The Beat of My Own Drum (25 page)

Once I realized, I pulled the blouse back up quickly, using the Velcro straps I had made for quick changes. It didn’t bother me too much; I just went on about my business, playing some “fonk-E” music.

And so the craziness continued, and all I knew was that I felt like I was living in a dream. In fact, I was so convinced of it that once I asked a broker friend of mine who rented cars for the rich and famous if I could have a Mercedes—convertible and red—just to see what would happen.

The answer was, “Sure, Ms. E, anything you want.”

I had to pinch myself once again.

It was a beautiful day, so I took my handsome new car for a
cruise east along Sunset Boulevard. I was headed for Greenblatt’s Deli in West Hollywood, on the corner by the Laugh Factory. I was craving a slice of their lemon cake.

Just as I was in the middle lane waiting to take a left across two lanes of traffic to turn into the parking lot, my single suddenly came on the radio. This was the first time I’d ever heard it played.

“What?” I cried. “Oh, my God!”

I started screaming. I turned the volume up to the max and started waving my arms in the air. I was so excited. I was yelling hysterically at fellow drivers, “This is my song!”

I couldn’t believe life was so good.

I had a hit single.

I was falling in love.

I was lemon-cake bound.

I was not paying attention.

The cars all stopped, and I crept into the third lane, still whooping and hollering and singing along to “The Glamorous Life.” I didn’t see a car coming up on the inside lane.

Bam!

Of all the times to be hit—while listening to my first single on the radio for the first time!

The other driver was coming fast, and he hit me right on the passenger side. My shiny red Mercedes was totaled, but all I could do was laugh. The driver was stunned and simply couldn’t understand why I was laughing so hard. The traffic backed up and everybody was leaning on their horns, but I just sat in the middle of the road listening to the end of the song and laughing my head off.

A while later I called up the guy who got me the car and, still giggling, I told him, “You know, Randy, I don’t think I like red cars after all. Can you get me a black one?”

22
. Fulcrum Point

A fixed point of support on which a lever pivots

There’s a nasty rumor that’s goin’ round

People think that U and, U and I are goin’ down

They insist that we’re more, more than just friends

So I’m gonna stick around until this movie ends

“SISTER FATE”

SHEILA E

A
s if my life wasn’t crazy enough, Prince had asked me to open for him on his forthcoming Purple Rain tour, starting that November in Detroit. He could have asked just about anyone in the music business and they would have jumped at the chance.

Instead he picked me.

Prince was smart. He made sure that anyone he was producing stayed around him, as it made him and his company sell more records.

As soon as the Sheila E tour was over, I flew to the Bay Area to
rehearse my band at SIR studios San Francisco. I wanted to add a few more players, so I made some calls.

Then Prince came up with the idea that I give my first performance as a solo artist in the US at the
Purple Rain
movie premiere party on July 26, 1984. Based loosely on his own life, the movie was to be shown at the famous Mann’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard.

The after-show party was in the nearby Palace Theater—and the whole event (including my performance) was to be televised live on VH1 and MTV.

No pressure, right?

Purple Rain
was one of the biggest movies to be released that year. For a few weeks that summer, the man I was falling for had the number-one album, the number-one single, and the number-one movie. Not bad for the kid from Minneapolis whose poster I’d drooled over six years earlier.

We both decided what we’d wear and how we’d behave that night. The planning helped me keep on top of my nerves. We even decided to match our clothes to the colors of our two stretch limos. Mine was turquoise, so my outfit was in sparkly turquoise with fuchsia. I had a designer make it for me, but it didn’t fit great, so instead I wore a jacket with massive shoulder pads (which I took off to play), a corset, and a V-neck top with only one sleeve.

Prince’s outfit matched his limo: purple. He wore a frilly white shirt and a piece of fabric—originally a belt I’d bought for him—around his head. “What if I wore it over one eye?” he asked me.

“Yes!” I told him, usually a bossy know-it-all when it comes to fashion (and a few other things too). “You have to do that!” So he did.

I was petrified that night at the Chinese Theatre; it was one of the most nerve-racking performances of my life. Even arriving at
the premiere was scary. The limos were inching along Hollywood Boulevard, which was lined with screaming fans and news vans. I walked in on the arm of my makeup artist, James, trying to act like I was totally used to all the cameras.

Prince and I watched the movie, and then as soon as the final credits rolled we rushed around the corner to the Palace, where I was to start the after-party.

The small theater was packed with a thousand people: all the hottest celebrities, top record company executives, and industry insiders. Standing room only. Before I went on I had to answer rapid-fire questions from reporters and MTV VJs. My hands trembled, but I was well rehearsed:
Don’t reveal too much. Keep them wanting more
. When it was time to go on, there was nothing to do but take the ride. Looking across at my brother Juan, I nodded, and we started to make some music. We played about forty-five minutes straight. I don’t remember much about the show except not being able to hear that well over the monitors and sensing that it wasn’t my best performance. But we’d gotten through it, and the crowd was pumped. When applause replaced the final note, I scanned the crowd—all strangers clapping and cheering—and tried to catch my breath. I looked at Juan, who was taking in the applause himself. He must have felt my eyes on him—that special peripheral vision he has—because he turned to me almost instantly.

We were just a six-hour drive from Oakland’s Ninth Avenue and East Twenty-first Street, but on that stage, in that moment, we were worlds away.

For a moment I wanted to slip away somewhere quiet, far away from the noise in the theater and the noise in my head, but there was no chance of that. The crowd was pressing forward. More camera bulbs popped in my face, and bright television lights made it hard to see. Security was a little slow on the uptake, rushing over
to block me from the crowd just a few seconds too late. Prince pushed through the melee to congratulate me, and suddenly the press was all over the both of us.

“Who is she?” people were asking. “Is she
with
him?”

When we left the party I heard fans screaming not only for Prince, but also for me. I was exhilarated, exhausted, and floating on air. Plus I was hungry. All I wanted to do was go back to the hotel, eat something, and take a bath. But police had shut down the streets, and crowds were still swarming.

“It’s Sheila E!” I heard people yelling. “Sheila E! Over here! Pose for the camera! Sheila E! Can I get your autograph?”

I knew it would be a while before I could get back to my room, get back to Oakland, and get back to being Sheila Escovedo.

That night marked the beginning of a decade of madness. Up until then I’d been happy to be in my father’s bands or to be a background percussionist, drummer, and vocalist for Billy, Herbie, Diana, George, Marvin, Lionel, and others. That night I felt a deep gratitude for where I’d been, and I knew the butterflies were telling me something good about where I was going. But I didn’t know yet how many true blessings were in store, or that I was one step closer to discovering my purpose.

After the
Purple Rain
premiere, I went straight into rehearsals with my band, and I was very demanding about what I wanted to achieve and how it should happen. This time I was the one in charge. We were going on a major tour with money in our pockets, and things would change. I needed to get new wardrobe and update the look of the band.

Once again, our rehearsals took a minimum of twelve hours a day for the tour. We’d have to be reminded to break for a meal. Each song had to be broken down to parts, vocals, and dance routines, and we had to place each member in position during each song. The staging was very important. I wasn’t playing around, and
I whipped them and myself into shape by making them dance even if they didn’t know how.

I came up with a list of rules that applied to everyone involved—including me. No drinking, no smoking, and most of all, no being late. You were excused if you were late one time, but the second time you’d be fined. If you were late a third time, you’d be fired.

I didn’t play around. The final rule was about making mistakes that might complicate my tour. Being late three times meant that the musician was getting lazy, didn’t care, was drinking or taking drugs. My message was: if you are serious about your craft and give it all you’ve got, then there will be no mistakes.

Prince flew to the Bay Area to one of our rehearsals to see how we were coming along. Little did he know how serious I was about being a solo artist and putting together the best band. If you were going to open for him, better be good. In fact, we were so good that once he checked out my rehearsal and watched the show, he walked out to the car and called his tour manager to arrange an emergency meeting with the Revolution at his rehearsal spot.

When he got home four hours later, he apparently told them he was changing the entire show. “Ain’t no way Sheila’s gonna have a funkier band than me!” I heard he told them.

I gave him a run for his money. Bay Area musicians weren’t messing around. We meant business. Every single person in the band played their own instrument and would possibly play another as well as sing, dance, and look good.

I didn’t have a Hollywood clue about what was about to hit me.

All this time, I was still saying no to Prince as far as starting an intimate relationship was concerned. Even when I flew across the country and ended up staying with him in New York, I was trying to keep our friendship platonic. It wasn’t just about me trying to stay in control as far as men were concerned—something that dated back to my childhood—but wanting to keep my own power
and identity now that I’d finally found it. Prince was a huge star, and had so many other women around him a lot of the time. I didn’t want to be part of a harem.

I also continued to fear that if we slept together, it would only mess up the great relationship we already had. Although I was crazy about him and amazed by his talents and his sexiness, I valued our friendship above all else. He definitely knew how to pursue me, though, and we both knew it was only a matter of time before I’d say yes.

The Purple Rain tour began, and so did our romantic relationship. It was as simple and as sudden as that. Thrown into close proximity with the man who’d been wooing me romantically for years, and in the high-octane environment of a world tour with all its attendant madness, my defenses were finally broken.

We were working hard and playing hard, throwing ourselves into a nonstop, exhausting, and creative explosion of living, loving, performing, and recording. Plus we were doing our best to keep our fledgling relationship a secret. There were many levels of secrecy here. We couldn’t hide it from those in our inner circle, but like any relationship that begins in the workplace (however untraditional our workplace might have been), we knew it was best to keep things private for professional reasons.

There was, of course, lots of speculation among the crew, the fans, and within the media. “Are they or aren’t they?” was a question floating in the background throughout the whole tour. He didn’t do interviews, but I did. And when asked about our relationship, I never verbally confirmed it, but you could tell by my smile, my avoidance of eye contact, and that twinkle in my eyes. I never did have much of a poker face.

Other people figured it out by finding out which hotel we were staying in and somehow which room too. It got to the point where our security guards had to make an extensive sweep of our room
each night so that Prince and I wouldn’t be surprised if we found a fan or two hiding in our closet.

Even before we were famous, Prince and I had both been very private people. Back in my teens, I only told one friend about my first boyfriend—the one with whom I shared all those long telephone conversations watching
Love, American Style
. Having our most intimate moments scrutinized so closely by the media and fans was painful and awkward for us both.

Meanwhile, I was contending with an onslaught of media attention for breaking down assumptions about what it meant to be a woman
and
a percussionist. I was just being me, playing from my heart like Pops had taught me, but now, with a hit record, I was being asked to explain, defend, and make sense of something the public had never seen before—a woman leading her own band, singing, dancing, mixing musical genres, and playing an instrument lots of people had no clue about.

They were constantly pointing at my timbales and asking, “What are those things called?” (I still hear that.) This instrument had been a part of my life since forever. It’s an extension of both my father and my heritage. Timbales were a common fixture in the small, impoverished, mixed-race neighborhood around Ninth Avenue and East Twenty-first Street in Oakland—where I could jam for hours on end with friends and family, pounding out beats without my gender being a factor.

But now I was being asked to account for myself as a symbol of something, as a fixture within the context of the feminist movement and as a representative of something much larger than I could fathom at the time. I felt the responsibility to continue my father’s legacy through pop music without losing my integrity. It was a lot of pressure.