After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye

by Jan Gaye

  My heart began to race. His words suddenly erased all our problems.

  “These are your songs,” he said. “And now I can sing them.”

  He sang them not for an hour or two or three, but all night long, and the next night, and the night after. He sang these songs—building new harmonies, merging his many voices, sweetening the lyrics, augmenting the melodies—utilizing every essential tool available to him as not only a former doo-wopper but a musician who, like Miles Davis, understood the improvisatory genius of jazz.

  “He’s already sung these songs a hundred times,” Art told me. “And never the same way twice.”

  “I’m trying to understand what they’re about,” added Marvin. “I’m searching for the meaning. If you stay here next to me while I sing, I can feel the meaning come into focus. Will you stay?”

  “I will.”

  “Then roll the tape, Art, and let me sing.”

  The sessions went on and on. It was as though they happened outside of time. Marvin adhered to no schedule. He had no plans to release them.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Motown wants singles,” said Marvin. “Motown wants hits. And I want love.”

  “Your fans will love these songs.”

  “Motown will say they are not current. Motown will moan and groan about how I tried to do this before. Motown will remind me that it didn’t work then and won’t work now. I don’t need to hear that from Motown. I don’t need to play these songs for Motown. I just need to birth these songs the way you will soon be birthing our baby boy.”

  A month before I gave birth, Marvin told me he was flying to the East Coast.

  “What’s the trip about?” I asked.

  “A secret mission.”

  Two days later, his purpose was revealed. Newspapers across the country carried a formal photo of Marvin, elegantly attired in custom-tailored suit and tie, sitting next to Shirley Temple Black, former child star and US ambassador to Ghana, and United Nations secretary general Kurt Waldheim.

  “Did I look distinguished?” Marvin asked me.

  “Very.”

  “The UN wants me to spearhead a campaign underscoring the plight of the poor in Africa.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “They say that because of the respect I command the world over, I can make a difference. I can bring awareness where awareness is sorely needed.”

  “I’m proud of you, dear.”

  “But there’s only one problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “They see me as a responsible and decent human being.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  Marvin’s eyes narrowed. He allowed a few seconds of silence to pass before uttering words that chilled me to the bone.

  “It’s a problem,” he said, “because it’s a lie.”

  On November 16, 1975, our son was born. A great blessing for all. His name was Frankie Christian Gaye. His first name was in honor of Marvin’s brother and his middle name in honor of my brother Mark’s middle name. We called him Bubby.

  Circumstances surrounding the birth were dramatic. Marvin was due to fly out to a gig in Denver. At the hospital, his manager Stephen Hill kept looking at his watch and urging Marvin to leave. But he wouldn’t budge.

  “Let the promoter sue me,” he said. “I don’t care.”

  The night of the fourteenth, as we approached midnight, everyone in the room—Marvin and his whole family—was urging me to have the baby so his birthday would be the same as his namesake Frankie’s. Unfortunately, I couldn’t comply. Our son was born the next day. It was a breech birth during which our precious newborn broke his arm: it had to be taped to his body.

  Like a fool, I was feeling guilty about everything—guilty that Marvin had to miss his gig (and was eventually sued for a ton of money); guilty that I couldn’t deliver on Marvin’s brother’s birthday; guilty that the breech birth caused harm to my son. Of course I knew that none of it was my fault. That was my rational mind. But my irrational mind, which so often ruled the day, kept burdening me with the blame.

  And yet joy prevailed. Marvin and I had another beautiful baby! Unfortunately, joy was short-lived. Like so many women, I was hit by a serious case of the postpartum blues.

  So much was happening at once. Marvin’s former family with Anna was falling apart as his new family with me was coming together—at least for now.

  On any given day, documents and demands arrived from Anna’s lawyers. Marvin was required to attend a series of court hearings concerning spousal and child support. He refused. His lawyers kept warning about dire consequences, but Marvin was adamant. Anna responded by refusing him visitation with their son, Marvin III. The animosity between Anna and Marvin intensified.

  “She’s going for my money,” Marvin told me. “She’s using my child to hurt me. But what she really wants is me. She wants me back. And that will never happen.”

  Another battle was the political fury over the case of Rubin “Hurricane” Carter, the boxer who many thought had been wrongly imprisoned for murder. Bob Dylan had written a song about the injustice. Marvin identified with Hurricane and, like Dylan, was convinced that the fighter was the victim of racism.

  In an act of solidarity, Marvin shaved his head.

  “When the press wants to know why I’ve done this,” he told me, “I’ll tell them that my head is clean shaven to let the world know that the case against Hurricane is dirty.”

  Bald as a cue ball and dressed in white from head to toe, Marvin appeared at a charity event for Reverend Cecil Williams’s Glide Memorial Church in San Francisco, barely making it to the stage on time.

  I was back in Hidden Hills, dealing with depression. Because this particular form of blues had hit me before, this time was a little easier. But I was still down. More than ever, I felt unable to help Marvin sort out his problems. And when it came to my problems, I was still fixated on my body. I was still a teenager, worried about whether, after this second birth, Marvin would find me less appealing.

  When I thought about my own largely unspoken dreams—to sing or dance, to have some role in show business—I understood that, given Marvin’s supreme self-preoccupation, those dreams would be given little consideration. In this relationship there was room for only one career. A large part of me accepted that. Yet a smaller part of me clung to the hope that Marvin would one day help those dreams.

  At the same time, watching Marvin’s dramatic dismissal of Anna from his life, I worried that the same fate might befall me. In order to avoid that fate, I had to be understanding, put his needs before my own, and make sure I slimmed down so he’d still find me sexy.

  If he was happy with me, he’d protect me from his family who had moved from Washington to LA. He’d seen that they were cold to me—his mother was disapproving and his father, who had also decided to relocate to the West Coast, was creepy.

  Marvin would provide me with the warmth and security that I so badly needed. He’d make our new family—me, Nona, and Bubby—his first priority. He’d see that this time he had a chance to achieve what he had always wanted: peace in his heart, peace in his mind, peace at home.

  He’d realize that either romance grows or withers. And he’d decide to do all he could to make our love grow.

  He’d stand up against the negative forces.

  He’d protect me; he’d protect our children.

  He’d do what was right.

  He’d make sure that we all lived happily ever after.

  A Deepening Maze

  Marvin’s brother Frankie was flattered that our son was named after him. But he confided in me that he also expressed bewilderment. He couldn’t understand why Marvin was going out of his way to help the other Frankie—Frankie Beverly—and not him.

  “I know he wants to help you,” I said, recognizing the love and mutual admiration between the two brothers. “But right now he’s really busy.”

  “Not too busy to get Beverly and his band a meeting with C
apitol Records. I heard they already have a deal.”

  “You know your brother,” I said. “He adores Stevie Wonder. He knows that Stevie idolizes him. He knows that if it weren’t for What’s Going On, Stevie wouldn’t have found the courage to take on Berry and produce his own records. Marvin loves those records. We listen to them night and day. But every time Stevie wins another Grammy, Marvin sinks into a depression. All these years and all these hits, he’s never won one—not for ‘Grapevine,’ not for ‘What’s Going On,’ not for ‘Let’s Get It On.’ He can’t help but feel competitive with Stevie. Or, for that matter, with you. That’s his nature. You were the one who first told me that your brother was haunted by insecurities.”

  “He is, but at the cost of others. Seems like the ones closest to him—those of us who love him most—are the ones who wind up getting most hurt.”

  “He speaks of you lovingly,” I said. “I promise you he does.”

  “And that’s how he speaks of you, Jan. But is he letting you sing? Is he doing anything to help you build a career free of him?”

  “I don’t want to be free of him.”

  “He knows that and he uses that. He wants you—he wants me, he wants our mother and father and everyone around him—to be dependent on him. That way he controls us.”

  “You make him out to be so manipulative. You make him out to be almost evil, Frankie.”

  “He has more love in his heart than anyone I know. But he also has all this fear. And the fear takes the form of control. If he feels like he’s in control, the fear subsides.”

  “So what can we do?” I asked.

  “Wait,” said Frankie. “Wait and hope that with all his crazy success he’ll feel more confident and not have to shut us out.”

  “I don’t feel like he’s shutting me out,” I said.

  “He loves you, Jan. He loves his babies. That’s how it should be. It’s a beautiful time in his life. You’ve brought out so much beauty in him. I’m just praying that he can feel worthy of this beauty. Because if he doesn’t, if the devil stays in his ear and tells him that he’s not worthy, he’ll do what he always does.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Find a way to turn heaven into hell.”

  Meanwhile, Marvin was deeply involved with his wife. Yes, the involvement concerned divorce; and yes, the divorce grew more acrimonious by the day; and yes, Marvin was infuriated by her legal assaults. But from my point of view, the truth was that he was still passionately engaged with Anna, even if the engagement had assumed a malicious tone. As a result of the furious warfare, Anna was receiving far more of Marvin’s attention than me.

  There were still sunny days and moonlit nights when we were alone together. There was still passionate love. There were drives up the coast with our family of four in the camper. There were stops along the ocean’s edge, the kids playing in the sand, Marvin and me filled with joy at the sight of our precious angels.

  Marvin was a proud and doting father. I was an affectionate and protective mother. I loved those babies with all my heart; couldn’t have loved them more.

  There were long nights at his Sunset studio where, again and again, Marvin returned to record the love ballads that excited his soul.

  But there was also a negative undercurrent, very subtle, not always apparent. Case in point was Marvin’s relationship with Frankie Beverly.

  “He’s coming to town to meet with Capitol at the end of week,” Marvin told me one afternoon. “I think it’d be nice if you picked him up at the airport.”

  The suggestion took me by surprise.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “You guys are buds. You introduced me. You’re his girl.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “You know he wants you,” said Marvin.

  “He’s not my type. He’s too hairy.”

  “Right,” he responded with wicked sarcasm.

  “Marvin, why are you starting up this mess?”

  “Mess?”

  “Yes, mess. Just be nice. Be cool.”

  “I still want you to pick him up at the airport.”

  “I will,” I said, “if you back off.”

  For the rest of the week Marvin went out of his way to shun me, especially during the midnight hour when I hoped my frilly negligees would lure him to bed. Yet he regarded me indifferently.

  “What’s wrong?” I wanted to know.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Just wanna go out and shoot a few hoops.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I have energy to spare.”

  “I love your energy,” I said, hoping that he’d say, I love yours.

  Instead he said, “Save your energy for Frankie.”

  “You won’t even look at me,” I said, dropping the negligee to my waist. My breasts were still firm and, while not as perfectly sculpted as when we’d met three years ago, surely they were alluring.

  Yet Marvin wouldn’t look. He was out the door and headed for the basketball court, leaving me to consider all that was wrong with me.

  His rejection stung. In his eyes, I did not appear in the least desirable. At the same time, he did not relent in his insistence that I pick up Frankie Beverly at the airport.

  Well, if Marvin wasn’t turned on by me, Frankie was. And, in anticipation of picking him up, I dressed accordingly. I wore a revealing red sleeveless leotard and tight jeans that showed every last curve. The outfit excited me. I wanted the outfit to excite Marvin, but he had left the house. He had continued to avert his eyes from me.

  I wanted Frankie’s eyes on me. I wanted the absolute reassurance from another man that, after birthing two children, I was still desirable.

  I was only half conscious of the fact that Marvin had understood my emotional vulnerability. He perceived my need to be appreciated. And by not appreciating me—and encouraging me to seek such appreciation from Frankie—he had set me up. He had set up a scenario in which misery would prevail.

  Driving to the Burbank airport in my Benz, I was anything but miserable. I was wary yet stimulated by the danger ahead. When I pulled the car up to the curb where Frankie was waiting with his luggage, I waved to him and flashed a big smile.

  “Not sure I’m worthy of such personal service,” he said.

  “Marvin insisted,” I said.

  “Marvin’s the man.”

  I felt Frankie’s eyes all over me. I put down the top and headed out on the highway. My hair was down, my curls bouncing in the breeze.

  “You look fantastic,” he said.

  “You must be happy about your deal,” I rejoined in a weak attempt to change the subject. “I don’t see how Raw Soul can miss.”

  “There’s no more Raw Soul,” he said.

  “What happened to the band?”

  “The band’s the same. The name’s changed.”

  “I always liked Raw Silk better.”

  “We’re going to be Maze.”

  “Wow. That’s different.”

  “Marvin’s idea.”

  “He didn’t mention it to me.”

  “I’m surprised. I thought he told you everything. Did he tell you that he’s invited us to open some shows for him?” asked Frankie.

  “No, but I think that’s great.”

  “He’s a prince.”

  “He is,” I said, still feeling the heat of Frankie’s gaze.

  As we rode the rest of the trip in silence, I was certain that the connection between Frankie and me was powerful. His attraction to my body had me feeling powerful. And heady.

  The joint he offered added to my headiness. The smoke melted what little tension remained between us. I drove us back to Hidden Hills, where Marvin was waiting. I then made myself scarce.

  My mind was reeling. I didn’t want to do right. But I also didn’t want to do wrong. Something in my head said that Marvin was pushing me to do wrong. He’d delight in my wrong. But wrong was wrong and right was right.

  It was only right to avoid Frankie.
r />   Marvin was the man I loved, the father of my children, and the reason my life was worth living. I couldn’t conceive of any life other than the one I was living with Marvin. I couldn’t risk losing him, even if he was the one provoking me to take that risk.

  Motown was provoking Marvin. The label had no choice. His contract demanded that he turn in a new product. When he allowed the label execs to hear the ballads on which he had lavished such loving artistry, I saw that they were unimpressed. They didn’t consider it new product. These were old tracks, after all, that he had been reworking for years. Besides, they had no currency in the marketplace of the mid-seventies. In the view of the suits, the collection did not contain even a hint of a hit single. I heard them tell Marvin that he was wasting his time. He needed to get off his cloud, come down to earth, and give his fans another “Let’s Get It On.”

  “Is Miles Davis’s label telling him to come up with a hit record?” asked Marvin.

  “Miles is a jazz artist,” the execs responded. “Jazz is different. Jazz is an experimental art.”

  “Art is art,” Marvin responded. “Miles goes where all true artists go. He goes further out because that’s where his muse takes him.”

  “Miles’s market has nothing to do with yours.”

  “And markets have nothing to with anything,” Marvin snapped back. “Miles is looking for the truth, for a way to awaken man’s mind to something other than markets.”

  Miles Davis was, in fact, in touch with Marvin. I heard them speak about a project. The conversation was easy; the two men were in sync. They came to a quick agreement to record together. Nothing would be prearranged—no orchestrations, no advance song selections. Improvisation would be given free rein. They would create in the Eternal Now. Marvin was convinced that this, more than another commercial outing, was exactly the nourishment his artistic soul was seeking.

  But Miles, like Marvin, was a proud man with a sturdy ego. He wanted Marvin to come to New York to record. Marvin preferred that Muhammad come to the mountain—that Miles venture to California and work at Marvin’s own studio. I witnessed the negotiations breaking down. The meeting of the two masters never happened. If it had, what miraculous music would have been made!