The Beat of My Own Drum (22 page)

I continued to be privately delighted each time, though, because every arrangement was different, outdoing the last. Each time I saw them, my heart skipped a beat, and I couldn’t deny that my feelings were growing. He was so darn romantic. I think I was falling in love with the concept of Prince more than I was with the man himself—whom I hardly ever saw. What with the flowers and phone calls telling me how much he cared, he was wearing me down. He was also hugely popular at that point, and everyone was talking about him, which made him seem even more powerful and sexy. I was starting to think,
Hmm. Maybe
.

My collection of cards from him was growing too. I treasured each one, carefully storing them in a large envelope that became worn and wrinkled as it moved from city to city with me, safely tucked inside my luggage. I still have them all somewhere.

Prince’s strategy worked. I couldn’t get him off my mind, even to the point that when I bought myself a new racquet for racquetball (which I played ferociously and competitively in every town where I could find a court), I selected a brand based on name alone: Prince.

I liked looking at his name.

When he could, he’d fly out to visit me on tour with Lionel—which always gave me such a thrill. He’d turn up in some amazing outfit and hang out on the side of the stage with the enormous bodyguards he now needed, watching the shows (and my playing especially) with a forensic eye. He and I also started hanging out a lot between touring, and much of our time was spent in the studio. He was working with a camp of people, developing artists and producing their songs.

In one studio he might be rehearsing or recording something for himself, such as his upcoming Purple Rain tour and the accompanying rock-musical movie; in the next studio he might be laying down some tracks for somebody else; and in the third he’d be producing a new group he’d put together. He had a female vocal trio called Vanity 6, another female threesome called Apollonia 6, and a separate band called the Time.

He hired engineers in shifts because no one could stay up or go the distance the way he did. Music is what kept him awake. He was practically living at Sunset Sound Studios in LA and, since I was with him so much then, so was I.

That man never stopped. Everybody wanted them some Prince.

One day in December 1983, he called me up and asked me to join him at the studio.

“Sure, what do you need me to bring?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “Just get down here.”

I was intrigued.

Sunset Sound was on Sunset Boulevard, not too far from my
new home. The first time I walked through the gate I saw a basketball court and thought,
This is my kind of place
. Ever the Gardere, I looked at the musicians and technicians hanging around and asked, “Who wants to shoot some hoops?”

Once I was in the studio that night, I figured it would be the usual format, with me providing drums or percussion to one of Prince’s tracks. It would be a late night or an early morning, depending on which way you looked at it, but I didn’t care; I was just happy to be with him.

I walked in to find sweet-smelling candles burning and the whole place impeccably clean, as usual. Prince had set up the studio like a living room—all comfortable and cozy as if we were at home. It might as well have been—if he wasn’t playing live, he was in that studio, so it was “home.”

As ever, he was a real gentleman, and he asked me what I wanted to drink or if I was hungry. He always wanted to make me feel comfortable. Most of the time, like on that particular night, there’d be no engineer. If there was, he or she would leave the room whenever someone else came in. Prince liked to record on his own.

I expected to walk into the studio and find drums or percussion set up for me as normal. All I saw, though, was a solitary microphone.

“Where’s my gear?” I asked, confused.

He chuckled and said, “We don’t need that tonight.”

We sat down and talked a little, and then he played me some new music he’d been working on. One of the songs was the unfinished—although already funky—“Erotic City,” intended as a B-side for “Let’s Go Crazy.”

The song began,
All of my purple life, I’ve been looking for a dame that would wanna be my wife . . .
I loved it.

“That’s funky!” I told him with a warm smile.

I looked around for a bag of tambourines or cowbells, but neither was in sight. Not even a shaker.

I felt the butterflies flicker to life in my stomach.

Prince smiled, and my butterflies danced.

“I want you sing with me on this track,” he said. It was the last thing in the world I expected him to say.

“Oh, okay. Backup?” I asked hopefully, fearing his answer.

He shook his head.

Whenever I get nervous my throat constricts. If I don’t breathe and relax, then I can’t speak, let alone sing. I sound all choked up and tiny. In a voice that was already several octaves higher than usual, I squeaked, “Um, you know I don’t like singing.”

“You’ve been singing behind everyone for years, Sheila,” Prince said softly, brushing back a fallen strand of my hair. “You know just what to do.”

His suggestion that I sing a duet with him (one of the biggest stars in the world) was made with such nonchalance, as if it was an everyday offer. There he was, an amazing singer with a range from low to high falsetto—whereas all I’d ever done was croon a little background. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s just do it.”

“Ah, really?” I had a lump in my throat and was so nervous.

I tried everything I could to wriggle out of singing with him. I reminded him that backing other people was much easier for me. I told him that what he was proposing was the most intimidating prospect of my life. Despite my usual confidence, I didn’t even know how to begin. Even though he was my friend (with increasingly romantic undertones), I felt suddenly self-conscious and half scared to death.

“But we sing together all the time,” he soothed, pushing me gently.

“Sure, when we’re just hanging out and jamming—but to sing in a studio and have you record it?”

I had been recording my vocals for years in my own home studio and also doing vocals with my dad on our records. This was different, though.

My knees were shaking at the mere idea of standing in front of a microphone. What in the world would I do with my hands, which were always moving at a hundred miles an hour?

But Prince is a hard man to say no to. Before I knew it I was just where he wanted me, in front of the mic, my hands clamped rigidly to my sides as I waited to hear what strangulated sound would emerge from my throat.

The answer was almost nothing. My throat closed. He was so patient with me, and the more I tried, the more my confidence grew—well, a little. He told me to sing like I do with everyone else. After a while, my nerves began to dissipate, and I even started to enjoy the process, although I’m not sure I ever got that comfortable that night.

One unexpected hurdle, though, involved his lyrics, or rather one word in one line of the chorus. I looked at the sheet he’d scribbled them on and told him I really wasn’t happy about singing the f-word.

“My mother would have a fit!”

He smiled at me as if indulging a child, then worked out a compromise. He would sing “We can f—until the dawn” while I sang “We can
funk
until the dawn.” Which is what we did, and then later he laid the two tracks over each other.

In the finished song you can hear both words, which ended up becoming a bit of a mystery for Prince fans. People were asking, “Are they saying ‘funk’ or are they saying the f-word?” Most DJs claimed it was “funk” so that they could play the track and not get into trouble. My moral shyness had inadvertently not only got people talking about the double entendre, it started a buzz.

Although it was the eighties, society hadn’t yet been inundated
with the kind of overt sexuality in songs and videos that came later. Prince was really pushing the envelope in “Erotic City,” and it was still a big deal back then to hear that word (or even
think
you’d heard that word) on the radio.

I’m relieved to say that, to this day, Moms never seemed to notice. If she had, I’d have been in big trouble.

People still comment on how “sexy” I sound on that song, which always makes me laugh, because if you had been in the studio with Prince that night, you’d sound sexy too! I have no idea what time we finished recording in that windowless space, but it was late. Oftentimes we’d walk out of the studio and I’d be surprised to encounter daylight and have to reach for my sunglasses.

In the weeks we lived at Sunset Sound, we grew closer and closer, and I fell a little bit deeper in love with him every day. I knew now it was love, and had gone beyond our deep friendship. He made a few moves on me, but I kept pushing him away in a kind of power play between us. Despite how I felt, I still didn’t want to spoil our friendship, and I was afraid of what might happen if we took things further. He still had all kinds of women in tow and I didn’t want to be just another number. Plus, I’d been badly burned and the memory still stung. The last thing I wanted was to walk into another relationship with another famous guitar player that women drooled over.

So ours was a slow burn. But one day much later on I couldn’t say no anymore—and I guess we really did “funk until the dawn.”

20
. Click Track

A series of audio cues used to synchronize sound recordings

I gave my heart to you and I’m in heaven

I know your love is true ’cuz I’m in heaven

“HEAVEN”

SHEILA E

M
usic had saved me when I was a child, and it continued to save me, giving me a reason to get up each morning and to keep on living and loving. To share my passion for it with someone who felt the same way was one of the greatest privileges of my life.

Working with Prince was the beginning of a fabulous musical relationship. He loved the music and the musicianship I brought to the table, so he gave me a lot more work. And we had so much fun! For Prince, making music is the most fun in the world. While we were collaborating we’d stop to eat. Or we’d play Ping-Pong or basketball—and I gave him a run for his money, even though he won’t admit it. We were like a couple living and working together and enjoying ourselves. It didn’t feel like work at all.

One day at Sunset Sound he turned and asked me, “So, do you want to make your own record?”

I laughed and said, “It’s that easy, right?”

He shrugged and nodded.

I knew I could play percussion well enough—that was a given—but to come up with material that was more commercial than my daddy’s music would be a serious challenge for me. To be able to perfect it, perform it, and go out with my own band was something altogether different.

It was definitely something I’d considered after all those hours I’d put into recording my own demos, learning how to write songs, and finding my own sound. I just hadn’t done anything about it yet.

“Do you have any songs?” Prince asked.

“Well, I did another demo since the last one I gave you.”

“Okay, let’s hear it!”

He had his own production deal with Warner Brothers, so he suggested I sign to him. I met with Prince’s manager at a hamburger joint to go over the contract.

I was so thrilled.

My own manager!

My own contract!

I signed on the dotted line before my burger and fries even came to the table. I didn’t even read the small print.

In March 1984, I began recording vocals on some songs that Prince and I had chosen for my album. As always, we worked together really well, so it was easy to meet in the middle. The next few days were a mix of writing, recording, singing, playing, and staying up all night. That was what was so cool about us being together. We were influenced by each other’s music. Prince was not used to leaving his other artists in the studio by themselves, but since I was a seasoned session player, I didn’t need babysitting. It
seemed like only five minutes ago that he’d persuaded me to sing a duet with him. Now he’d convinced me that I should be the lead singer in my own band!

We worked three days solid without sleep because we were both so excited about the project. Prince was a machine: he was still working in two or three rooms at the same time. It was organized chaos, but always exciting and cool. His no-nonsense attitude was “Okay, let’s go!” I was the same way. I don’t believe he ever had a woman around him before who could hang like I did—I mean musically, athletically, creatively, and competitively.

It seemed like we recorded my album in about a week. The songs were all long versions too. There were no three-minute numbers for Prince. I’ve never even come close to recording an album in such a short amount of time since. It was crazy and a lot of fun—just the way I like it.

The secret was that we’d record and semi-mix simultaneously. Prince taught me that if you record it right in the first place, there’s not much mixing to do—so there was very little mixing done afterward. I had never recorded that way with any other artist.

Many people have come up with different stories about how my professional name became Sheila E. Well, here’s the deal.

Escovedo has never been an easy name to say or spell. Since middle school, people referred to my brother Juan as Juan E. And soon I was Sheila E. If you listen to the videoed studio session of George Duke’s
Dukey Stick
in 1978, you can hear George call me E when he sings,
What you gonna do now? Tell me about E, E?

Prince and I had talked about a stage name for me. When I suggested my childhood nickname Sheila E, he said that was perfect and far more commercial than anything he could think of. We both thought it was catchy and easier for people to remember than my real last name. He then flew me to Minneapolis for some
parties and jam sessions, where we tested the waters to see how people would respond to my new name.