The Truth Is ... Page 6
Reading was always something that tugged at me from inside. It wasn’t the cerebral stuff; it was always the emotional material that I really went for. The same kind of escapism I found in the movies, I easily found in books. There was something about the idea that words could inspire, evoke a response, build up or tear down, praise, destroy. There was an innate understanding of the great power in words. I think that’s why reading was my earliest inspiration for writing. I could express myself in the same way that I read other people’s expressions of thought and wonder. Happiness and sadness. Loneliness, anger, and desire.
Sometime around the age of twelve, however, I abruptly decided to stop reading. My mother read all of the time, and I guess I felt that she preferred reading her books more than she liked talking to me. By the time I was in eighth grade, I was so envious that her books were getting more attention than I was, I decided that I would never read again. And that lasted until I met Linda. I give her all of the credit for introducing me to books again.
Linda and her friends would play charades, and they’d always use titles to books that I had absolutely no clue about or had never even heard of. Books like The Brothers Karamazov; authors such as J. D. Salinger, Kurt Vonnegut, Pablo Neruda, and May Sarton. I had heard of some of these people but, until I met Linda, I had never read any of them. Reading their words and writings helped inspire my own creativity as a songwriter. I wanted to write smarter. I wanted to be more literary in my approach to lyrics. I wanted them to respect my writing.
Playing the Executive Suite in Long Beach, California
Playing Vermie’s in Pasadena, California
Everything happened so fast in our relationship, which is typical for lesbians. Linda was living with her best friend Jill, and I moved in with them practically days after the night we met. You know the joke: What does a lesbian bring on a second date? A U-Haul! That is so true. I never felt the “happily ever after” with Linda. She was one of the women in my life who could never fully commit to our relationship or to me. She always had one foot out the door. I don’t think she was unfaithful to me. But, emotionally, she was always limited in what she was willing to give. I believe she felt that she needed to keep her options open, just in case something better came along. She was exciting, and sensual, and attractive. I was living in California, running after my dream, and she filled up a part of that—for a while, anyway.
My emotional range was small when I was living with Linda. I never went into hurt or completely into joy. It was just kind of this in-between feeling. And it was a time for me to learn about myself. Relationships have a funny way of doing that. Every relationship has taught me something about my needs and myself.
There’s a certain type of personality that I have been attracted to over the years, but the truth is, with those women, I am not going to find the adoration and sensitivity that I am looking for in a partner. They’re women who touch a need inside of me that I’ve had ever since I was a baby. The need for unconditional love, nurturing, and affection. Linda was a strong personality. She had opinions. She was somebody who had an impact on my life and made a difference. She was a real take-control kind of person. And I willingly gave that up—for a time. Linda wouldn’t come to the bar to hear me play—not very often, anyway—but everybody knew that she was my girlfriend and that I was living with her. But everyone at the bars also knew that I’d have an affair with somebody if a woman came along and lit the fire inside me. It didn’t really matter if it was a one-night stand. I’m not proud of that, but that is what it was like for me back then. I was searching. I was always looking for that one person who could satisfy my need. Many have tried. But it has never been enough.
Linda inspired me to start reading again and she opened me up to the idea of pursuing my literary interests. I wanted so much to be smart and articulate and responsible as a knowledgeable person. I wanted to know enough to talk about modern issues and current events. I worked hard to keep on top of all of that, and it inspired me to get more creative and esoteric in my own writing over the years.
Linda and Jill worshiped the poet Carolyn Forché, and I became a fan of hers over the years. Her writings inspired me to try writing in a more bohemian style. The song “Occasionally” was an attempt on my part to be abstract. It is me, really reaching, and trying to be clever in my writing.
OCCASIONALLY
I saw you with your new friends
You wear them so well
Broken shoes and loose ends
Gee you look swell
Me I’m drinking too much coffee
And I’m smoking cigarettes
I’m a deputy of habit
I just can’t forget.
I’m only lonely when I’m driving in my car
I’m only lonely after dark
I’m only lonely when I watch my TV
I’m only lonely occasionally.
I saw you with your envoy
A consenting adult
Technique in moderation
But vogue to the cult
Me I’ve got my strangers
To exile in the night
I guess I’m just addicted
To the pain of delight.
I’m only lonely when I’m driving in my car
I’m only lonely after dark
I’m only lonely when I watch my TV
I’m only lonely occasionally.
Occasionally
Occasionally.
I wrote “Occasionally” in the car. Driving on the freeway in Los Angeles, I kept hearing this rhythm and I was slapping the steering wheel to the beat. The words for the song just came together, right off the top of my head. They tell about a woman I was seeing while dating Linda. The woman came to see me perform in the bar. I had gone out with her a few times, even though we were both in relationships with other women. She walked in with her friends, including her girlfriend. From my perspective, it looked as if she wore her friends like women wear accessories. “I saw you with your new friends, you wear them so well. Broken shoes and loose ends, Gee you look swell.” Okay, that’s a little abstract, right? I had only been out with this woman a few times, but I liked her a lot, even though I knew the relationship would go nowhere. I was never really a smoker or a coffee drinker (though I drink coffee these days), but I was living in an atmosphere where the women around me were drinking lots of coffee and wine and smoking too many cigarettes, so I knew what it felt like. We were all so tortured and trying to be such beatniks.
I was never alone in those days, but that lifestyle got very lonely at times. Even though I was sharing my life with Linda, I was spreading myself and my affection around to the point where it was becoming thin. I was notorious for one-night stands. Depending on how you look at it, I would meet women, seduce them, conquer, and leave. That was my pattern—and my addiction. It was the idea of complete submission; for a brief moment, this person liked me more than anybody else. It’s just a blip on the radar screen, but I’d try to repeat it as often as I could. I never gave one person all of me. Rather, I’d choose to give many women little bits of me at a time, and after a while, I realized that it wasn’t the kind of life that would satiate what I really desired in a relationship. It would take me years, and two more relationships, to make that discovery about myself.
Bring Me Some Water
• • •
EVEN THOUGH I HAD ESTABLISHED A PRETTY GOOD FOLLOWING when I performed at the Executive Suite, the time had come for me to start playing some other venues. I played mostly women’s bars, like Robbie’s in Pomona and the Que Sera. They weren’t fancy but I always had fun. The Que Sera didn’t even have a stage. I’d just stand in the corner of this dark smoke-filled bar and play for the regulars. There was Mary Ellen, the Que’s bouncer. We called her Beetle because she had just gotten out of the army. Elsa Benz was the bartender. She would give me such a hard time. There were nights when it was just the three of us in the bar and maybe a few people would come in here and there. Then there were nig
hts when hundreds of people came in and it got crazy. Women were screaming and hollering and drinking and having just too much fun. Of course, there were the four older dykes who, every night, were sitting at the end of the bar snarling at me as I sang too loud and they drank too much. They’d get so mad at me for not playing Dusty Springfield tunes. They crushed me with their indifference.
Sometimes, after performing at the Que, I’d go over to the Long Beach airport, which was a short drive from the bar. There was a road where I could park my car right next to the runway and I would sit and look at the planes taking off and landing. I would dream of someday taking off from there and looking down at the blue lights as we headed up and out over the Pacific Ocean. Of course, in my fantasy, I was always flying off to play some huge arena show. It was within reach, I knew it. I just had to find a way to grab it.
Most people think that I was “discovered” at the Que Sera, but I was actually discovered in a bar called Vermie’s, in Pasadena. I had made some fans among a women’s soccer team and they came to see me play. There was a woman on the team, Karla Leopold, whose husband Bill was a manager in the music business. My fans on the team dragged Karla to see me at Vermie’s one night, after a game, in the hopes that she might somehow convince Bill to represent me. Karla did become a fan, and she promised to get my demo tape to Bill. The word came back quickly from him; he was “remarkably unimpressed.” But Karla kept pushing Bill and telling him he had to see me live. When he finally did, he instantly understood my passion for performing. He likes to tell people now that he thought he’d seen the reincarnation of Judy Garland. I don’t know about that, but I do know that he was blown away that day and has remained a pivotal part of my career ever since.
Bill took me into the studio to see if he could capture my energy and vibe on tape. Turns out, he could. The recording session took all night. I recorded everything I’d ever written. Solo, just me and either a guitar or a piano. Bill took the tape to every contact he had, to try and get me a record deal. He called the great Clive Davis, thinking that he would surely understand my style, my music, and me—but he didn’t. Neither did Capitol, Warner Bros., A&M, EMI, or RCA. Bill kept pushing, but things clearly weren’t going to happen overnight.
But L.A.’s a funny place, and opportunities can drop into your lap from just about anywhere. A couple of weeks after Bill signed me, I was in the Que chatting with a girl I knew. She was an agent’s assistant in Hollywood and she mentioned that they were casting for the TV show Fame and looking for young talented kids. She told me when the cattle call was, so I decided to go. I stood in line all day at the MGM studios as did every other wanna-be-somebody in Los Angeles. I finally get up and sing my song. Three minutes later, I’m outta there. But the next day, Bill calls me to say I’ve got a callback. Gradually, they winnow it down to ten people who’re up for my part. You can’t help but get excited about being that close to something. It wasn’t making a record, but it was performing. And they were ready to pay something like $3,000 a week—more money than I’d ever dreamed of.
Another callback and it’s down to two people: me and some other girl. I go to a recording studio for the final audition. They’re doing the screen test, and I get to read with Debbie Allen. Debbie Allen! It was great. And then, in the back of the room, I notice a familiar face. It’s Janet Jackson … she’s the other girl going up for the same part. And right then and there, I knew it was over. I mean, who’s gonna get this part: Melissa Lou Etheridge from Leavenworth, Kansas? Or Janet Jackson? After the screen test, Debbie pulled me aside and confirmed what I’d thought. “You know what?” she said. “You’re not gonna get this part. I mean, obviously, it’s Janet. But don’t let this get you down. Don’t give up. You are really, really talented. You are going a long way. And you have got to keep that dream going.” It was really sweet of her because she didn’t have to say anything other than “Thank you.”
Soon after, I was playing Robbie’s in Pomona and a woman walked up to me after the show. She shook my hand, and said “I’m Robin Tyler. I run the West Coast Women’s Music Festival. Do you want to come play?” Did I want to come play? Of course I did. I’d never been to one of the Women’s Music Festivals before, much less played at one. But I’d heard all about them. Linda and I drove up to Santa Barbara, and the second I got there I realized that everything I’d heard was true. It was like a football-field-size women’s bar. Women were doing everything: lights, sound, performing, everything. And the items that seemed to be least necessary were clothes. I’ve never seen so much female flesh exposed in one place in my life. Clothes weren’t optional for some folks; they were actually frowned upon. It was a great party, and a great audience to play for.
One of the stagehands caught my eye backstage—Kathleen. She was California pretty, with long hair and beautiful green eyes. And she wasn’t wearing anything but short shorts and some work boots. Tan all over. And we chatted. And we flirted. And I told her to come down to Long Beach to hear me sing. And she did. We started an affair almost immediately. I’d drive up to her place in Venice, then drive back home to Long Beach and play. Like all of my relationships, things happened fast. It wasn’t long before I told Linda I was moving out. I packed up all my stuff and moved in with Kathleen.
If Linda represented my desire to find the kind of love I wanted but never received from my mother, then Kathleen was my version of falling head over heels in love with a woman who represented my father. She was really sweet and fun and nice. I called her “Mother Earth.” She was artsy and earthy and extremely laid back. She was the antithesis of Linda, looks-wise. She was fair skinned and had long brown hair. They didn’t have very much in common, but Kathleen, like Linda, was completely emotionally unavailable. She wasn’t interested in having a monogamous relationship. It wasn’t who she was or what she was about. She was really a sixties child. We stayed together for almost four years—some of the best years of my life.
Soon after I moved in with Kathleen, Bill got me a publishing deal with Almo/Irving Music, a branch of A&M Records. It wasn’t a recording contract, but it was still huge for me. Signing songwriters just to write songs is a throwback to the pre-singer-songwriter days when there was a line between the artists who wrote the music and the artists who performed the music. But it was a job, a job writing music for other people. Basically, I just had this little room with a piano in it, and I’d noodle around on the piano all day, writing songs for myself. Every so often, someone would wander in and ask me to write a song for them—usually for a movie they were doing. Scenes from the Goldmine, Weeds, Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichel—a few unknown films from the eighties are floating around with songs of mine in them.
Locked in my little room in Hollywood, I had a lot to write about. My relationship with Kathleen was strong and moving forward, but there was always an unspoken gap between us. We both recognized the gap, and we talked about its existence. But we never talked about how it made us feel. Nonmonogamy was an understood condition of our relationship. It was openly discussed and disclosed. I found myself constantly struggling with feelings of jealousy and anger over it. I have always liked the stability of having and being in a relationship. The thought of one person to come home to is very appealing to me. But I was always having affairs in my relationships before I met Kathleen. Kathleen was the first woman who inspired me to want to be in a monogamous relationship. I had the desire, but she did not. It was strange because I had a hard time accepting whenever Kathleen was unfaithful to me, yet I had no issues with being unfaithful to her. It was never a hidden agenda.… I don’t know how that kind of relationship can ever really work. It was always filled with such fear, and that fed my insecurities in the worst possible way. I loved Kathleen probably more than I admitted at the time, but toward the end, I was the one who pushed for a committed monogamous relationship—something she simply couldn’t give to me.
Do you want to know what comes from a string of nonmonogamous relationships? A bunch of really good songs. I have w
ritten so many songs about this subject. I never want to go there again. Lessons lived are lessons learned.
“Bring Me Some Water,” “Like the Way I Do,” “Don’t You Need,” and “Similar Features,” are each based on lovers’ infidelity. Each of the songs speaks to how I felt when my various lovers betrayed me.
“Like the Way I Do” is definitely one of my best songs. It is filled with passion and agony and desire and utter gut-wrenching pain. If you’ve ever seen me in concert, you know that when I perform that song, it becomes a part of me. It’s a transforming song for both the audience and me.
LIKE THE WAY I DO
Is it so hard to satisfy your senses
You found out to love me you have to climb some fences
Scratching and crawling along the floor to touch you
And just when it feels right you say you found someone to hold you
Does she like I do
Tell me does she love you like the way I love you
Does she stimulate you attract and captivate you
Tell me does she miss you existing just to kiss you
Like the way I do
Tell me does she want you infatuate and haunt you
Does she know just how to shock and electrify and rock you
Does she inject you seduce you and affect you
Like the way I do
Can I survive all the implications
Even if I tried could you be less than an addiction