Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,62

pulled us over. We weren’t speeding, we hadn’t been drinking, and, for once, I wasn’t holding any weed. I wasn’t worried, but John was. I understood why when the cops found a huge bag of coke in the backseat. They said they were taking us both in. John was a stand-up guy, though: he insisted the coke was his, not mine, and just like that I was set free. John was hauled off to the station while I drove around in his car and arranged his bail.

I could picture my parents’ reaction if I’d been arrested for drugs. It was only John Barnes’s integrity that kept my young ass out of jail.

* * *

More searching, more jamming, more musicians.

Tony LeMans was crazy talented. I met him back in junior high, when his name was Tony Fortier. Like me, he had reinvented himself in an attempt to break into the business. In terms of looks, we could have been brothers. Tony had played French horn in Miss Beasley’s orchestra. We’d lost track of each other until he showed up at the Wave concert at Beverly Hills High. He, too, was searching for the right sound. Since I’d seen him last, he’d made big strides as a writer and singer. He’d grown his hair out and looked like a rock star. Tony modeled himself after Sly Stone. We shared a passion for old-school funk.

Tony was the partner I’d been looking for. He had style and swag. On a personal level, there was always an undercurrent of competition coming from Tony, but I avoided side-by-side comparisons by lavishly praising him. The praise was genuine. He had laser-like focus.

At first, I was Tony’s wingman. We were working on material that featured him. It was basically funk with intricate background harmonies. Although digital synthesizers, drum machines, and sequencers were what was happening, Tony and I were cultivating a sound that harkened back to the old school—kind of Sly meets the Beatles.

Because I was still hanging out at A&M, I knew John McClain, the record man who’d launched Janet Jackson’s career with a genius move: putting her with producer-songwriters Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. An industry powerhouse, John had grown up with the Jacksons and eventually became coexecutor of Michael’s estate.

When John heard our demos, he loved our vibe. He wanted to take it even further. His idea was to group me and Tony with three other musicians and form a Black Duran Duran. He’d break us out in Europe and then bring us home, where we’d be greeted as superstars. We couldn’t miss. A boy band chased down by hordes of screaming fans.

My bandmates were wild for the idea. I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go that route. McClain came on strong. He called us into his lavish office, which looked like an apartment, the walls lined with gold and platinum records. Right there on the spot, he offered us a deal. My bandmates were salivating and ready to sign. I wasn’t. They got furious with me. McClain got even more furious.

“Who the fuck do you think you are to turn down a deal like this?” he yelled.

I didn’t have an answer. My refusal made no sense to him. Struggling musicians don’t turn down deals with major labels, especially with someone as powerful as John. But deep down, I knew it just wasn’t what I wanted to do.

Except for Tony, my bandmates went their own way. Tony and I stuck together. If a Black Duran Duran didn’t fit our style, we’d find something that would.

Up stepped Benny Medina, a music exec I’d met years earlier at the Gordy mansion, where as a teenager he ran errands for Berry. A sharp guy, Benny had worked his way up to become A&R head at Motown before switching to Warner Bros. Records. In fact, Will Smith’s character in The Prince of Bel-Air was based on Benny and his early life.

When Tony and I played the demos we’d made, Benny thought we had serious potential. He saw us as a funkier version of Hall and Oates. We took that as a compliment. Benny gave us a development deal that allowed us to go back into the studio and cut more tunes. Warner Bros. also put us up at the Oakwood apartments, where out-of-town musicians and actors stayed while working in L.A. We each bought a motorcycle—Honda Rebels, poor man’s Harleys—and we were off and running! The songwriting went well. We were cranking out demos on a regular