After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye

by Jan Gaye

  In the end, though, I was gratified to be included in this long-form composition. When Marvin fell back to earth, he was finally able to look away from his obsession with Anna and turn to me. I was there in the studio, sitting next to him, when he wrote the final song in this remarkable suite, “Falling in Love Again.”

  “You are my muse,” he told me. “You are my happiness. I’ve lost out on love once, but I won’t lose twice. When someone real comes in, when someone you feel comes in, love is renewed. I am renewed. Once I turn in this record, I will be a new man. Our love will be born again.”

  “What are you going to call it?” I asked.

  “Dick Gregory gave me the title. He said, ‘Call it Here, My Dear.’ I will hand the album to Anna and say, ‘This is the record that the judge ordained. This is the record that our marriage made possible, the one that our divorce demanded. Here, my dear. This record belongs to you, but I belong to Jan.’”

  I wanted to believe him but was moved to say, “I wonder whether you’ll ever belong to one woman and one woman alone?”

  “You are that woman—I swear. How better to prove that than to ask for your hand in marriage?”

  “You’ve asked before, Marvin.”

  “And I’m asking again. The divorce is final. I’m free. We can do this. Marry me.”

  I was thinking:

  His words are pretty, but don’t let them deceive you. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he can defeat his demons. His faith is great, but his fears are greater. The strength of his spirit is under constant attack by his gnawing insecurities. He may seek happiness, but in fact he thrives in chaos. How will that ever change?

  At the same time, I was praying:

  He is sincere; he is in love with the God of love; he loves me; he loves our children; he has sworn off the crazy drama; he has dedicated himself to peace and harmony.

  My thinking, no matter how delusional, was reinforced when Marvin, in fact, married me. It happened in October 10, 1977, in New Orleans while Marvin was on tour. The ceremony took place in the home of our friends Andrew and Laura Brown. Neither Marvin’s parents nor mine attended. A judge officiated. I wore a beige peasant blouse and a flowing skirt in dark maroon. Nona and Frankie wore matching outfits. Marvin and I wore expressions of fear, excitement, and love. I fell ill about an hour before the ceremony but made it through. In spite of being blasted on the best smoke and coke available in the state of Louisiana, Marvin and I functioned pretty well.

  Being blasted was the norm. It had been the norm for Marvin since his Motown days back in the sixties. It had been the norm for me since moving in with my mom in the seventies. This was our culture. No one was chiding us or warning us or even mildly advising us about being blasted.

  This was the white-out cocaine blizzard of the times.

  We hung out with Richard Pryor at the Circle Star Theater in Northern California, and the blizzard was in full force. Richard was one of Marvin’s biggest fans. And Marvin loved him back.

  “I wanna be Marvin when I grow up,” Richard told me.

  And this, I thought to myself, is the great Richard Pryor talking!

  So how could anything be wrong with Marvin when a genius like Richard Pryor looked at him as a god?

  When Richard invited Marvin and me for an evening to watch bikini-clad dancers having sex with each other, I was introduced to the term “freaky deaky.” We became obsessed with the phrase and even named one of our puppies Freaky. The evening was uncomfortable for me, but I went along with the program. Who was I to object when Richard Pryor and Marvin Gaye were having so much fun?

  When at a dinner party at Richard’s house he referred to me as “Peach Juice Johnson,” I accepted it as a term of endearment. When at that same party he got so coked up that he hit his wife over the head with a wine bottle and called everyone at the table “a fuckin’ whore” except me, Marvin laughed and said I should be flattered. That night we were the last to leave the party.

  Coke may have been making Richard crazy, but I remained convinced that Marvin and I could handle our drugs.

  After all, Marvin was getting health advice from Dick Gregory, another close friend. Dick spoke of Marvin in the same breath as Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, and Miles Davis. Dick was not only funny, but a brilliant thinker and author. Seeing Marvin through Dick’s eyes, I fell in love with my husband all over again.

  “His music has changed our world,” Dick told me. “And as long as he’s healthy, his music will become even more profound.”

  Marvin accepted the regimen of vitamins and supplements from Dick and vowed to double his exercise and stop drugging.

  The good times were not rare. Lem Barney and Mel Farr, his friends from the Detroit Lions, would come visit with their wonderful wives. They were the sweetest, most welcoming people in the world. Whenever they stayed with us in California, our mood turned happy and our burdens seemed to lift.

  There were always good times when Marvin played the Circle Star Theater in San Carlos, California. It was run by Don Jo Medlevine, who had once owned the Chez Paree in Chicago, where he had booked Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, and Wayne Newton. An old-fashioned tough guy, Don Jo adored Marvin. Marvin saw him as a second father—a kind and understanding father. Don Jo’s go-to gal and second-in-command was Barbara Stroum, who became my best friend. When things got rough in my life, I could always turn to Barbara for support. She was the surest and steadiest ally I’ve ever known. She also worked tirelessly for Marvin to make sure that his tours went smoothly, a thankless task. Her contribution to his success was great.

  Don Jo loved to indulge Marvin. He once took us to Frank Sinatra’s retreat in Palm Springs. Frank wasn’t there, but we got a private tour. Don Jo also got Jilly Rizzo to work with Marvin on several dates. Marvin and I had met Jilly at Matteo’s, an Italian restaurant in Westwood. Given how Marvin revered Sinatra, he was thrilled to be associated with Jilly. He loved the link to the Rat Pack.

  “Just like Jilly’s got Frank’s back,” said Don Jo, “he’ll have your back. You’re as good as gold, Marvin. Only the best for you.”

  Maybe the best time of all was our belated but beautiful honeymoon in Jamaica. It would have been that much better had we not traveled with an entourage of a dozen or so hangers-on. No matter: it turned out to be a lovely respite from the road, a few days in paradise where just watching Nona and Bubby run along the beach in the golden glow of a spectacular sunset was enough to bring tears to our eyes. We were dedicated to making this marriage work. This blessed family would thrive.

  Marvin rededicated himself to health. I did the same. Once off the road, Marvin was all about basketball games on the court of our Hidden Hills home. I was all about jogging, tennis, and swimming. We were both all about purging the toxins from our bodies with long fasts. After the fasts, we were all about consuming great quantities of raw vegetables and fruits.

  Marvin was also all about cuddling with Nona and little Frankie and reassuring me that this time the change was permanent. The good times were here to stay.

  In January 1978, the good times led us back to New Orleans and Super Bowl XII in the Superdome, where the party was just too great to resist. How could he not get stoned at the Super Bowl? I followed his lead, and soon we were flying high as Dallas crushed the Broncos. By then we had become friends with Cowboys Thomas “Hollywood” Henderson, Tony Dorsett, and Ed “Too Tall” Jones. Marvin loved hanging out with star athletes. Their company made him feel good.

  “Good times are getting better,” said Marvin.

  “Not so good,” said Marvin’s lawyer, who had gotten a telegram saying that federal marshals had seized his Sunset studio because of unpaid back taxes.

  “Just pay the taxes,” said Marvin.

  “With what?” asked the attorney. “You’re seven million dollars in debt. You’re about to lose everything—the house in Hidden Hills, the cars, the boats, the property.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

 
; “Before, I said that the wolf was at the door. But now the wolf is inside. He’s at your throat, Marvin.”

  “‘The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,’” said Marvin. “Do you know who I’m quoting?”

  “No,” said the lawyer.

  “Isaiah eleven, six through nine. ‘The leopard shall lie down with the young goat, and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together; and a little child shall lead them.’”

  “I applaud your optimism, Marvin, but I think this is something more like a financial apocalypse.”

  All this talk of an apocalypse frightened me.

  “If the apocalypse comes,” said Marvin, “if, in fact, these are the last days, then the prophecy will be fulfilled. ‘I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s day, and I heard behind me a loud voice like the sound of a trumpet.’ The last book of the Bible is Revelation. The last great battle is Armageddon. Two lords wage the final war. The Lord of Love and the Lord of Evil. Who will win?”

  “I suspect,” said the attorney, “the IRS.”

  Hawaii Is Heaven/Hawaii Is Hell

  A big gig in Hawaii came at a fortunate time. Hawaii was where Marvin and I escaped the realities of a mainland where his financial empire had crumbled. It was only through the offices of Berry Gordy that Marvin was able to hold on to his studio and home. Gordy paid the IRS bill for Marvin while, at the same time, binding him to a new long-term contract.

  “It’s humiliating to still be in Berry’s debt,” Marvin told me as we walked along the private beach in front of the Kahala Hilton on the island of Oahu.

  “What other choice did you have?” I asked. “Who else would bail you out?”

  “No one. That’s why the irony is so thick. I declared my independence from Berry long ago. That was the point of What’s Going On. Free myself of the Motown machine. Go my own way. Now look . . .”

  “What I see, dear,” I said, “is that you’re still doing what you want to do, still making the music you want to make.”

  “That will never change.”

  “Then everything is all right.”

  “Until Berry and Anna listen to Here, My Dear. How is he going to feel about putting out a record on his label that slams his own beloved older sister?”

  “I told you,” I reminded Marvin, “that there are lyrics that went too far.”

  Marvin chuckled. “Either way, Berry won’t be happy. He adores his sister. She has been as much a mother to him as she has been a mother to me. Now that I am casting aspersions on her, how can he not be pissed off?”

  “But you have creative control. You can put out any record you want.”

  “That, my dear, is exactly right. And I will.”

  “And you’ll take care of all those money matters that your accountants say you can’t afford to ignore.”

  “We can’t afford to ignore this splendid Pacific Ocean that calls to us like the Siren’s song. The spirit of the islands is on us. It’s calm and healing and soothing to our souls. This is where we need to be, Jan—far away from everyone.”

  “It’ll be fun. The Jacksons are opening. You love them.”

  “The Jacksons only make it worse. After Michael’s through dancing, the crowd will be ecstatic, and in no mood to hear me.”

  “That’s not true. You and Michael are totally different,” I said.

  “We are, but at the same time I do not underestimate Michael Jackson.”

  “Michael idolizes you,” I said.

  “But not enough to keep him from putting on a show that will put mine to shame.”

  “Stop it!” I shouted. “You are Marvin Gaye!”

  That night the kids had fallen asleep and Marvin and I were chilling in our suite. The windows were wide open. The tropical breeze was blowing strong.

  A knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” I asked. I looked through the peephole.

  The high-pitched voice was tentative. “It’s Michael. If I’m disturbing you two, I’ll go away.”

  I opened the door. “No, no . . . come on in, Michael. Hey, dear, look who’s here.”

  “Hey, Mike,” said Marvin. “Pull up a chair. Have a toke.”

  “Oh, no thanks,” said Michael, refusing the joint. “I don’t ever . . .”

  “So I’ve heard. Well, that’s great. More power to you, brother. What’s happening?”

  Twenty years old at the time, Michael fought his shyness to say, “I just wanted to come by and say hello to my favorite singer.”

  “Love you too, Michael,” said Marvin.

  “I wanted to know if I could come by the studio when we get home. You could give me some tips.”

  “Man, I should be getting tips from you, Mike. You should be teaching me some of your moves.”

  “They’re nothing.”

  “They’re dynamite. I know Berry’s kicking himself for letting you guys off Motown. He should have met CBS’s price and then some. Are you happy over there at CBS?”

  “Very. They finally gave us what you got from Mr. Gordy a long time ago—creative freedom. I tried to follow your lead, Marvin. My hope was that if you could write and produce your own material, I should be able to do the same. But Mr. Gordy didn’t see it that way.”

  “Now radio won’t stop playing that dance hit of yours. What’s it called?”

  “‘Shake Your Body Down to the Ground.’”

  “Sing a few bars,” said Marvin. “Show me your moves. Let me see if I can follow.”

  “Sure you can,” Michael reassured Marvin.

  When Michael started singing, Marvin did his best to follow a few of Michael’s signature moves. He was not successful.

  “Making a fool of myself,” said Marvin.

  “You’re doing just fine,” Michael reassured him.

  Michael kept singing as Marvin tried negotiating a few spins. Mocking his own attempts to keep up, Marvin broke out laughing.

  “I’m hopeless,” he conceded.

  “You’re great,” Michael exclaimed with a little giggle.

  “I’ll never be Michael Jackson,” said Marvin.

  “And I’ll never be Marvin Gaye,” said Michael.

  As they hugged, I thought, This is a very cool moment to witness.

  Michael’s visit did Marvin a world of good.

  The concert came off beautifully. Marvin’s dance moves remained modest but effective. His singing was sweeter than ever. Even though the Jacksons were enjoying a huge pop hit at a time when Marvin was not on the charts, they treated him with great respect. After the show, Michael wanted to come back to the suite for another long hang with Marvin.

  “Tell him another time,” Marvin instructed me. “I love Michael, but I want to be alone.”

  When we returned to America, Marvin’s money problems continued to mount. Motown’s payment to the IRS satisfied only one creditor. There were many others. The only thing that could save Marvin was a blockbuster album. Yet the only music Marvin returned to after completing Here, My Dear—clearly not a blockbuster—was the collection of ballads that would eventually be titled Vulnerable.

  “Vulnerability is the necessary condition for producing great art,” Marvin insisted. “The more vulnerable, the more human, the more honest the feelings.”

  I saw how he felt especially vulnerable when it came to be time for Anna to listen to Here, My Dear, a month before it was released. That’s why he made sure not to be around when she came to the Sunset studio. Engineer Art Stewart was at the controls. For the entire time it took the two-disc album to play, Anna sat without expression as she listened to the story of her life with Marvin. When the last track—“Falling in Love Again”—was over, she got up, politely thanked Art for his time, and quickly left.

  “What did she say?” I heard Marvin ask Art the next day.

  “Nothing.”

  “Was she okay?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t tell,” said Art.

  Weeks later there were rumors that Anna would sue for slander, but she never did.


  In LA, Marvin’s world was increasingly pressure-packed. His money managers showed him that the only way he could hold on to the studio and the Hidden Hills home was to generate income immediately. That meant touring. When a promoter offered still another tour of Japan, Marvin refused. Still uncomfortable on planes, he hated the idea of a twelve-hour flight. When I suggested that we cut the trip in half by stopping over in Hawaii, Marvin’s eyes lit up.

  “Not just a stopover, but stay a while,” he said. “Only this time let’s take the kids and go to Maui. Maui has a spiritual vibe that’s sure to chill us out.”

  Marvin and I required a great deal of chilling out.

  Although marrying my man was the fulfillment of a dream, the dream was dissipating before my very eyes. I wondered whether our vows had changed the chemistry. Was Marvin happier when he viewed me as his girlfriend rather than his wife? Did the formal institution of marriage feel restrictive to Marvin? Did it bring out the rebel in him? Did he see the commitment as another prison, just as he felt imprisoned by his long-term marriage to Anna?

  Even worse, I worried that Marvin was simply tiring of me.

  That’s why I hoped this trip to Hawaii might restore the romance that had been eroding.

  In the beginning, there was a restoration of sorts. Maui did have a magical quality that put Marvin in a mellow mood. Seated on the balcony of our beachfront condo, we held hands as we looked at the landscape before us: the orange sun sinking into the green-blue sea, the gulls sweeping across the majestic sky, the distant mountains shrouded in mist.

  Marvin put his arm around me and said, “We are blessed to be in paradise, aren’t we, dear?”

  “Yes,” I said, my heart filled with the hope that this trip would ease the tension and bring us closer.

  “I love you, dear,” he said.

  “I love you, too.”

  “I know you do, but things are changing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that while I love you, I’m no longer certain that I am in love with you.”