by Jan Gaye
“I do. And I gotta give your mom some credit this time for doing something good. In addition to giving birth to my sweet Jan, yes, the woman does know some hip brothers.”
On any given good day—and there were many—Marvin demonstrated deep family love. He tried over and over again to reconcile the pain of his past with the good fortune of his present and the beautiful prospect of his future.
I saw how he wanted to spread the love that he saw at the heart of the teachings of the God he called Jesus. Yet for all his noble efforts and valiant attempts to live the life of a man of goodwill, he trapped himself in a battle between good and evil. He didn’t want to be a hypocrite. He didn’t like people who were duplicitous and lied, even though he sometimes displayed these actions. He was complex, but he strove to live by higher moral principles when it came to his treatment of others.
“There is the devil,” he told me. “And the devil is real.”
“But isn’t God greater?” I asked. “Isn’t God stronger? Didn’t God defeat the devil?”
“The devil can’t be defeated,” said Marvin on one of his many dark days. “The devil simply changes form.”
“You don’t actually believe in a demonic figure who’s running around with horns and a red cape, do you, dear?”
“I believe in a devil that is already inside us. We each have a devil of our own making. That devil is designed to destroy all the joy in our life.”
“But can’t the devil be confronted? If you know the potential for destruction is there, can’t you do something to avoid it—like pray?”
“The devil is tricky,” Marvin insisted. “The devil is sly. The devil knows to offer us temptations we can’t resist. The devil knows our weakness. The devil is our weakness.”
“I’m not sure,” I said skeptically. “I think that if we really believe the devil is all that powerful, we’re contributing to his power. We’re building him up. In truth, the devil may not even exist.”
“You don’t believe in negative energy?” asked Marvin. “You don’t see evidence of evil in the world?”
“I do, but that’s different from subscribing to some superstition that has you fearing a demon who’s out to get you. Maybe I’m wrong, Marvin, but I have a feeling that superstition comes from way back in your childhood. Didn’t your father’s church give you all these ideas about the devil?”
“Do you believe my father’s the devil?”
“Now you’re asking a different question.”
“I’ve heard you call him the Beast.”
“I’ve heard you call him worse.”
“I’ve heard him preach,” said Marvin, his demeanor changing as he conjured up memories. “That was when I was a boy. He preached beautifully. Have I told you that, dear?”
“You have.”
“He sang beautifully. He understood God’s Word beautifully. He understood that there was a devil in him that had to be defeated.”
“And did he?” I asked.
“No. The devil prevails—in him, in you, in me. The devil prevails the world over. And just when we think we have his number, he comes at you in another clever form with another sweet temptation and, just like that, you’re back in his arms.”
The words frightened me. I wouldn’t accept the premise. “That won’t happen,” I insisted.
“You say that now,” said Marvin, “but you will fall. We all will.”
“I hate it when you talk like this. It’s depressing. Please stop.”
Marvin sensed my fear and put his arm around me. “I’ll do all I can to protect our little family,” he said.
The public adored I Want You. It quickly sold over a million copies. Marvin was gratified. But then someone brought over a copy of Rolling Stone with a review that said, “With Barry White on the wane, Marvin Gaye seems determined to take over as soul’s master philosopher in the bedroom, a proposition that requires little but an affectation of constant, rather jaded horniness.”
The write-up in DownBeat was even worse: “Slush for disco dancers in the bogus overblown manner of Barry White.”
Marvin was furious and hurt. He loved what he had created with Leon Ware and T-Boy Ross.
“The critics are tin-eared idiots,” he said. “They want to insult me by comparing me to Barry White, whom they detest, except that Barry is a genius, a brilliant orchestrator, writer, and singer with a vision all his own. I love Barry. Is it a crime to make music that celebrates the joy of sex? Didn’t all the great composers want to seduce us with sensuous sounds? Didn’t Mozart? Didn’t Beethoven? Of course they did. But the critics don’t want me to seduce. They want me to save the world. They think because of What’s Going On I have to keep writing socially conscious songs. Well, how about sexually conscious songs? Besides, sex is social.”
“The fans love I Want You,” I said. “The DJs love it. Motown loves it. Who cares what a couple of writers say?”
“I care.”
I knew that there was no consoling him. The bad reviews kept him down for days.
During that same summer of 1976, he went even further down. He failed to pay alimony and child support to Anna and was about to be served a contempt-of-court subpoena. That would mean ten days in LA County jail. Rather than run the risk of serving time, Marvin disappeared for two weeks. Not even I knew where he was. In the meantime, his lawyers did what Marvin had consistently refused to do: they tried to negotiate an intermediate settlement with Anna. Nothing doing. The divorce war raged on, draining Marvin’s dwindling supply of money.
To make money, Marvin accepted some questionable gigs. He called me from Buffalo, where he was supposed to give a concert that never came off.
“The promoter promised I’d get my money up front,” he said, “but when I got here I learned that he’d run off with the advance ticket sales.”
“So what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t sing?”
“I never left the hotel. But it turns out they’re having an NAACP convention right here, so I’m going to sing for them tomorrow—for free.”
The next day the papers ran an article about thousands of ticket holders who had waited in the rain for three hours in front of Buffalo’s Memorial Auditorium, only to learn that Marvin was refusing to appear.
“Happy ending, though,” Marvin told me.
“What happened?”
“They caught the promoter before he could escape with all the money.”
“This is the same guy you trusted?”
“When it comes to judging promoters, I’ve never had the most discerning judgment, have I?” he asked with a laugh.
His judgment about other business deals also proved disastrous.
I watched as Marvin ignored warnings from his advisors against investing in speculative oil deals and sketchy sports franchises like the World Football League that, shortly after he had kicked in $96,000, went belly-up. It was as though he did his best to lose all the money he was making.
Watching this made me feel increasingly insecure. I had no earning power of my own. I was counting on Marvin for everything.
“I can always tour,” he reassured me. “I have fans in Latin America, in Europe. I have fans in Asia.”
But because of his fear of flying, Marvin refused dozens of overseas tours. Again and again, he passed up chances to cultivate foreign markets.
“I’m not interested in marketing,” he told his money men. “I’m an artist.”
“An artist who’s about to lose everything.”
“I can’t lose my art. It’s a gift from God. And God’s not taking it back.”
I saw that, when faced with the impending reality of losing the Hidden Hills house or the Sunset studio, Marvin eventually changed his mind. He agreed to a tour of Japan. But then a week later, he canceled. Same routine with Brazil. Finally, though, he saw that, given the cash-flow crisis, he had to stop the foolishness. Come hell or high water, he was going to London to play the Palladium, followed
by an extensive tour of England. The payday was too big to pass up.
I was thrilled to learn that he was taking me along. My mom would care for the kids. His brother Frankie and sister Zeola made the trip along with my sister Cass, who designed and made his stage outfits.
Marvin loved London. It felt like his natural habitat. The Brits treated him like royalty. He was charmed by their lordly accents; they were charmed by his soft-spoken candor. He told me that he could live there forever.
The day before the big show at the Palladium, we spent time shopping the avant-garde boutiques on Carnaby Street and the more conservative shops on Bond Street. Marvin bought me a wardrobe of edgy fashions—short skirts and high boots—while, for himself, he preferred the look of an English gentleman in elegant pinstriped suits and sport coats of Harris tweed. He also acquired an instant British accent.
That night there was news that Flo Lyles, one of Marvin’s singers, was suffering with laryngitis. It was Flo who sang with Marvin on the hit duets that he’d originally sung with Mary Wells, Kim Weston, and Tammi Terrell. Even before attending dozens of Marvin’s shows, I knew these numbers by heart—“You’re All I Need to Get By,” “Your Precious Love,” “It Takes Two,” “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing,” “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”
“I can sing them,” I told Marvin.
“Oh, dear,” he said, “that’s just too much.”
“I can do it.”
“You really think you can handle it?”
“I know I can. You’ve heard me sing those parts in your ear. You know I know them.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe, dear. Pleeeease . . .”
“That would really make you happy, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“All right, dear, tomorrow night will be your grand debut.”
I could hardly contain my excitement. The night before the show I got little sleep. I saw this as the start of a new phase of my relationship with Marvin. Once he heard how well I sang these songs, he’d make me a permanent part of the performance.
True to form, Marvin missed the rehearsal and sound check, but I was there, gratified that all went well. Frankie stood in for Marvin. We sang the duets flawlessly.
An hour before show time, I started to dress. The outfit—a low-cut full-length cap-sleeve jersey dress—was the sexiest I could find. It fit perfectly.
When Marvin finally showed up he asked, “Are you sure you know the lyrics to the songs?”
“Positive.”
“And are you sure that appearing before a live audience won’t freak you out?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And you really, truly have it under control?”
“Really and truly, I do.”
“And you’ll stay on key?”
“I will.”
“And when you sing, you’ll be able to look me in the eye and mean it?”
“Of course. These are love songs. And I love you. I’ve always wanted to sing to you.”
“All right. I’ll see you during the show.”
My heart beat wildly. I couldn’t wait for my moment in the spotlight. Standing next to Marvin and singing those songs would be a dream come true.
Ten minutes before showtime, the dream shattered.
“Sorry, dear,” said Marvin as he entered the dressing room, “but I have some news that won’t make you happy.”
“What news?”
“Flo tells me she’s up to perform. No need for you to bother yourself about performing.”
“Need! Bother!” I exclaimed. “It’s something I’ve been dreaming of.”
“I understand, dear, but, after all, Flo is a professional. I can’t stand in the way of her work.”
“Flo gets to sing every night. Why not give her a night off? She can rest her throat.”
“She’s well rested. She’s ready to sing.”
I was ready to tear my hair out. But what could I do? I had no choice but to comply. Adding to my frustration, Marvin asked whether Flo could wear my dress. I couldn’t say no. But I wasn’t happy saying yes.
“You’ll have other opportunities to perform,” said Marvin.
But no such opportunities ever came about.
I was inconsolable.
“Have faith,” said Marvin. “You must have faith.”
Faith
Faith was the topic.
Back in the US, Marvin decided to take our kids and me to Kentucky to visit Bishop Simon Peter Rawlings. It was time, he said, to reestablish his ties to his spiritual roots.
I saw how Bishop Rawlings, a patient and compassionate man, acted as a surrogate father to Marvin, who never stopped seeking the paternal approval denied by his own dad.
It was there in Lexington, where Marvin’s father had grown up, that I learned the original name of the Pentecostal church that shaped Marvin’s childhood: The House of God, the Holy Church of the Living God, the Pillar and Ground of the Truth, the House of Prayer for All People.
“It is a combination of Scripture from the Old and New Testaments,” the bishop explained, “a mixture of Isaiah and First Timothy.”
The bishop broke down the history of the small sect—of how in the late forties a disagreement over theological doctrine divided the congregants. Both Rawlings and Father Gay became leaders of the breakaway church. But when Rawlings was named chief apostle, jealousy set in. Father Gay withdrew into dark seclusion. This happened over the course of Marvin’s early life.
The bishop explained a great deal.
“Your father was a gifted rhetorician,” I heard him tell Marvin. “As you yourself saw, he could preach the angels down from heaven. He could also sing like an angel. But he was also deeply in love with the world and its many pleasures. Like so many of us, he found himself locked in a battle between the spirit and the flesh.”
“I understand,” said Marvin. “I’m engaged in that battle myself.”
“We all are, son,” said the bishop.
“Some worse than others.”
“Yet the family you have brought with you—your beautiful woman and two beautiful children—shows me that you’re winning that battle.”
“My father was convinced that on the day I refused to become a preacher myself, I had lost the battle forever.”
“A battle that he himself is convinced he has lost. You see, he did the very thing he warned you not to do. He left the church. But God’s love is not restricted to a physical church. God’s love is something we can never lose.”
“I lost it a long time ago.”
“How can you ever lose God’s love?”
“I’m talking about my father’s love.”
“If you reach out, it’s there.”
“I tried,” said Marvin. “I wanted him to come to London with me, Jan, and the kids.”
This was news to me. I was startled when Marvin said, “I wanted him to see me perform in a great European concert hall. I thought it would give him pleasure and pride. I wanted to see him in the first row, standing and applauding me. Is that an unreasonable request from a son to a father?”
“Not at all,” the bishop assured Marvin. “What did he say?”
“He said no. He said he had no interest in attending one of my concerts.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Sorry that he doesn’t understand that, after all is said and done, you have become a preacher, Marvin. You preached a mighty sermon with What’s Going On.”
“But after that I returned to songs of sin, songs that celebrate and even encourage lust.”
“It sounds to me that you judge your work harshly.”
“No more harshly than my father,” said Marvin.
“Which is harsh indeed,” the bishop stated. “All this judgment coming down . . .”
“Isn’t that the religion you and Father teach?”
“Your dad gave up teaching a long time ago, but I teach that Jesus said, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’”
“Will you call Father and tell him that?” asked Marvin.
“He doesn’t recognize my authority.”
“Whose authority does he recognize?”
“Only he can answer that question.”
As Bishop Rawlings entertained Marvin’s questions for hours on end, I could feel the strength of Marvin’s sincerity in his search for spiritual answers. He was deeply conflicted. He embraced the all-encompassing love and forgiving heart of Jesus.
“I was born a Christian,” he told me time and time again. “I will always be a Christian. I will always call Jesus my Lord and savior.”
Yet he couldn’t free himself of the pre-Jesus Old Testament judgment.
“I’m caught up in sin,” he confessed when we were walking to a nearby park, the kids in tow. “You know that as well as I do. You see it. You must hate me for my weakness. My weakness must disgust you.”
“We all have our weaknesses,” I said, “but we also have our strengths. Together, Marvin, we’re strong. Look at Nona. Look at Bubby. Look at the amazing lives that have resulted from our love.”
Marvin took us all in his arms and held us tight. He wouldn’t let go. I felt his beating heart. I saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Why is Daddy crying?” asked Nona.
“Because Daddy is happy,” said Marvin. “Because Daddy knows that he’s the luckiest man alive.”
At the park, young children and their parents recognized Marvin. They followed him and our family until there were dozens of admirers encircling him.
“Sing for us!” said one of the kids.
“Yes! Yes!” shouted another.
Standing in front of this group of admirers, he closed his eyes, stood in the sunshine, and sang the words that Jesus spoke when he ascended the mount:
Our Father, who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
In earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil
For thine is the kingdom
And the power
