by Tina Turner
It was late in the evening at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia. The temperature reached ninety-five degrees, and the audience had been there all day, listening to everyone from Tom Petty and Madonna to the Beach Boys and Bob Dylan. Now they were waiting for Mick, who wasn’t about to let extreme heat stop him from giving his usual high-energy performance. He was always very physical (although I always smiled when I remembered his impromptu dance classes with me and the Ikettes back in London). That’s what his fans expected to see.
I was making a surprise appearance that night to sing two songs with Mick, and before we went onstage, we spoke briefly about the tempo. Hall & Oates were playing backup for Mick, who was working as a solo artist, without the Rolling Stones, and I was concerned that they were playing a little slow. I need momentum. I can’t dance to slow. I said, “Mick, I don’t know if this is going to work if they can’t pick it up.” He told me not to worry, that he would take care of it. “I know what you want,” he said. “You want it fast.” And he went out and talked to the band about picking it up.
When he came back, he asked me, “So, what are we going to do?” Mick and I could never just stand there and sing. That wasn’t us. We had to do something. He looked me over—I was wearing a tight-fitting black leather top and skirt—and I could see a naughty idea forming.
“Does that skirt come off?” he asked slyly.
“What!” was my startled reply.
“I’m going to take your skirt off.”
I asked him why, but it was too late to talk it through. Mick had already made up his mind to do it. “Just to create something,” he said. Understandably, I was a little nervous because I’d never had my skirt taken off onstage. Luckily, I was prepared. In those days especially, you didn’t just wear undies. I wore fishnet stockings over my underwear, then dancer’s briefs over that—if my skirt came off, there would be nothing to see except a costume under a costume—I was covered, I reassured myself. And Mick knew I was covered. We were professionals.
Mick walked onto the stage, thanked the audience for bearing up under the heat, and then called, “Where’s Tina?” I came out and we went right into “State of Shock.” It was good, but a little too tame for Mick, who likes a lot of excitement. When we started “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll,” he pulled off his shirt, danced around bare-chested, then sashayed off the stage to change into a yellow jacket and camouflage pants, singing, “But I like it,” the whole time.
He came back, and without missing a beat, he reached for my waist. I felt—oh my God, I felt him feeling around where the snap was. I knew it was going to happen. I glanced down because I wondered, how did I look at that moment? When he pulled off my skirt with a flourish, I saw with relief that it wasn’t bad. Thanks to the dancer’s briefs holding me in like a girdle, and the fishnet stockings hiding my underwear, everything was in shape and in place, like a dancer. I managed to appear startled—that’s the actress in me—and I ducked behind Mick to make it really look like it was a surprise. The audience loved it.
Mick is just naughty, you know? We just play. The first time I appeared onstage with him, he tried to press the microphone in my crotch. He’s like every bad boy you’ve ever known at school. That’s why I always think of the Rolling Stones as boys, because I’ve raised sons. When you raise boys, you know they are playful. I always had to be on guard with Mick because I never knew what prank was coming next. But he’s like a brother. It wasn’t as if some random guy pulled off my skirt. It was like a boy I knew did it . . . a very old “boy.”
Mick has a quick wit. I remember that right after I left Ike, I visited Mick in his dressing room after a show, and when he saw me he teased, “I don’t want any liberated women in here.” I could tell that he was happy for me, and that he wanted to acknowledge the important changes in my life, but he did it his way, with a dry, humorous twist.
A year after Live Aid, I ran into Mick at the Prince’s Trust concert at Wembley Arena in London. Conversation between us is always like a game of Ping-Pong because he likes to compete, compete, compete. I said something like, “Oh Mick, your hair looks so good.” Without pausing for a second, he answered back, “Yes, and it’s mine.” That’s Mick, pointing out the difference between my wig and his natural locks. No one can outtalk him. That’s why he gives the best interviews. He knows how to have fun with journalists—how to turn the questions around and throw them right back at the person asking, so he always comes out on top.
No matter how much he teased me, Mick and the other Stones have always been there when I needed them. I know we’re friends. I know we can depend on each other. Meanwhile, for the rest of our lives, Mick and I will continue teasing each other and being playful. That’s our way.
I had the most wonderful times when my solo career took flight. I could literally count my blessings—and I did—following the Private Dancer album: touring with the Rolling Stones, Rod Stewart, Lionel Ritchie, and Bryan Adams; making a Mad Max movie with Mel Gibson; the Grammys; recording a duet with David Bowie—I enjoyed artistic freedom and commercial success.
When I left Ike, I gathered all the awards we had won together and put them away. I said to myself, “All right, I’m going to see what I can do on my own.” I went on to fill the empty spaces with new awards, certificates, and silver, platinum, and triple platinum albums. People called me an “overnight sensation.” Of course, there is no such thing, but there are second acts. The second time around, I had the opportunity to rewrite my life—to do it all over again, as I wanted—without having to live in the shadow of someone else. Ike always told me that I was holding him back. But I realized it was just the opposite. With every blow to my body—and to my self-esteem—he was holding me back. Without Ike, I could soar.
Mark Knopfler summed it up perfectly when he wrote the song “Overnight Sensation” for me. We were in Canada at the time. He caught my performance, and, that night, as he watched me closely, the idea came to him to write a song about a girl who’s been out there a long time. She’s been in the badlands, yet she never stopped dreaming. When Mark first gave me the song I thought, Do I want to sing this? Do I want to be reminded of Ike, and how bad it was until I left him? Mark’s song helped me understand that it was the road I’d had to take—that what happened was my destiny. Ike would always be a part of my story, but he was becoming the receding image in the rearview mirror. I had to think about the future, not the past.
After I started working with Roger, Ike asked our sons to approach me about going out on the road with him one more time. He even spoke to Roger. I think he had some crazy idea about teaming up with Sonny & Cher on an “exes tour,” if you can imagine that. I said to Roger, “Are you nuts? You have no idea what you would be dealing with if we worked with Ike. He’s a con man, and that’s not even the worst thing I could say about him.” I couldn’t bear the thought of standing on a stage with Ike, let alone consider singing his music.
I didn’t have to worry about confrontations with Ike for very long. The bigger my success, the quieter he became. That’s strange, isn’t it? After “What’s Love Got to Do with It” hit number 1 on the charts, there were no more appeals for a reunion of any kind. I think Ike finally realized that I wasn’t coming back.
I never heard from Ike Turner again.
Not a single word up to the day he died on December 12, 2007.
8
* * *
“FOREIGN AFFAIR”
“There’s romance in the air, so they say
Love could be a small café away”
As I told poor Roger over and over again, probably until he was sick of hearing it—my long-held dream was to pack a stadium or a giant arena, just like the Rolling Stones. That dream came true with the 1985 Private Dancer tour. We did 180 shows in ten months, traveling the world to locations in North America, Europe, Australia, and Asia. Over two million people came to see the “new Tina,” the solo artist now known for “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “Let’s Stay Together,” and “Private Dancer.”
But I still sang their old favorites, especially “Proud Mary” and “River Deep—Mountain High,” and the audience loved hearing them. Billboard magazine wrote, “She comes to give,” and that’s exactly how I felt. I was thrilled to be on that stage. “Are you ready for me?” I’d ask the crowd. Boy, were they ready! It was hard work, but I gave it my all, from when I came out kicking, right up to the last encore, which was usually my version of the ZZ Top song “Legs.”
Speaking of legs, Billboard also said that I had “the most kinetic legs in the business.” I was—and I am still—amused by the constant attention paid to my legs. I truly don’t get the fuss. Did you ever see a pony’s legs when it’s just born? Long and spindly? That’s what my legs always looked like to me. When I was young, I used to think, “Why do I look like a little pony?” My short torso is hooked onto these two little dangling legs, but I’ve learned how to wear clothes to flatter them. In Nutbush, no one would have looked twice at my legs. Black women who were full and curvy were considered beautiful, but my body, which was just skinny and straight, never turned any heads. I know how to make myself look good, but I wouldn’t call myself a pretty woman.
Being on tour for almost a year left me with very little time for a personal life. I’d been without a serious boyfriend for ages. Not that I ever had a lot of men in my life—I spent my entire youth with Ike—and, after my divorce, dating was often more trouble than it was worth. I was never one of those women who had to have sex no matter what. There have been times when I’ve gone up to a year without it, to be honest. If you saw me on a man’s arm, it meant something. I didn’t go out with men just to have companionship. There were a few infatuations here and there, but nothing important. Don’t laugh, but I’d always been a little nervous about starting a relationship with a new man because I didn’t know how my wig would be received!
The wig is a critical part of the Tina Turner look. If I walked out onstage with “natural” hair, the audience wouldn’t recognize me. They’d say, “Where’s Tina?” I once went to a doctor in St. Louis who actually asked me about my race while he was taking my medical history. When I said, “Black,” he argued with me. “Your hair,” he pointed out incredulously, noting that it was straight and lustrous. He had no idea I was wearing a wig, and that’s a reaction I get all the time.
I’m not surprised when people think my wig is my own hair, because I’ve always considered it to be an extension of myself. In a way, it is my hair. When I was performing, I never wanted the wig to become like a costume—some entertainers change wigs the way they change clothes—so I kept my look consistent. If my “hair” was curly offstage, I used the same basic style and color onstage: I just made it look more dramatic. “I prepare it like a three-course meal,” I used to say in the eighties, when high hair was “in.” I washed it, let it dry, forked it up, added gooey stuff, and forked it up and let it dry again. It was exaggerated, but it worked. When I was onstage, I handled the hair as if it were my own, flipping it, running my hands through it, and pushing it away from my face. The way I tossed that hair when I danced was so realistic that no one could be absolutely certain it wasn’t, as Mick liked to say, mine.
I will never stop wearing a wig. But as much as I loved the convenience and easy beauty it gave me, I always ran the risk of meeting a man who might object: a man who would have a problem becoming romantically involved with Tina, with her bountiful hair and glamorous trimmings, but waking up with unadorned Anna Mae. What if he was disappointed by the real me? I was always a bit nervous about taking that chance.
This dilemma wasn’t a pressing concern, because I was working so hard on the Private Dancer tour that I really didn’t have time for a boyfriend. At least, that’s what I told myself until the day Roger and I flew into Cologne for a big show. I was tired and a little down, thinking of the grueling schedule ahead. As we walked through the airport, a young man stepped out from behind a column to greet us. I thought he was a stranger, maybe a fan, but Roger recognized him right away and greeted him warmly, saying “Hello, Erwin.” He was Erwin Bach, an executive from EMI, my record company in Europe, and he was there to deliver a surprise from Roger, a new Mercedes jeep, the hard-to-get G-Wagon. But the real surprise wasn’t the car, it was the man!
Apparently, the keys this charismatic stranger held in his hand were to my heart, which suddenly started to beat BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, drowning out all other sounds. My hands were ice-cold. My body was shaking inside. This is what they call love at first sight, I marveled. All I could think—if I could think at all—was, Oh my God, I am not ready for this. The heartthrob in front of me held out his arms and said hello. I thought, Well I’m not going into those arms, although I wanted to, but I didn’t trust myself. We finished our introductions and pleasantries and walked out of the airport. Roger hopped into our waiting limousine, while I got into the G-Wagon with Erwin so he could tell me all about it while driving me to the hotel.
I studied him from the side while we were driving. He was young—about thirty, I guessed—and he was very pretty, although not in a conventional way. He had dark hair and really great hands. There’s something about a man’s hands I like. Suddenly, I felt very insecure about my own looks. I was wearing an Issey Miyake sweater with leather jeans—rock ’n’ roll stuff—and while I was very colorful, when I look back I’m sure it was not my best moment. My hair was Big, Big, Big in those days, big and wild. I had just forked and teased it, like that proverbial three-course meal, so it was sticking out. That was my style, it was what people expected to see. But if you ask me, I didn’t look so good and I doubt that Erwin found me attractive. Oh, and if the hair wasn’t enough of a turn-off, I was forty-six, divorced, and the mother of two—really four—“children” who, if I was being completely honest, were practically men . . . just like Erwin.
What was going through Erwin’s mind? Later, much later, I found out that he was feeling the same inexplicable electrical charge that passed through me. He described our meeting as being magical, and claimed that when he looked at me, he didn’t see the “star,” or my skin color, or any other details. He saw a woman—a very desirable woman, but he didn’t know what to do with his feelings.
Our conversation was a little strained in the G-Wagon. I was having trouble focusing (apparently, he was, too), and there was a bit of a language barrier. Erwin was extremely well educated and knew English, but he hadn’t been speaking it a lot, so there were some awkward silences. Snap back, I told myself during the ride that was weirdly both too short and too long. Speak! Desperate for something to say, I asked him to show me the switch for the fog lights (as if that were a real question), and he blushed as he tried to find it. We managed to chat haltingly about the dashboard and other innocuous subjects until we got to the hotel.
I said goodbye, and still shaking, I made it upstairs to my room, threw myself on the bed, and thought, Gosh, he’s wonderful. Really wonderful. What do I do now? I was shocked. I’d had no idea that I would find swoony, love-at-first-sight love in Germany. I almost had the sense that we’d connected in another life. Now I had to figure out how to connect in this life.
I call making things happen “knitting,” and I’m very good at it. The next night, I was at a dinner with the EMI team, including Erwin. I announced that I was having a Christmas party (a decision I had made that very moment) and they were all invited (yes, I’d just thought of that, too). Then, in a real stroke of genius, I added, “Okay, everybody. I want your birth dates so I can have your astrological charts done to get to know you better.” There was only one person I wanted to know better—Erwin—and the more I learned about him (one psychic warned me that you can’t tell him what to do—which is absolutely true to this day), the more I was attracted to him. It didn’t matter that he was younger, or that he lived in Europe. You know what I think? I think I needed love. I really needed to love a person. I was a free woman, free to choose. And I chose Erwin.
I was kind of naughty in those early days. One night, when we were
sitting next to each other at yet another business dinner, I said to myself, I don’t care. I’m just going to ask him. I looked at him—so handsome in his Lacoste shirt, jeans, and loafers without socks—and whispered, “Erwin, when you come to America, I want you to make love to me.” He turned his head slowly and just looked at me, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. I couldn’t believe what I had said either! Later, he told me he had never heard that from a woman. His first thought was Wow, those California girls are really wild. But I wasn’t wild. I’d never done anything remotely like that before. I didn’t recognize myself.
Eventually, Erwin came to Los Angeles on business, and there was a dinner at Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s famous see-and-be-seen restaurant. I invited everyone back to my house after dinner (another one of my not-so-subtle contrivances), and that’s when our real romance began. The music was playing, the other guests drifted away, the kissing began, and we kissed all the way to the bedroom. Erwin stayed with me that night.
Remember, I’d never had much experience with love or courtship. My first crush in high school ended in heartbreak. I was still a teenager when I had my first adult relationship, with Raymond, my son Craig’s father. And then there was my marriage to Ike, and you know how that went. It took me decades to start behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl, and I was enjoying the roller-coaster ride of emotions that came with my second adolescence.
The next morning, Erwin was scheduled to go to Hawaii on a business trip. I dropped him off at his hotel and drove home, on cloud nine the whole way. When Rhonda, who was always behind a camera, brought me some pictures of the two of us at dinner the night before, I immediately slipped them into frames and displayed them around the house. Erwin was in my thoughts for the next two days . . . until he called and casually mentioned that the trip to Hawaii had been canceled. He was a few miles away in Malibu—he’d been there the whole time, hanging out at the beach with his colleagues, and hadn’t thought to tell me. I tried to stay cool, but inside I was furious. “Tina, you stupid old fool,” I fumed at myself. Why did I make such bad choices in men? Why was there always disappointment? I couldn’t bear the thought of being hurt again. I was better off alone, I decided.
