boys sang with a beautiful blend. Their sound intrigued me. I enjoyed the intricacies of the close harmonies. I also liked their look: sharp navy-blue suits, white ruffled shirts, black velvet bow ties, and patent leather shoes. They were on their game. Afterward, I met some of the guys. There was a brotherhood vibe I really liked. When Mom asked if I’d consider auditioning for the choir, I surprised myself by saying yes. I could actually see myself up there singing classical music.

A week later, Mom drove me to the choir offices in the Museum of Science and Industry, near the University of Southern California. I was introduced to the director, Douglas Neslund, who sat at the piano, played a series of notes, and asked me to sing them. He heard that I had pitch. Then he played a melody and had me duplicate it. I passed the test.

Mr. Neslund told Mom I was good enough for the training choir. If I did well there, he said, I’d have a chance of making it into the concert choir. But before that, I’d have to learn to sight-read using an old Hungarian method called Kodály, which uses hand signs to represent musical notes. Because many of the choir selections were German, Italian, French, and even Latin, I’d have to master pronunciations completely foreign to me. Mr. Neslund asked if I was up to the work. I wasn’t sure, but I said yes anyway. He reminded me that his standards were high. After the Vienna Boys’ Choir, the California ensemble was the best in the world. Only accomplished singers were admitted.

Riding back home, Mom asked me if I thought I was ready for the grueling after-school lessons. She wanted me to go for it, but she also knew that in areas other than music, I was a poor student. But this was music. So I signed up. I liked the idea of joining a fraternity of kids my age who were serious about singing.

I followed through, spent months in the training program, and got admitted to the concert choir. That came along with a whole summer of more intensive training. At the end of that summer, we took the same entrance exam USC used to admit freshmen into its music department. And I was only twelve. Then we were ready for the concert season: symphonies, operas,