The Beat of My Own Drum (24 page)

As is usually the case, my brothers and sister kept me grounded, comfortable, and, above all else, they kept me laughing. Plus their excitement about everything made me forget about the potential seriousness of the whole endeavor. They were all still living up north, and this was the first time they’d worked professionally in LA, which felt like a big deal to them.

Zina, especially, couldn’t get over it. When we all went shopping on Melrose Avenue she was beside herself, because the very name conjured up every fantasy of Tinseltown for her. “Walking down Melrose!” she kept saying under her breath. “This is the life.”

At one point during the shoot the band took a break to grab some sandwiches across the street. And we were all trippin’ because the guys were fully dressed in their costumes, their faces covered in foundation, full-on eyeliner, lipstick, and mascara, their hair teased high like rock stars’. They were nervous to venture outside dressed like that. If it had been Oakland, they’d have been stopped in the street, laughed at, and beaten up!

They made it through the store, in line at the cashier, and back across the street into the Wiltern again without anyone giving them a second look. Juan and Peter Michael couldn’t believe it. “I guess that’s just LA,” they told me. “Everybody looks crazy, so we fit in.”

By the time the video finally came out in the spring of 1984, I was in Europe, hustling hard to promote my album, and had pretty much no idea that MTV and other video programs had played it in heavy rotation. Unbeknownst to me, the video gave me immediate global visibility, which catapulted me to superstardom.

It was all a big blur, but I do remember a funny conversation I had with Juan. He’d gone back home to his family after the video shoot, where he was juggling gigs at night and landscaping during the day. One morning, wearing his jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, he was inside a client’s house discussing what kind of look they wanted in their yard when our video came on TV.

The woman who’d hired him kept looking back and forth between him and the TV. “Wait a minute! Isn’t that you?” she asked in total disbelief.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Can I get your autograph?” After he signed her notebook, the woman asked, “So what are you doing here, then?”

He thought it was a good question. Later that day, he called me up. “Sheila, this ain’t cool. I’m in your pretend band on MTV, but
in real life I’m digging backyards in the hot sun, making a dollar fifty. You need to put me in your band.”

He had a point. I’d always loved the way he played percussion, and I was about to start rehearsals. “You’re hired,” I told him. He was thrilled to let go of his nine-to-five and play music with his big sister. Now he could finally tell people, “Yes, that’s me in the ‘Glamorous Life’ video,
and
I’m on the tour.”

21
. Accents

Notes played louder than normal

She’s got big thoughts, big dreams

And a big brown Mercedes sedan

What I think this girl

She really wants

Is to be in love with a man

“THE GLAMOROUS LIFE”

SHEILA E

A
fter the fun of the video shoot, I knew I needed to find a real band with proper musicians to complement my brother, so I started rounds of auditions. Musicians came from all over, and the line outside the SIR rehearsal studio was down the block. I laid out an intricate and strict auditioning process. There were four rooms to get through, each indicating a different requirement.

Room A was where my staff took all the information, including how willing candidates might be to travel far from home. This was important to me because I knew I would be out on the road for
much of 1984 and 1985, a long time, and it’s hard to be away from friends and family that long.

Room B was where the musicians played their instruments. Room C was where they had to play their instruments while singing. Room D was where they had to play, sing, and dance all at once, which was necessary for the gig. I assured them, “If I can do it, so can you!” If you made it through to Room E—you guessed it—that’s where you’d meet me, Ms. E.

As part of my decision (encouraged by Prince) that we were all playing a theatrical role in the whole
Glamorous Life
event, auditionees also had to agree to change their names as well as their appearances, which might mean cutting or coloring their hair and wearing their assigned costumes 24/7. I felt that people had to look the part to believe the part.

So my brother Juan became J. E., Sir Dance A Lot, because he was known not only for killing the percussion but also for dancing his butt off. Saxophonist Eddie Mininfield became Eddie M, and his look was a cape, no shirt, and coins wrapped around his chest. I knew the girls would love that.

I found most of the band members quite quickly, but I didn’t have a drummer yet. I knew the drum chair would be challenging: if a drummer couldn’t do it better than me, there was no need to make the hire. I didn’t want to babysit and carry the band. One day I heard a band playing in an adjacent studio. Despite the sign on the door that said
CLOSED REHEARSAL
, I walked right in.

I had no idea who was playing, but there were horns, percussionists, and singers all playing amazing salsa music. Heading the band was my honorary “brother” Karl Perazzo, whom I’d virtually grown up with. Karl was known as one of the baddest timbale, percussion, conga, and bongo players around. He and his brother Gibby, also a percussionist, were well respected in the Latin community. They were just little boys when they sat in with Tito Puente.

I saw Karl sitting down playing timbales, reading a chart, and conducting his band—another kind of triple threat. He looked up and waved me over with a smile. “Mama, come in.” I gave him a huge hug and said hello to the band. “Perazzo,” I said. “Come here for a minute. I wanna talk to you.”

We walked out of his rehearsal and into mine.

I pointed to the drum setup on the stage.

“I want you to go play those,” I said.

He shook his head. “I don’t know how to play drums.”

“You can keep a beat, so I know you can play drums.”

He just stared at me.

“And by the way,” I added. “You have to stand up and play.”

He started laughing and clapping his hands while walking to the drums. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

I turned the LinnDrum machine on and watched him play the two and four like nobody’s business. Now it was my turn to start laughing and clapping my hands. “Do you have a passport?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. And then, “Why?”

I turned, put my arm around him, and walked him back to his room.

Before he could say anything, I gave him an instruction: “Tell your band you quit because you’re going out on tour with me, and you start right now.”

He burst out laughing and then said, “Really?”

I looked at him like, “Yeah,” already knowing it would be done. He packed up his timbales and moved them to my room.

Because my record first broke in Europe in the spring of 1984, my managers sent me there multiple times to promote it. I was used to international travel from previous tours, but this was different. It was my first solo album, and it was crazy what went into pushing it—not just the rehearsals but also the nonstop promotion,
interviews, and performances. It was beyond grueling. There was so little time even for eating and sleeping. Like anything I commit to, though, I was determined to give 150 percent and I expected everyone else to do the same. The managers set everything up and schooled me in every aspect of the business of promotion. It felt like performer boot camp. Sadly, I don’t see this kind of all-inclusive coaching happening for new artists anymore.

Each day, I’d be booked for up to ten hours of back-to-back interviews. My band did half that. During the day we were on almost every popular television show, and at night we’d play wherever we could to create a buzz in the club scene. Sometimes our gigs would start at midnight or one
A.M.
We were spreading the word that Sheila E, the Queen of Percussion, had a hot new dance track, “The Glamorous Life.” It was more than a full-time job.

Despite how much work it was, I found the transition from band musician to solo artist surprisingly easy. From the age of fifteen, I’d been a percussionist behind the main artist. It seemed that whatever artist I performed with, they’d always given me a chance to do my thing and be featured. I guess I was used to the attention of the spotlight. But being center stage was a whole new deal, and the responsibility was a little intimidating. All eyes were on me not just for a song or two, but for the entire show, and I was responsible for setting the tone as well as leading my band.

It didn’t take me long to become quite comfortable in the role. I harnessed my memories of being the oldest sibling in my family or a ringleader in everything from street gangs to our family dancing at parties. I remembered how I even once led an expedition through a creek looking for special rocks.

The older I got, the more I liked to be in charge. I had a vision for how things should go, and I enjoyed feeling responsible, even as a young girl. When Moms and Pops returned home from a night out, they’d often find a handwritten letter from me waiting
for them by the door. It was my “official report” of the evening—what they’d missed, what chores we did and didn’t get to, and which of us kids should be punished.

Sometimes I’d even tell on myself: “Sorry, Mommy and Daddy,” one of those letters read. “I didn’t get to fold my clothes like you asked, and now I see why you asked me to do it before going out to play.”

My reports weren’t all business, however. They always ended with my sincere plea that they’d wake me up and give me a good-night kiss.

Similarly, in Europe, I took my leadership position seriously. The band carried my name, and it was important I led it and also recognized that each individual was an essential part of the group. I told my musicians that we needed to approach the press as if we were in a gang. “We have to be loyal and strong, but most of all we have to watch each other’s backs.”

We each embraced our respective roles—with the heavy makeup, crazy hair colors, and carefully planned costumes. And even though we really didn’t have the money yet for the costumes we’d have liked, we did the best with what we had. Image was a crucial part of our promotion. Even for print interviews, we had to be in full costume and own our roles as if we were actors. This, as well as the physical requirements of playing, soon became exhausting. Choreography was an important aspect of our stage performances, so we rehearsed twelve-hour days until all of the band members played, danced, and sang together perfectly.

“We can’t do this anymore,” a few complained. “We need a break.”

I didn’t blame them. After leaving a late performance, we’d hit the road for the next city, get maybe a couple of hours in a hotel room to eat, sleep, and shower, then do another show. We’d go back to the hotel around three or four
A.M.
and try to unwind so
that we could catch maybe two hours of sleep before being driven to the airport at five
A.M.
It all took a toll on me, but I needed to do every photograph, TV show, dance show, and magazine and print interview until I couldn’t do any more. This is what it would take to be a star.

For me there was no choice. My journey as a solo artist had begun, and there was no turning back. A lot of times, promotion is about investment—which means working with a limited budget and bringing in little to no money. So often artists don’t feel all that motivated, because there’s not always an immediate reward. But I was already rewarded, getting to do what I loved. It was my life. So not only did I say yes to every single offer that came in, I aggressively pursued every possible platform for self-promotion that I could find. With the same conviction I’d felt as a teenager, working my way backstage and then onstage, I would do whatever it took to make it as a solo artist and make
The Glamorous Life
successful.

As a female percussionist fronting a band, playing timbales and singing songs I’d written, produced, and arranged, I was a novelty—something fans hadn’t seen or heard before. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was associated with Prince. Every show was packed.

I had no idea what a hit my song had become or how much airplay our video was getting until I got back to the States. There was no Internet or digital radio, so no one was tweeting or trending about seeing my video on MTV or hearing my song. I was so busy, and everything was happening so fast, that I really didn’t understand that I was coming back as somebody famous. As soon as I returned, I was booked for more shows and couldn’t believe the response and support. All the hard work was paying off.

Periodically, Prince would show up and jam with us. We had a blast. One night we were performing at a sold-out show in New
York at a club called the Ritz. Prince came onstage and we played side by side. The crowd was going wild. You couldn’t squeeze a fly into that room. If felt like 120 degrees, and everyone was soaked from the funkiness and the heat. There were so many photographers right up front that I couldn’t see a thing because of all the flashbulbs.

I danced over to one side of the stage and saw that people were going crazy. I thought to myself, “Wow! I am really throwing down! They love me!” The flashing of the cameras was blinding. Why were they taking so many pictures of me all of a sudden? I knew I could dance a little bit, but I wasn’t that good. I couldn’t believe how much everyone was looking at me.

Prince was playing his heart out, and yet all eyes were on me. I remembered to freeze-frame the moment and told myself,
This is incredible.
I saw about five people trying to get my attention, but I just kept singing and dancing. The flashes from the camera were even more intense the more I danced. I finally realized why. One side of my lace blouse had fallen down, and my boob was out in the open and having a good time. One of the girls had come out to play. I had no idea!