. . . I guess it was his destiny . . .
When we flew over to Britain in September, all I could think about was Chelsea. I wished that I had her there with me. So I wasn't even stirred by all of the people who greeted us at Heathrow. They were screaming, crying, falling out, and going wild! There were at least twenty cameras flashing all at the same time. It was like I was watching the international news on television, only we were right in the middle of that shit.
“AAAAAHHHHH!”
“LOVERBOOOOY!”
“WE LOVE YOU!”
“WE LOVE YOUUUUU! ”
And I'm talking about white Britons, black Britons, and Middle Eastern Britons.
We had a rope for crowd control with British security lined up as if John was the president. Big Joe was there with us, too. He had become John's news idekick, because I never was, and Tony had grown a way fromit.
Tony joked and said, “I thought this was supposed to be a low-key, in-and-out deal?”
The British movie producer Tom Davies, who had flown us in, said, “Ah, you jus' can't stop the paparazzi from knowing when U.S. stars come into town. And then the news spreads about and you get these bloody crowds.”
Those British accents were some funny shit to listen to. It was like they had no bass in their voices, and their words all melted in a fluid chatter. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
We climbed into our cars and sped through the tight streets of London, driving much faster than I was used to inside the city, at least.
Big Joe said, “We would all get tickets driving like this in America.”
Our driver started laughing. He said, “We are not as asinine about the speed of cars here as you are in the U.S. However, I've been to New York, and I must say, they don't drive slowly there eye-ther.”
They wore a lot of black clothes in Britain, too. Tom Davies was dressed in a thin black leather himself, like that chic sixties look from the Black Panthers or something. Only he was a white guy with that carefree international look. They just didn't seem to be all that concerned about every hair on their heads being in place. They just let it go.
He said, “We'll check you into your hotel rooms in downtown London, take you out for a bite to eat, and the band will meet us later on at the recording studio in South Gate. It is much less congested there.”
Then he smiled at John, who was playing his cool role, just watching everything go down.
He said, “John, every member of the band is very smitten by you. They jus' can't wait to meet you. They all love your music.”
John said, “They don't have no band name?”
He said, “They are all from different bands who have come together to work on this project. Once they heard that you had agreed to sing, they all wanted to be a part of it.”
I didn't have much to say. I was just going along for the ride and checking everything out.
We checked into the London hotel, which had a ritzy antique look to it. Everything in London had that old, classic look. We all met up in John's room after putting our things in our own. Everything in that place looked expensive, and like it had been passed down through generations.
I joked and said, “Nobody better not break anything in here. They might take your ass to prison for it. This stuff don't look cheap.”
Tonylaughed and said, “Dig it. This shit looks like royalty. Fuckin' castle-furniture.”
John smiled and said, “We deserve it, though. Royalty. ”
He went into his closet and pulled out the bathrobe. He tried it on and said, “Yeah, this is my outfit for tonight. I'm gon' wear a bathrobe and no drawers, with about five British girls in here. All different colors. Maybe I'll call up them Spice Girls.”
Tonystarted laughing. He said, “Shit, I ain't never had no British girl either.”
I grinned at him and said, “You're married, Tony.”
Tony looked at me seriously and asked, “Who's telling? You ain't tellin', are you?”
I just shook my head. Even Big Joe was talking about getting some British girls.
He sat down on the exotic furniture and said, “Shit, they might be scared of me, though. I'm a big black Southern nigga.”
We all laughed again, up in the hotel room acting silly.
John looked at Big Joe and said, “Nah, man, just tell 'em you used to play football and now you're thinking about boxing. Shit, they got Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis over here, right? I know they gettin' some British pussy. Tell me they're not.”
Tony laughed and said, “You know they are!”
Big Joe laughed along with them. Those guys couldn't wait to go out and start collecting. You could see it in their excited eyes, peeking out the window and into the streets of London. They were like kids at the mall after just getting their allowances.
I mean, there was no way in the world that I could continue to tour with them and keep any moral ground with myself. I imagined them wanting to fuck a girl from every different nation that we toured. France. Japan. Ireland. Australia. Africa. You name it!
Tom Davies called us up after a while to get ready to go out and eat.
Tony said, “Let's go-o-o!” and started galloping toward the door, the sameTonythat I thought had matured.
We went to what they called a pub, with plenty of security, and we walked in as a full posse. That just drew more attention to us, if you asked me. Maybe we could have used a lot less people.
I watched while Britons started whispering back and forth and looking in our direction. The smoke was practically everywhere. Everyone looked like they were smoking in that place. There wasn't any clean air police in London.
A pair of excited white women made their way over to John before we could even place our orders.
“Are you the famous singer?”
John asked them, “What do you consider famous?”
They said, “You make good music and you make a lot of people dance and act merry.”
Tonyand Big Joe started laughing again. It wasn't funny anymore to me. I had seen and heard it all already.
John said, “Well, I guess I am famous then. I do make good music with people dancing and acting merry.”
“Would it be a bother for us to ask you for your autograph?”
John flirted with them. He said, “Where do you want me to sign it?”
They caught on to it and started giggling.
One of them said, “My husband would murder me if you signed where I would tell you.”
“No, he would lick it off with a desperate tongue,” the other woman argued.
The British had a way with words, I'll tell you that. They were all tripping in that place.
When the food arrived and we started digging in, Tom Davies asked John, “Has anyone offered you any movie roles in the States as yet?”
John said, “Yeah, but we've been too busy with the tour and everything to get involved. They all had production dates and stuff, you know.”
He nodded. He said, “I see.” Then he asked John, “Would you be willing to make a cameo appearance in this film?”
I finally spoke up out of business instincts and asked him, “What exactly is this film about? I mean, we haven't gotten a lot of the details on this thing.”
He gave me his full attention and said, “The film is called Without Reason. It's about a love affair of a young artist and a depressed married woman.”
It sounded purely British to me. They were always making movies that dealt with intimate people as opposed to the action and drama plots that American films seemed to focus on.
Tony said, “Well, it sounds like she has reason to me, if she's depressed.”
Tom said, “Exactly.T heproblemis,her husband doesn't realize that.”
John nodded his head and said, “So this story is told from the husband's perspective?”
Tom got excited as hell. He started nodding his head over his food and said, “Yeah, yeah, you guys are very intelligent. Many Americans don't seem to understand British films.”
Big Joe spoke up and said, “We understand them, they just fucking slow, man.”
Tony chuckled and said, “Yeah, they are kind of slow sometimes. But they're deep, too, though. If you sit through it, you can feel them more. You get a lot more out of it.”
John smiled and said, “Like my music. You feel it more. And you get a lot more out of it.”
Tom said, “That's why I wanted you so badly on the sound track.”
John asked him, “So, what part do you want me to play in the movie?”
“I'll have to talk to my director. He'll plug you in wherever we can use you.”
I was ready to start asking about the money, but I stopped myself. Did I want to get that involved in it? I still needed to think about the direction that I was going in with John's career. But since I was still on the job, before we left that pub, I asked about the business end anyway. And it was all taken care of.
When we drove out to South Gate to start our first recording session, the studio there was jam-packed! It looked like a surprise party. There were a bunch of band members who were all excited to work with John and Tony on a project. And their enthusiasm was genuine.
They started screaming, “He's HERE! LOVERBOY WILLIAMS IS HERE!”
They had two gigantic recording rooms, and several smaller ones. They were all drinking beer, wine, and smoking up a storm of cigarettes just like at the pub where we ate earlier.
They were all giving their love to John and Tony, and I just slipped into the background to watch it all. I was wishing I had Chelsea there with me again, you know, someone to talk to and laugh with. She sure knew how to make me laugh. And it wasn't that vulgar guy humor that I had gotten so accustomed to either. Chelsea had good, spirited humor and frankness. She was just a good person. Of course, I missed her physically , too.
Big Joe slid over to me, grinning. He said, “John has come a long-ass way, dawg. Imagine people all over the fuckin' world listening to his music now. And just three years ago, he was a wet-behind-the-ears band member who still couldn't get no pussy.”
I shook my head and said, “Ain't it wild, Joe? It's wild. ”
When they started trying to rehearse a couple of the songs and put the music together, everybody wanted to be in on it.
Tony finally said, “Fuck it, I'll sit this one out and work on the next song. Let me see what y'all can come up with.”
They had a few British songwriters there who had already penned lyrics for John to croon. John shuffled through the songs and picked two that he liked, and they went right to work on them. The first one was a ballad called In My Arms. John sang over a whole orchestra of guitars, bass, keyboard, and horn players, all squeezing their way into the fabric of the song. I couldn't even concentrate on any instrument to explain what they were playing. All I could say is that the music wouldn't let you go, and British players were all stuck in a time warp of 1970s funk, when American bands were at their height. So the sound was just groovy, and extra loud.
Then John sang the slow chorus and made it all come together like a dream in your ears:
That song had me thinking about Chelsea even more. John had taken me right back to that hotel room on the Boston harbor. I could see Chelsea with her arms around me in the middle of the night. I could taste her lips. I could feel her heart pounding against mine. And John made me want to cry for love, man. CRY FOR IT! He was a BAD MOTHERFUCKER! I didn't have any other words to explain it.
It was like church in that studio. No one made a sound until the sermon was over. Then they glorified.
“YEEAAAAHHH!”
“DAMMIT! HE'S GREAT! ”
“EVERY SONG SOUNDS HEAVENLY WITH HIM!”
“LET'S DO AN ENTIRE ALBUM!”
I started laughing. They were ready to make a throne for John in that place.
They switched the musicians, and John did an easy up-tempo song that was swinging. Tony sat out on the second song, too, and just enjoyed the whole process while watching everyone else's excitement. He looked at me and just shook his head. He didn't have to say a word. I knew what Tony was thinking. John was above cultural differences. His soulful voice and music spoke to everyone. Immediately! It just grabbed your ears and held on to them.
John was tired at the end of the second song. It was late, and we had just flown in that day. I was surprised that he had gone for as long as he did without resting that first night.
There was a British magazine reporter still waiting for him to do an interview. Evidently, John had told her not to leave. She was a striking, dark-haired white woman in her early twenties like us. I even questioned if she was really a reporter. She looked more like a British model. She just stood out, man, like a white horse in the woods. I wasn't a white woman watcher, but DAMN! Clear eyes don't lie. This white girl was all that!
John walked up to her and said, “Hey, let's go. We'll do the interview back at the hotel.”
She followed right behind him without a word. I knew right then and there that John would open her up that night. There was no doubt about it, unless she just wouldn't go there because he was still black. And I seriously doubted that. John had surpassed the color line.
We made it to the cars, and the reporter rode with us. I guess to make herself seem more professional, she started asking John questions in front of everyone. Big Joe and Tony were too tired to care. They were already dozing off. It had been a long day.
“So, John, who was your inspiration as a singgah?” she asked him.
John said, “Sam Cooke. You know, because Sam had a lot of spiritual things going on in his life and in his music that people didn't always pick up on. I feel that same way about my life and music. It ain't just the music that drives you all the time. Sometimes it's the chaos that inspires you, and you try to make sense of it all.”
Our movie producer friend nodded his head and said, “Ah, You Send Me. ” He snapped his fingers and said, “Yeah, I can see that now. You do remind me of the legendary Sam Cooke.”
I don't think that young reporter even knew who Sam Cooke was unless her parents listened to him. Or maybe she did know. But it seemed like John changed his answer every time someone asked him that inspiration question. He was bored with being asked that shit. To tell you the truth, I think John was inspired the most by the fans. He loved the love that they showed him, and that only made him want to do more great songs for them.
The reporter was smart, though, I give her that. She didn't want to sit there looking brainless.
She asked John, “Do you always look to oldah singgahs as your guide? No recent artists have inspired you a-tall?”
John looked away from her and smiled. He said, “Nah. A lot of these new artists aren't really deep enough. Most of them don't write, produce, or even know how to interpret their own stuff. We in competition anyway. So even if I do check them out, I'm not gon' say until my career is over.”
He said, “But let's finish this later on. I want to enjoy the ride.”
She nodded her head and smiled at him. She seemed satisfied with his company. John had charmed her, and he was also in charge.
When we arrived back at the hotel, we all went our separate ways. I asked the phone operators at the front desk what time it was in America. I wanted to call Chelsea.
John went up to his room with the striking reporter.
I found out that it was still too early to call Boston, so I decided to wait until next afternoon sometime. But I couldn't even get a good rest that night. Someone was beating on my door at eight in the morning.
I got up to answer the door and it was John.
He walked in wearing his white hotel robe and went to sit down.
I just stared at him. What was the news?
John smiled at me and said, “I got a new song this morning, man.”
I said, “Don't tell me. It's about a white girl?”
John said, “Man, is it ever. She kept squealing, ‘Your rhythm is strong! Your rhythm is so strong, John!’”
I rubbed my eyes and headed back to my bed. John got up and followed me.
I climbed back into bed and said, “So, you got your first white girl all the way over here in the U.K. Are you proud now? Did you know that she was gonna give it to you?”
I was tired of hearing about his scores myself, but John wasn't tired of talking about them, so I let him talk.
He said, “She wasn't trying to give it to me at first. She was just being professional. But then she said that she wondered how it would be, you know. And that was it for me. I had to find a way to let her feel it.”
He grinned and said, “And then I asked her if I could write a song about it.”
“And what did she say?” I asked him. The audacity of that boy! He had some cojones!
He said, “She asked me if her lovemaking had inspired me. And I said, ‘Yeah.’ So she told me, ‘You can write the song then.’ She said that she would be flattered.”
I asked him, “Well, what's her name, man?”
He said, “Michelle. And her grandfather is a lord in the British Parliament or some shit.” He laughed and said, “So I'm fuckin' royalty over here, D. And I'm about to write a song about it.”
That boy had everything that he was doing down to a science. It was like clockwork for him.
We drove back out to South Gate to record John's new song. He asked for three good female backup singers. We ended up with six. The director from the film Without Reason even wanted to record the studio session to plug it as a promotion vehicle for the movie and sound track release. We agreed to the terms on that as well. Business was still business.
Tony was back behind the drums. John told everyone how to play their parts. Then Loverboy laced the lyrics of this lush fantasy song called Don't You Ever Wonder. His new reporter friend, Michelle, arrived just in time to hear it, as the backup singers hummed along with him like sensual angels:
Big Joe started laughing from the engineer's booth. He stood there with me and about twenty Britons, including Michelle, who was in suspended animation. She looked as if she was in a coma as she watched him. We were all watching recording history in the making.
Tony changed up the beat, with the British musicians following his lead. Then the mood of the song became more subtle as John sang:
Big Joe said, “That's that Loverboy shit right there! He on that shit right there, dawg! ”
I just smiled at it. Michelle grabbed at her heart with her mouth open. I thought she was about to faint in there. And every time we got to the change-up chorus, we were pulled deeper into Loverboy's ploy, until you just gave it all up to him:
I mean, that song actually made you feel like a helpless woman. I could feel exactly how that Michelle must have felt! It was the closest thing to musical seduction that I had ever heard in my life! That damn thing turned you out! And I was a guy!
I called Chelsea as soon as I got the chance.
I said, “I'm missing you more with every song that John sings.”
“Awww, that's sweet. But are you enjoying yourself?” she asked me.
I said, “You know what? I've been through this already. We all know that John can do his thing. I'm not surprised.”
Chelsea said, “You're serious then. You really don't feel you have anything else to offer.”
I paused and thought about it. I had been thinking about quitting for a month and couldn't bring myself to do it yet. I hadn't even told anyone but her.
I said, “Yeah, man. This is it. I don't feel like I want to be involved anymore.”
Chelsea said, “Well, what are you gonna do after that? Do you have someone else to manage?” She was asking the same question my mother had asked me before I signed the contract.
I said, “I don't know yet. I figure I could always find somebody, you know.”
Chelsea cut me short and said, “Oh, yeah. Some big news happened over here.”
I said, “What news?”
“Tupac Shakur got shot up in Las V egas.”
I stopped and panicked. Then I smiled. I said, “That nigga been shot up before. He'll live.”
Chelsea said, “I don't know about this time.”
I said, “All right. I'll read about it when I get home. He's still alive, ain't he?”
She said, “Yeah, but he's in intensive care. They say he's gonna lose a lung.”
I thought about Tupac's big-winded rap style and said, “Damn. He may not be able to rap no more.”
Chelsea said, “That's what I'm saying. And it's not like I'm some big Tupac fan, but when is all this thug-life stuff gonna stop?”
I didn't have any comments for that. I was thinking, When is all of this love life gonna stop with John?
When I joined back up with everyone at the hotel that night, they had all heard the news. John was staring at the TV in disbelief.
He shook his head and said, “Tomorrow ain't promised, man. That's why I tell myself to live for every day now. And I can't look back. The future calls me.”
Tony joked and said, “I guess that boah ain't untouchable, John.”
John didn't respond to him.
Big Joe said, “John don't have to worry about that shit, dawg. I got his back. ”
Tony said, “Suge Knight had Tupac's back. And that boah still got shot. Suge was in the damn car wit' 'em.”
I spoke up and said, “Ain't nobody untouchable, man. That shit is a fantasy like that song John just sang.” I looked at John and said, “You ain't untouchable. You just wondering. ”
We had a promotional event at this huge London department store called Selfridges, where John autographed CDs, tapes, photos, newspaper and magazine articles, and posters for two straight hours before I told everyone that it was time for us to go.
Then we attended a party that night at this club called Handover Grand, with more British fanfare, loud dance music, cigarette smoke, and wine drinking. I was tired as hell and just going through the motions at that point. I couldn't wait for it all to be over. Everyone else was enjoying themselves, but I wanted to go back home like a big baby.
Tony came over to me from the dance floor and said, “Hey, man, I gon' fuck with this girl from Yemen tonight. She bad as shit up in here, D. BAD! ”
I looked over at this brown-skinned, black-haired British bombshell and nodded.
I said, “Yeah, she looks good, man. She got that exotic look going on.”
“And you know that! ” Tony exclaimed to me. He had a third wine drink in his hand and was half drunk already. I was stuck on my first one.
Tony said, “They can dance in here, too. Even these white girls over here.”
Speaking of white girls, John's friend Michelle wouldn't let him out of her sight. She was dressed to impress in British gear, with funky designer clothes that Americans only highlighted in magazines. You had to be pretty bold to wear some of those extra chic designs the British wore. She was wearing it and playing her role well as Loverboy's chosen one. But that didn't mean that others didn't want a piece of him.
Another chic-dressed white girl, with short blond hair, slid up beside me with her own wineglass in hand. She said, “Ex-cuse me. Are you Darin Har-mon?” I just couldn't get over the accent thing, so I smiled at her.
I said, “Yeah, I'm D Harmon.”
She looked in John's direction with Michelle and Big Joe nearby, and made sure that I knew exactly what she wanted.
She said, “Do you mind a-tall if I hit 'im laytah on the dog and bone?”
I looked at her and said, “What?” I had this silly grin on my face because I had no idea what the hell she was talking about.
But she was dead serious, man. She asked me, “Would he mind if I call him laytah?”
I translated and said, “Oh, you mean, can you hook up with Loverboy later on? Is that what you're asking me?”
She said, “Yah,” with no smile. This white girl meant business, man. Then she asked me, “Who is she? She's all ova' 'im like a vulture. ”
And I couldn't stop laughing, right? I answered, “She's just a new friend of his.” Then I added, “And he will make room for more,” just to see what she'd say.
She smiled real hard and said, “I bet 'ee will,” with much confidence about it. She even squeezed my arm when she said it.
The next thing I knew, this big black Briton stepped up to us and said, “What the bloody hell is going on? You'd rather have this bloke than me?”
This guy was as tall as Big Joe, but he was more chiseled, like a bodybuilder. He was real light-skin, too, like a mixed-blood. I guess I was supposed to be afraid of him, but I thought the whole thing was a big joke, man. I just wasn't taking it all seriously. Until that motherfucker punched me dead in my mouth for laughing at him. He took it seriously enough.
I heard the white girl screaming, “Stop it!” while holding him back.
I thought to myself, This motherfucker just punched me in my mouth! Then I charged his ass without thinking. I hit him twice in the head before he lost his balance and fell backward, with his white woman falling with him.
Then somebody clocked me in the back of the head and knocked me to the floor. Before I could even get back up, Big Joe was in the middle of things, throwing punches and shit. Tony was throwing punches. Security was mixing it up. And it turned into a melee in there. I didn't even know who we all were fighting. I assumed that the guy was by himself in there. I guess I was wrong.
When I finally climbed to my feet and got my wits back, John was asking me, “What happened, man?”
I got into that stupid fucking fight all because of his ass! I felt like cursing him out about it, but his friend was still right there next to him, so I kept it to myself for the moment.
Once everything calmed back down, we were told that we were in a fight with a group of roughnecks from an area called Brixton.
I looked at Tony, who was smiling, and said, “Ain't this some shit? We come all the way over to London, and we end up gettin' in a fight with some brothers from the 'hood over some damn white girl.”
I was embarrassed by the whole situation. But I couldn't let some motherfucker punch me in my mouth and just get away with it.
When we made it back to the hotel that night, I had some ice on my busted lip and on the back of my throbbing head. I hadn't been in a fight since my freshman year at North Carolina A&T, when a junior teammate was trying to disrespect me in the locker room. And before they broke it up, I was winning. But I didn't win anything that night in London.
Tonywas steady making jokes about it. He laughed and said, “They got boys in the 'hood all around the world, man.” He had ice on his right hand. He said, “Now they fucked up my drummin' hand. A whole club full of niggas fightin' over some blond-headed white girl. That shit was fun though, man. Me and Big Joe had your back up in there, family.”
Big Joe was like, “Yeah,” with a satisfied grin on his face.
I said, “I wasn't fightin' over some damn white girl, man. That motherfucker in there punched me in my mouth. That girl must like startin' trouble. She knew who the hell she was with.”
John slipped me a joint and said, “Get high and forget about it, man. Fuck it. That's what I do. I'm having a good time over here. Ain't nothing breaking my spirits, D. I'm enjoying this to the fullest. ”
I still was pissed off, but it wasn't anything that I could do but forget. It was just one of those damn nights. I couldn't control shit like that. Neither could John. Unless he just stopped going out to places.
So I said, “Fuck it!” and lit up another joint. What else could I do? I needed to get that shit out of my mind, and smoking weed was the fastest way to do it.
Before I could even get high good, and with everyone out of my room, someone tapped on my door real lightly. I had to listen to it three times to make sure I wasn't hearing things. So I put out my joint for a minute and went to look through the peephole at the door. There was a poised and sexy black woman standing out in the hallway in front of my room. She was waiting patiently for me to answer. She looked as if she was prepared to wait there forever.
I frowned and wondered what the hell was going on. But this girl looked damned good, so I opened the door to ask her.
I said, “Ah . . . can I help you?” I was already buzzed a bit, you know.
She grinned at me. She said, “Your friend La'erboy told me to see if you were feeling all bettah.”
I thought to myself, Do you believe this shit? But then my dick got hard before I could send her away.
I opened the door wide and I asked her, “You wanna come in?”
She walked in without saying another word to me. I locked the door back. Then we sat down and got high together . . . And you know the rest.