Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,54
kept reassuring me that though I still hadn’t found my voice, I would. Because of Teena’s spirit, I related to her as a Black woman. Mom loved her from the first moment they met up at Cloverdale. When we walked in, Mom was dancing by herself to Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.” That’s all Teena needed to see. Teena knew Mom from The Jeffersons, and Mom knew Teena’s records.
Dad was also a Teena fan. She was one of those rare people who could melt the ice between me and my father. During Cloverdale parties, Teena loved to barbecue chicken in our brick oven. She became family, ingratiating herself with Albert and Bessie, who treated her like a granddaughter.
* * *
Teena’s influence helped me up my game. My demos improved. In fact, the demos I cut at A&M finally reached someone with the power to give me a deal. Miles Copeland ran I.R.S. Records. He was the brother of Police drummer Stewart Copeland and a powerful industry exec. He liked my stuff to the point that he was ready to sit down and talk business.
Whatever my problems with Dad, I knew I needed advice, so I asked him to accompany me. Sy Kravitz was hard-nosed. Nothing got by him. Miles was excited about my material. He described it as New Wave R&B. All I needed was a producer. I wasn’t so sure. I wanted a deal, not a producer, but I kept quiet. Miles wanted Martin Rushent to produce me, the man who had made big hits for the Human League and the Go-Go’s.
It seemed like a no-brainer, except my spirit told me it wasn’t right. I can’t say why. I was living in a Pinto then, and what kid living in a Pinto doesn’t take a music deal? It helped that my dad had hard-core business objections to what Miles was proposing; he didn’t like the terms. He was so tough, in fact, that Miles was taken aback; it was almost embarrassing. Because my album would contain all original songs, Dad insisted that I keep my publishing rights. He explained that if the record hit, publishing would be a major source of revenue. Dad’s position was clear: always hold on to your publishing.
Copeland balked, and the deal fell apart. I wasn’t all that bummed. I worried that an outside producer might mishandle my music. I also realized that Dad was right. When you write a song, the publishing rights inherently belong to you. Why give them away? Yet scores of artists, thrilled by the idea of being signed, do just that. That’s the moment when record labels feed off artists’ vulnerability. Fortunately, in that moment of vulnerability, Dad protected me.
All this meant that I was still on the loose, still looking for a sound, a voice, a deal.
Mom supported my search. But I didn’t make it easy for her. She had her heart set on my going to Howard, her alma mater. She was the first in her family to graduate college. Grandpa Albert made the same point: look at what Black people had sacrificed so that a kid like me could get ahead. These ideas were coming from the two people who had shaped my character and molded my morals. For them, education was everything. Mom had done graduate work abroad. Grandpa had devoted his life to learning. The fact that I wasn’t about to continue my formal education hurt them. I wish I could have prevented that hurt, but my focus never changed—it was music or nothing.
* * *
The collapse of the I.R.S. deal didn’t hurt my hustle. I was still on the grind, still convinced it was only a matter of time. Besides, others believed in me. One big believer was Kennedy Gordy, who called to say he’d written a surefire hit that was perfect for my style. I had to hear it right away.
I was up at Cloverdale visiting Mom when Kennedy came over carrying a LinnDrum machine, a keyboard, and an amp. He played and sang “Somebody’s Watching Me.” I liked it, it was really good, but I didn’t feel it was right for me. He asked me to think it over. Kennedy was Berry Gordy’s son. Berry was a star-maker. Berry could sign anyone he wanted. Motown was the big leagues. Was I stupid to turn this down?
A few weeks later, Kennedy recorded the song himself, using the name Rockwell. Berry Gordy, the man who signed, produced, and broke the Jackson 5, got Michael Jackson