Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,52
in me, my friends started calling me Romeo. I thought of merging “Romeo” with the name of a guitarist I admired, Adrian Belew, who’d played with Frank Zappa and Bowie. I turned “Belew” into “Blue” and came up with “Romeo Blue.”
It was a name and an image that I felt fit with the glam of the early eighties. Bowie. Prince. Madonna. Romeo.
Another point: now that I had left my father’s house never to return, I felt the need to change my name. It was part of my journey to figure out who I was: I had been Lennie in Manhattan; Eddie in Bed-Stuy; and Lennie in Santa Monica, Baldwin Vista, and Beverly Hills. And now, ready to forge a new path, I was Romeo Blue. And all Romeo Blue’s attention was on turning out demos that would land a record deal.
I wound up at the A&M lot at La Brea and Sunset, a place heavy with Hollywood history. It had once been Charlie Chaplin’s film studio. It was high energy, and its campus became my home. I crashed all night on the couches in the lounge, waking myself up just before the janitors arrived. I endeared myself to everyone, especially the secretaries and engineers. I felt that I was living in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. It was Oz. It was where I met Quincy Jones, Bruce Swedien, and Sergio Mendes. It was where I met the Police and the Go-Go’s. I met practically every artist on the A&M roster.
I worked in Studio C, just off the reception area, the smallest and cheapest space available. That little room became my laboratory. I was still experimenting with a sound that hadn’t come together yet. It was just me and Dan Donnelly. He was on drums; I was on guitar, bass, and keys. Prince was still prominent in my mind, yet I was quickly coming up with original material. While it was still in a New Wave vein, it attracted at least three women at A&M who were always touting my talent: Paulette Rapp, executive assistant to Jerry Moss (the M of A&M), Iris Dillon, and Karen Clay in quality control.
When I wasn’t recording my own stuff, I sat in on sessions. David Lasley, with a long, blond mane, looked like a California surfer dude but sang like a Black gospel diva. He heard me play guitar on a demo session with Siedeh Garrett, who went on to write “Man in the Mirror” and to sing “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” with Michael Jackson. At the time, I was nineteen and David was thirty-six. He’d sung with Chic on “Good Times” and Sister Sledge on “We Are Family.” He’d worked with Aretha; sung with Luther Vandross, his best friend; and toured with James Taylor for years. He’d also written “You Bring Me Joy” for Anita Baker, one of the sweetest R&B ballads.
David learned that I was living pillar to post. He didn’t want me on the street and generously offered me his couch. He had written songs for everyone from Patti LaBelle to Bonnie Raitt. He had learned his craft, and he inspired me to do the same.
David thought my own songs were good enough to secure a publishing deal. He brought me over to Almo/Irving Music, the publishing arm of A&M, where I was actually signed as a writer. My first (and only) check was an advance of five thousand dollars. Five thousand!
Being my usual conservative self, I ran over to Maxfield, the store introduced to me by Lenny Steinberg, and blew all the bread on a maxi-coat by Yohji Yamamoto and a Jean-Paul Gaultier psychedelic Nehru suit. Not only was I lusting for those clothes, but I was also interested in building my Romeo Blue image. It turned out to be a timely purchase because when Herb Alpert (the A of A&M) hired me to play bass synthesizer during his Soul Train appearance, my look was ready.
At Almo/Irving, they gave me my own office. It was small but all mine. It had a desk with a phone, a chair, an upright piano, and a stereo system. This was it. I was being paid to write songs. I was a professional. I had twenty-four-hour access to the lot. I left my friends’ names with security so they could come hang out with me at night. We’d smoke weed and listen to music until morning. It was a dream.
In the meantime, David Lasley mentored me. His songwriting tips were invaluable. So were