Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,41

the Jackson 5. I loved all sorts of voices and all sorts of looks. Now, in high school, I went from an Afro to a short natural to a look-like-Prince process. Ray Hall, Mom’s hairdresser on The Jeffersons, was the first to relax my hair and fashion it with Jheri curls. I cringe a little when I see photos of myself from back then, but what can I say? That was me, raiding Flip and Aardvark’s Odd Ark on Melrose Avenue, sporting vintage tux jackets, ruffled shirts, skinny jeans. This was the New Romantic style. Up on Cloverdale, when no one was home, I’d spend hours in Mom’s closet, trying on furs, scarves, and feather hats. Like Prince, I let myself go.

* * *

My parents had no idea who I was at night. On my own, I discovered an underground world of music and dancing. The Odyssey was the first place where I felt I belonged—it’s where all the misfits gathered. The Odyssey was a cavern that pumped out all the newest New Wave music, like Soft Cell, Haircut 100, and Romeo Void. Kids wore blousy Elizabethan-style shirts. As soon as I entered, I was hit by the dank smell of butyl nitrite. There was a counter in the back of the club that sold the chemical under the name Locker Room. If I didn’t have enough money to buy my own, the stuff was being passed around the dance floor anyway. With my head spinning, I’d dance by myself in the middle of the crowd until 4 or 5 a.m., when I’d have to hurry home to return the stolen vehicle. On other nights, I’d catch a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Tiffany Theater on Sunset. Stoned and dressed in full costume, I’d dance along to the routines and shout along with the famous dialogue. It was beautiful. It was a fantasy. The whole experience had a communal call-and-response church vibe that brought the freaks together.

Let’s do the time warp againnnnnn.

* * *

On the home front, things between me and my father had gotten worse. He continued to harp about my bad grades and my messy room. He had a point; he was right on both counts. So, I was always being grounded, but also always finding ways to sneak out anyway. All this was going on while Dad’s attempt to make it big in Hollywood was falling flat. His already short temper got shorter.

* * *

It was my junior year. I’d just turned sixteen and was leaving the Beverly campus when I spotted this guy blasting Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland” on a boombox while beating out grooves on a drum pad. He was dressed in a designer suit and fancy Gucci loafers and wearing a gold watch with a mother-of-pearl face and Porsche sunglasses. His hair looked like it had been groomed by Vidal Sassoon. He was no student. I figured him for a professional musician. Naturally, I had to approach him.

He was a friendly dude: Dan Donnelly. He had just moved back to L.A. from Eugene, Oregon. At eighteen, he’d already graduated high school and figured that by setting up camp on the lawn of Beverly High and blasting out funk, he’d get noticed. His drumming chops were off the charts. When it came to R&B grooves, he was already a virtuoso. His Mexican mother had raised him and his seven siblings by herself.

From that first day on, Dan and I were inseparable. I introduced him to my friends. I talked my music teacher into letting him sit in with the school bands. I acted like his agent. We were both eager to form bands and get our music out to the world. The hustle was on. Dan had me drive his butterscotch-colored Olds Omega so he could beat out grooves on the dashboard until that damn thing was destroyed.

Dan and I soon started up a business based on a model he had developed: a disco/deejay company catering to private parties. Dan supplied the sound system—four Yamaha PA towers—and I learned to deejay. I was up to date with disco and knew which records to buy. I also knew the party scene in Crenshaw, Ladera Heights, and Inglewood. I wasn’t shy about soliciting business. We called ourselves GQ Productions, after the men’s fashion magazine, and printed up fancy business cards.

The gigs came. We booked everything from sweet sixteens to house parties to cotillions in the ballrooms of fancy hotels. If