by Tina Turner
The one sensitive topic after all these years? Decorating. Yes, the decorating wars are ongoing, especially in the country, and no amount of time dedicated to car therapy will ever change that. When I first started spending time at the country house, I thought, Am I going to be comfortable here? I convinced Erwin to go shopping, and I’d say, “Darling, do you like this?” while pointing to a particular piece of furniture. Erwin’s pretend answer would be yes, and then he’d pull the plug on me and order whatever he wanted, usually the opposite of whatever I selected.
This house was Erwin’s refuge, a place to keep simple and masculine. Finally, I said to myself, “Okay, Tina. You’ve had all these houses. Back off. This is his. Let him have it.” But it was—and is—really hard!
Erwin loves to work with his hands—he owns every power tool under the sun. He’s also fascinated by anything with a motor—a car, a motorcycle, even a boat—and his garage is state-of-the-art. For Erwin, driving is a sport. He goes off on weeklong road trips with his fellow car and motorcycle enthusiasts, and he’s always trying to explain to me why these drives are so enjoyable. I say, “It’s a ride. It’s a road. It’s a car. What’s special about that?” But Erwin says it’s a brotherhood, with the kind of deep, through-thick-and-through-thin friendships that come from having shared interests. He argues that any negative image of bikers is just wrong—that they are good, reliable people. All I know is that he’s likely to return from these trips smelling like gasoline. And there was that time he came home from the “Mille Miglia” race in Italy with a little problem. The car, a red Ferrari 340 America racing car from 1951, had a heating issue—the exhaust had made the floor of the car so hot that the rubber sole of Erwin’s Timberland shoe melted off. He had to wrap it with gaffer’s tape so he could walk. That’s dedication! I tease him, but I love that Erwin is passionate about his interests.
My life became so quiet during this period that it might have been the time when the question “Did Tina Turner die?” started to trend in Google searches. If there was any doubt as to whether I was dead or alive, all rumors were put to rest in 2005, when I was honored at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. I resisted it at first, because I couldn’t imagine that I had done anything to deserve a medal—I always saw myself as someone who just got up and went to work. But I dressed up in my best Galliano, joined my fellow honorees, Robert Redford, Tony Bennett, Julie Harris, and Suzanne Farrell, and listened to people say incredibly nice things about me, including President George W. Bush, who announced that I had the most famous legs in show business.
I sat in the theater, watching Al Green, Queen Latifah, and Melissa Etheridge perform my signature songs, and they were all wonderful in their own way. But the real revelation that evening was Beyoncé. She stepped out on the stage wearing one of the first dresses Bob Mackie designed for me (he actually had a duplicate in his archives) and said, “Every now and then, when I think of inspiration, I think of the two Tinas in my life—that’s my mother, Tina, and of course, the amazing Tina Turner. I’ll never forget the first time I saw you perform. I never in my life saw a woman so powerful, so fierce.” I was touched by her heartfelt words. Then, she started singing “Proud Mary.” I’ll tell you, she did a performance that lit the place up. The audience was on their feet the entire time, moving to the music. Everybody was looking at me to see how I felt about someone else doing my song. I loved it! I couldn’t wait to go backstage to tell Beyoncé how fierce and powerful she was.
I was thrilled to meet Caroline Kennedy that night—I instantly thought of her mother and how much she meant to me, and like everyone else in my generation, I had memories of Caroline and her brother when they were little kids. The old Kennedy charm still had a powerful effect on me. I leapt up and exclaimed, “I came because of you!”—every bit as enthusiastic as I had been when I spotted Jackie in that hotel lobby so many years ago. I was so happy to see Caroline, and to hear her soft voice talking about my life made everything worthwhile. She described my singing career, and how I became a star. “But,” she added, “when Tina takes the wig off, the darkness comes.”
But that darkness was lifting. It was becoming such a distant memory that, in 2007, when I learned that Ike had died from a cocaine overdose, I felt strangely disconnected. I knew from the kids that Ike had a hard life. He never got up from under the drugs, he was in and out of prison, and he kept chasing that elusive hit record. His unhappiness weighed so heavily on him that, ultimately, he was destroyed by it. It was a sad story.
Of course, the press bombarded me with questions, looking for a headline and hoping I would issue some kind of statement. But I kept a silent and respectful distance. Ike was totally gone from my life. It was like hearing about a person I didn’t know anymore, a person I hadn’t known for almost thirty years, in fact. When I realized that I didn’t feel anything, I understood that I had truly moved on.
During my break, I channeled my artistic impulses into a music project in Switzerland. My friend Regula Curti invited me to work with her on the Beyond project, her mission to record overlapping and interwoven Christian and Buddhist prayers, and bring them to the people. Chanting was (and is) an important part of my life, and working with Regula to record Beyond, four CDs in all, gave me the opportunity to express my spirituality through song. I was eager to share a spiritual message, but I wasn’t sure what exactly that message should be, so I turned to Deepak Chopra for help. Erwin and I traveled to the Chopra Center in California, where we met with Deepak and asked for his advice. I came away inspired. “Start every day singing like the birds—singing takes you beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond” was one of the messages I wanted to communicate to the Beyond audience.
I know I said that the Twenty Four Seven tour would be my last—that I considered myself retired. But a few things happened to make me reconsider that decision. I had the great pleasure of performing “Proud Mary” with Beyoncé at the 2008 Grammy Awards. She’s one of a kind, a strong woman with a strong voice. Singing and dancing with her took me back to the nights when I had so much fun with my dancers. Sometimes the best part of my job was me and my girls being naughty onstage, as naughty as we wanted to be. It got me thinking . . . did I miss it? Even a tiny bit?
Then one day, I was sitting next to Sophia Loren at an Armani fashion show in Milan. We started talking about what we had been up to lately, and I mentioned that I was taking a break from singing. “How long?” she asked. When I answered, “Oh, about seven years,” she snapped, “Break over! People want to see you. Get back to work.”
Because of my appearance on the Grammys, I found I was getting more than the usual amount of mail from fans. Wherever I went, people slipped me notes, little scraps sometimes scribbled on paper napkins. I saved all of them, and suddenly I realized I had a sizable pile. At that point, I called Roger and said, “It’s time for one last tour.” At the age of sixty-nine, I was ready to come out of my “retirement” and get back on the road. Fittingly, the Fiftieth Anniversary tour would celebrate my half century (oh, that sounds like such a long time) as a singer. We planned on starting in Missouri, where my career started with Ike and the Kings of Rhythm.
I always wanted my shows to be bigger and more exciting for the people, but when we scheduled our opening night in Kansas City, some clueless executive made the decision that I shouldn’t walk out on the “Claw” when I sang “Nutbush” because it would be an insurance risk. He probably thought I was too old to keep my balance. Roger said, “Fine, but who’s going to tell Tina?” The answer was, no one—no one dared to tell Tina. I danced my heart out on that Claw, hanging over the audience and singing “Nutbush one more time!” And that was definitely one of the nights I pretended to slip!
I was excited to get back to work. But I did notice that I wasn’t as energetic as I used to be. At my age, feeling tired was to be expected, considering that I was on a demanding international tour. Plus, I was living with high blood pressure. I had been diagnosed in 1978, and back then, I didn’t thi
nk much of it. It was genetic—both my mother and sister had it. I don’t remember being told exactly what high blood pressure was, or how it might affect my body. I took it literally, like “high” blood pressure was normal for me—so I didn’t worry about getting it down to a lower number. In 1985, my doctor gave me medication, a pill to take once a day, and that was that.
Some nights, as I put on my makeup, I had to push myself to get in the mood. No matter what I was feeling in my dressing room—the lethargy, the aches and pains, the exhaustion—by the time I stepped out on that stage, I was Tina, and the audience saw the Tina they wanted to see. But I knew the difference. For me, every song I sing is an opportunity to take flight, to soar. With each show, it became harder and harder for me to get into second gear, to fly the way I was used to flying.
I believed that my body had started to react to working with high blood pressure and the medication, and that was the reason I couldn’t hit my notes. Dammit! I wanted to hit those notes. Whatever was holding me back, I had to fight it, and it took every drop of energy and life for me to make it through my performance each night. Roger would come into my dressing room after the show and look at me, kind of like he knew that I was just too tired to keep this up much longer.
At one point during the tour, I got sick with a very bad chest cold. We had to reschedule a couple of shows, so our final performance was set for May 5, 2009, in Sheffield, a city in Yorkshire about three hours north of London. Sheffield was the hometown of my lead dancer, Claire, so we really had fun that night. I wanted everyone to leave that place having had the best time. I’m sure that anyone who was in the audience remembers Tina Turner’s last show. I think over a million people in North America and Europe ended up seeing the Fiftieth Anniversary tour, and to this day, fans tell me how much they enjoyed it.
After the final performance, I went back to the hotel. I was very quiet. I knew this was it. I got up the next morning, didn’t see anybody, not even Roger, and boarded the plane with Erwin. I sat there, still, calm, resolute. I took a deep breath and told myself, “I’m not going back.”
Let me say this carefully, because I don’t want anyone to take it the wrong way, but after working so hard for so many years, I was ready to stop. This was the moment to do it because I wanted to finish with my fans remembering me at my best. I didn’t want them to come to a show in a year, or two years, and think, Oh, she used to be good. I had a lot of pride and I’ve always had great timing. There’s a wise expression, “Leave the party before it’s over.” I was ready to say goodbye to “Proud Mary,” ready to hang up my dancing shoes, and ready to go home.
10
* * *
“COMPLICATED DISASTER”
“All the plans we were making
Just got washed away with the tears”
It’s so funny when people ask, “Well, what are you going to do now that you’re retired.” The whole point is not to do anything—not to have to, and not to plan to. I wanted to be at home with my things. I wanted to shop for food, take walks with Erwin, work in my garden and put my hands in the soil, watch the seasons change by the lake, and most of all, I wanted to enjoy the quiet. I don’t need music, although every now and then there are certain songs that make me want to sing along. I’ll tell you what I like these days, “Something Just Like This” (“doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo”) by The Chainsmokers and Coldplay. I love that one!
I saw Mick at a show sometime after my final tour, and I sensed that he wanted to reprimand me when I told him I was retiring. The only time I remember him being silent and not coming back at me with a quick retort was when I asked him, “Mick, do you ever get tired?” He was quiet for a long time. I suspected the answer was yes, but he would never say that. He has his own way about him. I think he will stay out there as long as he possibly can, as long as he can walk. And that’s fine. He’s Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones, and he’s really, really good at it.
I loved retirement from the start. I felt good, and I think I still looked good; I certainly didn’t look my age. I’m not one to exercise—my figure always came from my work, from all those years of dancing. I say that the main reason I’ve stayed in shape is that I’ve spent fifty years doing the most intensive stage workouts ever! But I can also say that I’ve never used drugs, or smoked a cigarette, and that helps. I like to get eight hours of sleep whenever possible, and I don’t just leap out of bed unless I have to be up for an appointment. I move slowly these days because I like things to be nice . . . and easy.
I must be doing something right because in 2013, German Vogue asked me to be on its cover. I think I can safely say that, at the age of seventy-three, I was the oldest cover “girl” in Vogue’s history. I was happy to strike a confident pose for photographers Claudia Knoepfel and Stefan Indlekofer, my hands resting on my hips and wearing a stunning blue gown by Giorgio Armani, because I felt I was making a very positive statement for women of all ages. When I was performing, I used to say that age was never a priority, or even a thought. I was ageless. I feel the same way about how I live my life now. If you take care of yourself inside and out, you can radiate beauty and happiness. The number, whatever it is, doesn’t mean a thing.
But with maturity, there comes a time when you have to start putting things in place, when you want to take control. I decided to curate my life—to get rid of anything I didn’t need. I sold some property, including my house in the South of France, which was beautiful but no longer a place where I wanted to spend time because I was so happy in Switzerland. And I started thinking about Erwin. We had been together for twenty-six years, a couple in every way, except legally. He was the closest person to me in this life, and I thought it was unfair that if anything happened to me he would have no say or legal standing. We both knew it was time to take the next step.
I said yes to Erwin’s romantic marriage proposal on our wonderful cruise through the Greek isles in 2012. I also made a commitment to our life together in Switzerland by applying for citizenship. I don’t want to give the wrong impression about my decision to give up my American passport. A lot of thought went into it. I will never surrender the part of me that was born in America, or that feels “American.” But my life changed when I fell in love with Erwin and started living in Europe. With every passing year, I had fewer and fewer reasons to go back to America. My beloved sister Alline died in 2010. As for my sons, well, they’re adults with their own lives, and I’m only a phone call or a plane trip away. It made sense for me to embrace Switzerland, the country where I lived (and had lived for almost two decades), as my official home.
Let me tell you, it’s much easier to be born the citizen of a country than to become one. I had to pass a difficult test, so difficult that I prepared by studying with a teacher. Among other things, I had to learn Swiss history and a little High German, the most correct (and difficult) form of the language. Then, I had to appear before a committee that would evaluate my candidacy. I asked if Erwin could accompany me on my big day, but I was told no, just the applicant.
I walked into the room and found myself face-to-face with seven judges. I’ve performed in front of millions of people and never felt apprehensive, not for one second, but in front of this group . . . well, I was terrified. Hoping to make a tense situation a little lighter, I immediately admitted to being very nervous. No reaction. Then I passed around candy I had purchased for the occasion, admittedly a desperate ploy, but who doesn’t like candy? Especially in Switzerland. Still no reaction, and I thought, Tina, the candy’s not working either. The committee was taking its job very seriously. I was on my own.
A man with a heavy voice said, “Tina, do you realize that you have to speak the language before you can apply for citizenship?”
“Yes,” I answered, eager to please. “I can tell you who I am, where I came from, and how many children I have, in High German.” Sort of. I could try, and if I needed help, I was allowed to consult a little booklet of answers.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but I swear that one of the younger interviewers was staring at me, trying to make me feel more nervous than I already was.
I took a deep breath and said, “Ich bin Tina Turner.”
To answer the next question, I had to peek in the book. I remembered to ask, “May I?”—“Darf ich?” My teacher constantly reminded me that the Swiss are sticklers for manners, always ask permission—and I did that successfully, too.
The final question was the most difficult. “Can you tell us something you know about Switzerland?”
My mind went blank, until I remembered that recently I had been at a party with someone who was describing “Schweizerpsalm,” the Swiss national anthem. The person observed that it was very church-like—more like a hymn than a typically patriotic song, and “Schweizerpsalm” actually means “Swiss psalm.” On the spot, I decided to make this the subject of my answer. “I’m in the process of learning the national anthem,” I said with authority, “and I think it’s interesting that it sounds so religious, like something that you’d hear in a church.”
The interviewer was taken aback. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if I’d started talking about DJ BoBo, a Swiss rock singer, but he never expected Tina Turner to bring up the national anthem, the country’s most hallowed piece of music. Turns out it was the perfect answer. Once again, I was saved by a song. The committee approved my application, and I became the proud holder of a Swiss passport.
