believe that?”
“I know that. He likes to see everyone worrying to death on his behalf. It gets him off. He loves chaos.”
“Topanga isn’t chaos. Topanga is calm.”
“Topanga is beautiful,” Frankie agreed, “but Topanga isn’t real. You’ve already seen that Topanga won’t last for long.”
While Marvin was dreading the Oakland show, Frankie was looking forward to the date because Marvin had assured him thatthey’d be able to work together. Frankie, Marvin’s brother, saw this as his big chance.
When the big day arrived —January 4, 1974, a day before my eighteenth birthday—the chaos had not subsided. If anything, it had grown. Marvin had not only missed the sound check, but the orchestra had not been able to rehearse onstage. The few rehearsals Marvin did attend back in LA were hardly sufficient.
Gene Page, the veteran musical director who reminded me of Uncle Albert, the ditzy upside-down character played by Ed Wynn in Mary Poppins , was running around in a panic. The Motown delegation, which included members of the Gordy family and Suzanne de Passe, was in a state of high anxiety. There was talk that Marvin might not show.
But Marvin was in the house. Marvin was in his dressing room. I was with him. I was helping him put on his studded denim attire. I was sharing several preconcert joints with him. I was holding his hand that had turned sweaty and cold. I was assuring him that the world still loved him.
Due to the presence of the Motown people, I was dealing with my own anxiety. They gave me dirty looks and regarded me as nothing more than a groupie. They had a long history with Marvin. I did not. They felt that he belonged to them, not to me. I feared that they would find a way to undermine my relationship with Marvin and cause him to cut me loose.
Meanwhile, amid all this emotional chaos, fifteen thousand screaming fans awaited Marvin’s appearance.
I listened as the overture began. There were hints of Marvin’s trademark motifs, melancholy refrains from past hits. The anticipation was overwhelming. The overture seemed to go on forever.
I had moved to the wings to watch the moment at which notMarvin, but Frankie—with his uncanny resemblance to his brother—stepped into the spotlight. The crowd went wild. They thought they were seeing Marvin. Frankie simply stood there, relishing the moment, basking in the glory that was not really his.
“Now the man you’ve really been waiting to see,” Frankie finally said, “Mr. Marvin Gaye!
Frankie stepped out of the spotlight as Marvin stepped in.
The crowd went even wilder.
Now what?
Would the lack of rehearsals render the show a disaster?
Would Marvin’s fears undercut his ability to sing?
He rose to the great occasion. It took a while, but soon he was soaring. Soon he was singing “Trouble Man.” He was Trouble Man—sexy and dangerous, gentle and sweet. He was flying high in a friendly sky, he was whispering “Mercy, mercy me,” warning us of the fate of our ecology, he was walking through the inner-city landscape of the blues. All this was fine. All this was cool. All this was well-mannered and mellow Marvin. But when the romantic Marvin emerged, and he broke into the opening strains of “Distant Lover,” pandemonium broke out. Women lost their minds. Their piercing screams shattered the night.
Marvin loved being loved—and I loved watching him drink in the adoration. I was thrilled.
The thrills increased when I heard the first notes of a song that Marvin had written for me, simply titled “Jan.” He had played me the song—a tribute to our enduring love—and hinted that he would perform it, but during several of the rehearsals he chose not to sing it. Until now, I wasn’t certain that he would.
I listened closely to every word of his spoken introduction:
“Here’s a new song I wrote,” he said, “a song about a little girl, really a beautiful young lady. She asked me to write it, I promised her I would . . . it
“I know that. He likes to see everyone worrying to death on his behalf. It gets him off. He loves chaos.”
“Topanga isn’t chaos. Topanga is calm.”
“Topanga is beautiful,” Frankie agreed, “but Topanga isn’t real. You’ve already seen that Topanga won’t last for long.”
While Marvin was dreading the Oakland show, Frankie was looking forward to the date because Marvin had assured him thatthey’d be able to work together. Frankie, Marvin’s brother, saw this as his big chance.
When the big day arrived —January 4, 1974, a day before my eighteenth birthday—the chaos had not subsided. If anything, it had grown. Marvin had not only missed the sound check, but the orchestra had not been able to rehearse onstage. The few rehearsals Marvin did attend back in LA were hardly sufficient.
Gene Page, the veteran musical director who reminded me of Uncle Albert, the ditzy upside-down character played by Ed Wynn in Mary Poppins , was running around in a panic. The Motown delegation, which included members of the Gordy family and Suzanne de Passe, was in a state of high anxiety. There was talk that Marvin might not show.
But Marvin was in the house. Marvin was in his dressing room. I was with him. I was helping him put on his studded denim attire. I was sharing several preconcert joints with him. I was holding his hand that had turned sweaty and cold. I was assuring him that the world still loved him.
Due to the presence of the Motown people, I was dealing with my own anxiety. They gave me dirty looks and regarded me as nothing more than a groupie. They had a long history with Marvin. I did not. They felt that he belonged to them, not to me. I feared that they would find a way to undermine my relationship with Marvin and cause him to cut me loose.
Meanwhile, amid all this emotional chaos, fifteen thousand screaming fans awaited Marvin’s appearance.
I listened as the overture began. There were hints of Marvin’s trademark motifs, melancholy refrains from past hits. The anticipation was overwhelming. The overture seemed to go on forever.
I had moved to the wings to watch the moment at which notMarvin, but Frankie—with his uncanny resemblance to his brother—stepped into the spotlight. The crowd went wild. They thought they were seeing Marvin. Frankie simply stood there, relishing the moment, basking in the glory that was not really his.
“Now the man you’ve really been waiting to see,” Frankie finally said, “Mr. Marvin Gaye!
Frankie stepped out of the spotlight as Marvin stepped in.
The crowd went even wilder.
Now what?
Would the lack of rehearsals render the show a disaster?
Would Marvin’s fears undercut his ability to sing?
He rose to the great occasion. It took a while, but soon he was soaring. Soon he was singing “Trouble Man.” He was Trouble Man—sexy and dangerous, gentle and sweet. He was flying high in a friendly sky, he was whispering “Mercy, mercy me,” warning us of the fate of our ecology, he was walking through the inner-city landscape of the blues. All this was fine. All this was cool. All this was well-mannered and mellow Marvin. But when the romantic Marvin emerged, and he broke into the opening strains of “Distant Lover,” pandemonium broke out. Women lost their minds. Their piercing screams shattered the night.
Marvin loved being loved—and I loved watching him drink in the adoration. I was thrilled.
The thrills increased when I heard the first notes of a song that Marvin had written for me, simply titled “Jan.” He had played me the song—a tribute to our enduring love—and hinted that he would perform it, but during several of the rehearsals he chose not to sing it. Until now, I wasn’t certain that he would.
I listened closely to every word of his spoken introduction:
“Here’s a new song I wrote,” he said, “a song about a little girl, really a beautiful young lady. She asked me to write it, I promised her I would . . . it
Similar Books
