by Jan Gaye
“Frankie wants to meet you,” said Cass.
After the first set, we went back to the dressing room, where it was clear that Frankie Beverly wanted to meet Marvin.
“He’s my hero,” said the singer, his eye on both of us.
“I’m going to let him know how much I love the band,” I said. “I’m gonna try and get him up here to see you.”
“That would be in-in-in-incredible,” said Frankie, who spoke with a slight stutter. “I don’t know how to t-t-t-t-thank you.”
“Thank me,” said Cass, “for introducing you to my sister.”
“She’s a cool sista,” said Beverly.
“We’re outta here,” said Cass, whisking me out of the dressing room, out of the club, into the car, and back into the San Francisco night.
The excursion helped my frame of mind. Hanging at the club, hearing the band, meeting the singer, being seen and desired by men had done wonders for my sinking spirit. And, to be honest, I found Mr. Beverly extremely sexy.
I returned to LA to find Marvin in a good mood. He was talking about buying a house far out in the country. While Motown was putting pressure on him to plan a new album, his only plan was to escape Hollywood.
“I need time between projects,” he told me as we drove out to the foothills of the San Fernando Valley, some forty miles from Los Angeles, where a real estate agent was going to show us a home. “I need the well to fill back up.”
“That’s good, Marvin,” I said. “Take your time.”
“I will, dear. I’m not some music machine churning out hits. That’s Berry’s way—the assembly-line Motown method. I can’t be pressured. I won’t be. We need space between us and them.”
I was gratified that he said we and not I. Nona and I were part of his plans. We were now his family. The home he envisioned was for the new and calm domestic life he yearned to live.
The home appeared perfect. It was in Hidden Hills, a small community of luxurious but tasteful suburban homes on enormous lots with paths for horses running through the community.
“I love the name,” Marvin said softly. “Hidden Hills. It is here where we will hide and live happily ever after.”
“I love the house,” I said as we inspected the property, which sat on five acres on Long Valley Road. The ranch-style design was casual. There was a swimming pool, hot tubs, and horse stables. What caught Marvin’s eye, though, was the regulation-size basketball court.
“We’ll buy the house,” he told the agent even before being told the price. “My management will be in touch.”
Marvin was on a buying streak. There was property in Jamaica, a ranch in Round Mountain, a place in Lake Tahoe. There were all sorts of cars—a Cadillac, a Mercedes, a Rolls-Royce, a Jaguar, an Excalibur, not to mention a motor home and a van.
“The motor home is for us and the kids,” he told me. “We need to have another baby.”
I watched Marvin’s moods swing from despondency to ebullience. When he was down, he sulked and spoke of the hopeless condition of the world. He claimed that the devil was winning the war with God. When he was up—like today—his spirit was bright and loving. God was in charge. All was good. Why not spend money on a better life for those he loved most?
On the ride back to the city, Marvin praised my beauty, expressed his love for me, and gave gratitude for the ways in which I had enhanced his life. We held hands. For the moment, he seemed to have forgotten that only days before he had said he was no longer in love with me. I saw no reason to remind him of that painful statement. I was thrilled to see that he had changed his mind.
“I want to know about your trip to see Cass,” he said. “You said something about a band. You couldn’t stop talking about them.”
“That’s because they were great,” I said. “Great band. Great singer. He idolizes you. He wants you to hear him.”
“And you think they’re happenin’?”
“I know they are.”
“Then maybe we’ll make a quick trip up the coast to see them.”
“You won’t be sorry.”
The trip happened in a hurry. The meeting between the soul men was magical. Frankie was enamored of Marvin’s genius but professional enough not to be intimidated by his presence at the Scene. Frankie and his band performed flawlessly.
“Raw Soul isn’t the right name,” Marvin said afterward. “These cats are smooth as silk.”
“That’s what I said,” I asserted, elated that Marvin loved the group as much as I did.
After the show, the smooth grooves of the music were reflected in the rhythm of the banter between Marvin and Frankie. I saw how the men were in sync. They both loved to lay back, enjoy a smoke, and engender a laugh. They were both quick to praise the other’s creativity.
Marvin promised to help Frankie find a deal with a major label.
“Who are you going to take them to?” I asked Marvin when we were back in their hotel room.
“Not Motown. I have enough competition at Motown. Frankie’s better off at another label. But don’t fret, dear, I will help your boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“I saw him looking at you. I saw you looking at him.”
“I was only looking because Cass is in love with the guy. Cass is already sleeping with him. He’s a cute little guy—that’s all.”
I tried to deny my attraction but didn’t get far. Strangely, though, Marvin did not appear upset. He seemed excited by the prospect. It was the kind of potential drama on which his dark side fed.
That same night when we made love, he was aroused beyond his normal passion. I was thrilled to see that his desire had been restored.
“I love you so much,” I whispered.
“I love you, dear, but can’t help but wonder one small thing.”
“Tell me.”
“When we were in the throes of all this sweet ecstasy, were you really thinking of me . . . or were you fantasizing about him?”
“‘Him’? Who?”
“Little man, of course.”
Oh boy, I thought, here we go.
“I was only thinking of you, Marvin. I promise, I swear.”
“I can’t believe you’re not haunted by that fantasy.”
“Why not? He’s fucking my sister and I’m with you. Hello!”
Our verbal wrestling match continued until we got tired of squabbling and went back to making sweet love.
Blessings and Burdens
We enjoyed the celebrity life. It was especially cool to meet Elliott Gould at an awards show. A huge Marvin fan, Elliott invited us to his home the following week. At the time he was married to Jennifer Bogart. Because Elliott was significantly older than Jennifer, I related to them as a couple and was eager to spend an evening with them. I dressed up for the occasion. Marvin put on a new brown sharkskin suit with matching brown shoes. He looked especially elegant. On the drive over, I was excited at the prospect of making new friends. But when we arrived at the Gould home, Marvin wouldn’t park the car.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t feel like socializing,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
My argument—that Elliott and Jennifer were expecting us—fell on deaf ears.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. “Why are you disappointing me like this?”
Marvin didn’t respond. He turned the car around and we never saw Elliott and Jennifer—not that evening, not ever.
At other times, Marvin could be especially sensitive and generous.
“I think you should go shopping, dear,” Marvin said one day. “Buy something absolutely smashing. Buy whatever your heart desires. The sky’s the limit.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“A surprise to end all surprises.”
“Tell me, please,” I whined.
“And ruin the surprise? I think not. Hurry off to Beverly Hills and get something nice. Hurry your ass. The limo will be here at seven.”
Excitedly, I wen
t off and returned a few hours later with what I considered a sensational outfit.
When I appeared before Marvin, he smiled approvingly.
“Just as I imagined,” he said. “You will be the princess at the ball.”
I was wearing a revealing two-piece halter dress, black satin heels, and pale pink glasses with rhinestone-covered frames.
“The princess is nothing without the prince,” I said. “And the prince is looking pretty hot himself.”
The prince was dressed in a black silk suit, an elegant white embroidered shirt, and patent-leather tuxedo shoes. He had splashed on Royall Lyme, his favorite fragrance.
Once inside the limousine, the prince remained secretive.
“You’re really killing me,” I said.
“Don’t die on me, dear. At least not until you see what the gods of good fortune have in store for you.”
The limo ride was long, fifteen miles down one freeway, fifteen miles down another. On the way, we shared a joint.
It was a hazy night. The smoke put us in an especially romantic frame of mind. I looked out the window and saw that we were approaching Long Beach Harbor. In the distance was the Queen Mary, the old luxury liner brought to port and turned into a hotel-museum. The limo pulled up to the entrance of the ship, all aglow with colorful lights. Music floated on air. Beautiful people milled about the decks. A great party was underway. My heart was racing.
Paparazzi were at the foot of the gangplank. Marvin and I stopped to pose for a few pictures.
“Who is the party for?” I asked.
“Shh . . . you’ll see . . .”
I felt like I was stepping inside a dream. The ship was beyond elegant: the woodwork, the chandeliers, the promenades, the people. There was Gregory Peck, there was Kirk Douglas, there was Sidney Poitier, there was Elizabeth Taylor. And walking down the main staircase was Michael Jackson together with Paul McCartney.
The two men moved directly to Marvin and me.
I’d known Michael and his brothers since high school. Michael gave me a hug.
“It’s so cool of you to invite us to your party, Paul,” Marvin said. “Jan has been dreaming of this moment for many, many years.”
Overwhelmed, I had no words except “So nice to meet you.”
“Marvin,” said Paul, “you have a lovely lady here.”
With that, he took my hand, gently kissed it, and, along with Michael, moved on to greet the other guests.
Back in Hidden Hills, Marvin wanted reassurance that he had, in fact, made me happy.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Wasn’t tonight a nice surprise?”
“Beautiful,” I said. “I’ve been dreaming of meeting Paul ever since I saw him at Dodger Stadium with the Beatles in 1966. How can I ever thank you?”
“By giving us another child,” Marvin said, before engaging me in passionate love.
Good news! Five months after giving birth to Nona, I discovered that I was pregnant again. These were the early months of 1975. I was now nineteen years old and had known Marvin for barely two years. I was elated. I was hopeful that the news would bring us closer together and bridge the gap that had opened when I became a mother and experienced bodily changes.
Marvin was equally elated, convinced that this time God would give him a son. He saw this as a great blessing.
At approximately the same time that Marvin and I learned of my pregnancy, Anna Gordy Gaye could no longer stand the embarrassment of her husband not only living with a teenage girl, but having children with her as well. She filed for divorce.
I understood. What woman wouldn’t?
Marvin had publicly humiliated Anna. Their disagreements, which had been relatively tame in the past few months, suddenly exploded into full-out warfare.
I saw that warfare excited Marvin, even as Anna’s legal procedures threatened his financial viability. While he was spending money recklessly, she was looking to wreck his monetary stability. She demanded heavy monthly payments for herself and their son. Beyond that, there were back payments due on repairs to the home owned by Marvin and Anna, not to mention legal and accounting fees.
Marvin’s response—to throw the legal papers in the trash—alarmed me. I urged him to face the reality of what was happening.
“I can’t deal with this stuff now,” he said.
“Eventually you’ll have to,” said his lawyer. “Eventually you’ll need to respond.”
“You can respond now. Tell her that over the years she’s gotten enough. Tell her to go to her brother. Berry has more money than God. Let him take care of her.”
“I’m not sure you want to get Motown entangled in all this.”
“When has Motown ever not been entangled? They’re entangled in every part of my life.”
Yet I did see how Motown and Berry diligently tried to separate Marvin the artist from Marvin the husband of Anna. Motown revered Marvin the artist. Moreover, Motown had a large investment in him and wanted nothing more than additional Marvin Gaye music.
But I was just beginning to understand that Marvin the man—the man who dreamt of playing for the Detroit Lions and becoming a professional boxer—had to prove his manhood. If cornered, he’d come out fighting. He perceived Anna’s legal actions as threats. He saw them as tests of his strength. He told me that he had no choice but to take her on and prove his personal power.
It was clear to me that Anna’s resources were greater than Marvin’s. But that fact didn’t make Marvin more cautious; it made him bolder. He actually liked assuming the role of the underdog—David versus Goliath. That heightened the drama. He was ready, even eager, to go to war.
Marvin would not yield to a single one of Anna’s demands. Nor would he yield to Motown, which was imploring him to start recording new material. It made me think of the name of his first hit back in the sixties—“Stubborn Kind of Fellow.”
Meanwhile, as I watched Marvin do battle with Anna and Motown, another precious life grew inside me. And on various nights I saw him leave his bitterness about his marriage and lose himself in a rare species of heavenly music that had nothing to do with any of the current vogue, the sounds of early disco that were beginning to flood the airwaves.
Because he didn’t love to dance, dance music was last on Marvin’s wish list of recordings. First on the list were the standards, the classic love songs from past eras, the deep-blue ballads that address love lost, love found, love remembered. I saw how these tear-stained melodies and heartbreaking messages spoke to his heart, just as they spoke to mine. They had nothing to do with commerce. They were not hit singles geared to current tastes. They were timeless, the sort of songs sung by the singers Marvin held in the highest regard: Nat Cole and Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. In short, this was the material that, ever since initiating his professional career, he had longed to interpret.
“I can’t sing these songs at the Motown studio,” he told me. “Word will get back to Berry. Berry will have a fit. He’ll start demanding that I churn out hits. No, I’m not going to record at Motown. I need a place of my own.”
That place turned out to be a customized recording studio contained in a small single-story building on Sunset Boulevard that, together with the house in Hidden Hills, became a central focal point for Marvin and me for the next several years. The location was both logical and alluring. It was logical because it was a piece of prime real estate in the middle of Hollywood. It was alluring because it was situated on that portion of the Strip populated by prostitutes. The illicit sex trade that Marvin found so enticing operated right next door at the Copper Penny, a coffee shop where the working ladies liked to congregate.
Inside, the Marvin Gaye Recording Studio was all Marvin. He chose the colors; he designed the decor. It was cooler than cool: dark wood, soft lighting, plush carpet, an upstairs loft apartment with a waterbed and Jacuzzi. It was a musical cocoon, a heavenly hideaway in the midst of Hollywood’s hellhole sex trade. I saw how the studio symbolized every one of
Marvin’s baffling paradoxes. It was in the world, yet not of the world. Its purpose was to free his art from earthly distractions, even as it positioned him closer to those distractions than ever before.
For days at a time Marvin was locked up in the studio, where he worked with his trusted and skillful engineer Art Stewart, a wonderful man whose calm personality, good humor, and brotherly devotion helped Marvin in every possible way.
Marvin lost himself in the sounds of these standards. When I was invited to hear the music haunting Marvin’s mind, I was mesmerized. The orchestrations were lush and enormous: violins, cello, oboes, flutes, harps.
I observed how Marvin sat as he sang, his mouth practically touching the microphone. He sang effortlessly. His eyes were closed. Even singing songs with well-known lyrics, he improvised new lyrics of his own, making the story completely personal.
“I’m singing these songs about you,” he told me. “You are the subject of every song.”
I was both pleased and confused.
“They weren’t written about me,” I said. “They were written by other men for other women.”
“I’m rewriting them for you.”
“But why?”
“Because that’s what love demands. Tell Jan the story of how it all began,” Marvin urged Art.
“In the late sixties,” said Art, “Marv hired an orchestrator, a brilliant musician named Bobby Scott, to write arrangements for a suite of songs like ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ and ‘Why Did I Choose You.’ Every one is a classic. Bobby rose to the occasion. His orchestrations are great. Sinatra would kill for these charts. So Marvin immediately went into the studio and began singing over the arrangements. His vocals were good, but not great. This was before What’s Going On, before he knew how to overdub his own voice and accompany himself. He sang the songs straight. He sang the songs honestly, but in one voice and one voice only. I believe he sang them with the intention of revising his career as a pop singer—as opposed to a rhythm-and-blues singer.”
“I hate those original vocals,” said Marvin.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because they’re immature and superficial. This material required a knowledge of love—I’m talking about romantic love—and that’s something I had never really known. You can’t fake this material. These songs demand everything you’ve ever felt about love. I simply hadn’t felt enough. And then I met you.”
