A SINGLE WOMAN
Nina Simone is my favorite artist in all the world. She was a tough cookie to work with and by the time I met her she had already recorded for many record labels and was known for being a difficult diva. It was a gift working with her. She spoke about the beauty and the troubles of life with that world-weary voice that enchanted everyone who heard her sing. The record I executive-produced for her is called A Single Woman. It is a record that speaks of love loneliness and loss. It was modeled after Frank Sinatra’s record A Man Alone [and Billie Holiday’s Lady in Satin], which we both loved. I thought she was so beautiful and when she smiled all was right with the world . . . but don’t get on her bad side cause she had quite a temper and you never knew if she was packing a pistol in her purse.1
—Michael Alago
I first heard Nina Simone in my Titi Jennie’s living room in Brooklyn when I was about twelve years old. The albums Titi Jennie played were Live at Town Hall and In Concert—we listened to those recordings over and over again. I was completely overwhelmed by the beauty and intensity of her voice. It had a power and a richness I had never heard before. All of that, even at a very young age, spoke to me. She was on my radar from that moment on.
In June 1983, I was given the incredible gift of actually meeting her. She was performing four shows in two days at Irving Plaza and, for the occasion, the club had renamed itself Swing Plaza. It was a big deal because she hadn’t performed in the U.S. in a very long time.
But the obstreperous and brilliant Nina Simone, who returned to New York to sing at Swing Plaza this weekend after a five-year absence, demands more than polite appreciation. Rooted in extreme emotional ambivalence, her performances have the aura of sacramental rites, in which a priestess and her flock work to establish a mystical communion. Because of Miss Simone’s fabled temperament, however, communion is not a foregone conclusion. Each performance becomes a group psychodrama that could as easily topple into disaster as soar into triumph. But at Swing Plaza on Friday, Miss Simone triumphed over an obvious case of nerves and physical discomfort to end up smiling.2
I had been working at Elektra for about five months and I thought this was a perfect chance to make contact with Nina. I did so by first getting in touch with her brother, Sam Waymon, who was her manager at the time. When I telephoned him, I introduced myself and said I was from Elektra Records and that I adored his sister.
It was arranged that I would go to the sound check at Irving Plaza to meet the famed music and civil rights icon, and I brought along my friend Antone.
When we got there, we stood in the back of the venue. Nina caught sight of us and called us over. I was shaking inside.
“Hi, I’m Michael Alago from Elektra Records.” She looked at me skeptically, raising her eyebrows.
“You?” she said. “You’re the A&R man? How old are you?”
I laughed nervously and told her that yes, I was the A&R executive, as she eyed me up and down.
“Do you have any money with you?”
“Well, that’s not how it works,” I said. “I’m just here to introduce myself to you.”
“If you don’t have any money, then why are you here?”
I started feeling a little uncomfortable. It was definitely awkward, then Antone whispered, “I think we should just go.”
“No!” I said. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime.”
So we stayed a little while longer and watched the sound check. Antone and I left for dinner, then came back and watched the show, which was awe-inspiring.
Afterwards, I went backstage and she was still a little cold. She didn’t say much, then at some point she asked me, “Do you have a ride?”
I quickly turned to Antone.
“Hey, Ms. Simone needs a ride, can you do this?”
“No,” he said. “It’s almost midnight, I need to get home.”
“Antone, this is really, really important!”
“But she wants to go to Rockland County! I got to get home!” he said.
Antone finally came to his senses and agreed. We climbed into his car to take Nina to her brother’s house in Rockland County.
Nina sat in the front seat while I sat in the back. Antone recalls that she asked if she could smoke and he said yes, but she was still a bit distant and nasty.
Then a few minutes later, she put her cigarette out on the carpet on the floor of the car and flames started shooting up. She had set the car’s carpet on fire! Antone freaked. He struggled to put out the flames while he drove. It got a little scary but one thing changed and that was Nina. Her attitude completely turned around. She was so upset and embarrassed about burning the carpet that she became very apologetic. She said she felt terrible about it.
I really wanted to sign Nina to Elektra. I wanted to bring her back into the spotlight. I had adored her for twenty years and I would do anything to get her on the label. But Kras would have none of it. He thought she was a has-been. He was very stern about it. She hadn’t made a record in nearly a decade, and rarely did concerts in the U.S. As far as Bob was concerned, signing her was a ridiculous suggestion.
But I refused to give up, and kept following her. I went to see her at the Olympia in Paris, the Town and Country and Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club in London—anywhere I could find her.
I was very compassionate towards Nina. I knew of her drinking and medicating which didn’t help her mood swings and which sometimes fueled her anger about the oppression she had seen her people suffer.
She was very pro-black, had come up through the civil rights era of the sixties and had constantly faced humiliating and degrading treatment as a black performer. Once, when she was reminiscing, she told me a story about her first recital at age twelve and how she refused to start singing when her parents were moved from the first row to the back of the auditorium, to make room for whites to sit there.3
Black performers were forced to go through the back door of the venues they were playing—there were no overnight accommodations for them, and as we all know, the water fountains were labeled “White Only” and “Colored Only.” And this all happened even when they were the headliners of the show that night. That always infuriated Nina.
At the same time, she was not receiving royalties for her albums from a variety of record companies and, adding insult to injury, many of her recordings were bootlegged and sold all over the world. What she saw was people fucking with her music, and she never received one dime from the proceeds.
Her experience as a black performer—as a black woman—caused her to be aggressively outspoken during the civil rights movement, calling for violent revolutions and extreme political activism. She wrote songs condemning the persecution of her people.
Then everything blew up—not only with Medgar Evers’ death, but Dr. King’s and Malcolm X’s. It all fell apart for her. I think she believed she had come through the civil rights movement unsuccessfully and felt very lost after all of those deaths.
She wrote “Mississippi Goddam” in response to the 1963 assassination of Medgar Evers and the Birmingham church bombing that killed four young African-American girls. She also penned “Four Women,” chronicling the complex histories of a quartet of African-American female figures, and “Young, Gifted and Black,” borrowing the title of a play by [Lorraine] Hansberry, which became a popular anthem.4
In 1986, a few years after her appearance at Irving Plaza, she played nine nights at the Village Gate. I went to almost every show and she was nothing short of brilliant. She looked devastatingly beautiful each night, and every set was totally different. In fact, at one of the shows, I shouted out: “Sing ‘Baltimore’!” That was a cut from Randy Newman’s 1977 album, Little Criminals.
She stopped the performance cold. She looked directly at me and said, in her very affected, highfalutin tone, “We love Randy Newman. But we do not do ‘Baltimore.’ As a matter of fact, we do not do anything from that album. I made that record for $10,000 for Creed Taylor at CTI and he never gave me a dime once that record was released. So, we will not be doing ‘Baltimore’ this evening.”
Everyone laughed nervously, then she fell into “Pirate Jenny,” “Porgy,” and “Black is the Color of my True Love’s Hair.”
One evening, toward the end of her run, I went backstage. We were so glad to see each other, we kissed, we hugged, we laughed. Then she looked at me and said, “Oh Michael! You weren’t at the show last night!”
“I’m so sorry, my dear, I was at a heavy metal concert.”
She covered her mouth and giggled like a small girl. I had brought Kurdt Vanderhoof from Metal Church with me and he obviously looked the part of a heavy metal dude. Nina asked who he was and I told her that he was the guitarist from Metal Church, a group on Elektra. She threw me some shade.
“My dear! Do I have to be in a heavy metal band to get signed to Elektra?”
We all laughed then made a pact to go to the Limelight later that night.
We eventually left and went to the Cat Club first. I don’t remember when I dropped ecstasy or when I had given Nina some, but I lost her later. When I went to the Limelight, she was already there. I went over to her and sat down and we ordered a bunch of drinks and giggled and gabbed and gossiped. Around 3 a.m., we decided to leave and Nina asked me to take her to back to her hotel—the Milford Plaza.
However, when we got to the hotel, the night porters and security wouldn’t let me go up to Nina’s room with her. Nina was wearing a full-length fur coat but I was completely decked out in full leather—a sight that late-night hotel workers kept an extra eye on. However, I was clearly with Nina. Yet they refused to let me go up to the room.
“Where’s the manager?” I insisted. “I demand to see the manager!”
“He’s not here at this hour, sir.”
I was livid. I marched through the door marked “For Employees Only,” hunting for the manager. I glared everywhere but found no one.
When I got back to the lobby, Nina suddenly threw her bouquet of roses onto the floor and shouted: “Do you know I am Nina Simone?!” and she spat on the floor. I went over and grabbed her arm.
“Nina, come on! Let’s go to the elevator.”
We got on the elevator and because we were so high on ecstasy, we were very lovey-dovey with each other:
“Oh, sugar lips!” she cried out to me.
“Honey,” I said. “You know how much I love you!”
We then pressed the button for her floor but nothing happened. I pressed it again and again but still nothing. The assholes had turned off the power. We were furious. A few moments later, the police arrived. Clearly the hotel staff had called them to defuse the tense situation.
I was still enraged, but Nina whispered to me, “Maybe you should just go. Call me when you get home.” So I stormed out and when I got home around 5 a.m., I called her and we stayed on the phone for the next two hours. It was just one big hoot!
In 1992, I was finally able to sign Nina to Elektra.
“You know Bob, I’m never going to let this go,” I said to him.
I think he was so damned tired of hearing me talk about her, he threw up his arms up and said, “Just do it already!”
Finally! I had stayed in touch with her throughout the years—I would call her in the South of France or when she visited Accra (in Africa). Then she would call me back at Elektra, demanding to speak to me immediately.
I had massive success at the label with Metallica and, with that success, Bob trusted me to either sink or swim with all my future signings, and I fully intended to swim. After he gave me the green light to sign Nina, I called her representative, Steven Ames Brown. He was a tough negotiator but always veered on the side of decency. He also looked after many black artists of the fifties and sixties who were forced to go through the backdoor years previously. He had to be uncompromising about getting them their money. That was the focus of these extraordinary and creative artists—it always boiled down to money.
I ended up talking with Steven and connected him with Gary Casson, Elektra’s head of business affairs—and they closed the deal for Nina.
When I started to work on Nina’s record, the first thing we needed to do was to find a producer. I set up meetings in the conference room at the Elektra office in Los Angeles, where we interviewed a few potential candidates.
We first met with Tommy Lipuma. A very prominent producer who had worked with Barbra Streisand, Miles Davis, Natalie Cole, and George Benson, among others. I thought he was a perfect choice for Nina’s album.
The meeting didn’t go well and after he left, Nina turned to me rather deliberately and said, “I don’t want no gimp workin’ on my record!”
I looked at her, trying to hide my shock.
“What did you say?!”
“I have a brother who’s a gimp. I cannot deal with people who have disabilities.”
“Okay,” I said walking to the other side of the room. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore because you’re rude, and it doesn’t make me feel good about you at all.”
The next producer we met with was Andre Fischer. He was the drummer for Rufus featuring Chaka Khan, and at that time was married to Natalie Cole. When he opened the door, Nina was immediately impressed.
A handsome, light-skinned black man—the moment he walked in, he got down on one knee, took Nina’s hand and kissed it. He was a big fan of hers and I knew that, in her mind, he could do no wrong. I also knew there was no way she would meet with anyone else. We had lunch together and, afterwards, shook hands. It was a done deal. Andre was the producer.
Nina hadn’t made a studio album in nearly eight years. I knew she wanted to make a record about love, loneliness, and loss. I was still carrying the loss of my dad from the previous year, and I felt like we were connected on an emotional level with that record.
At this point we started talking about various types of music. She loved the 1958 album Lady in Satin by Billie Holiday, which Billie recorded for Columbia with the Ray Ellis Orchestra. I was incredibly fond of that record, as well.
At the time of that recording, Billie’s voice was shot—she was in her mid-40’s and in bad health. In fact, she died a year later. Lady in Satin wound up being the last album released in her lifetime.
Another album we both loved was Frank Sinatra’s A Man Alone: The Words & Music of McKuen, recorded in 1969. The songs we were specifically interested in were “Love’s Been Good to Me,” “Lonesome Cities,” and the title track “A Man Alone.” We loved that track so much we thought it would be perfect to turn it into a song from a woman’s point of view. I suggested to Nina that we change the title of the song, “A Man Alone” to “A Single Woman” and make it the title of her album.
I called Rod McKuen about using a couple of songs from that album and he was over the moon when he heard Nina Simone would be recording his work. He absolutely adored her. He said he had seen her perform when he was a young man in Provincetown at the A-House, and from that day on, she completely blew his mind. He was more than happy to approve the use of all the songs we had requested, including the change in the perspective of “A Man Alone” and how that affected the lyrics, and for that, we were truly grateful.
Nina did not like the idea of titling the album “A Single Woman” at all.
“People are going to look at me and think that I’m just old and single!”
I argued with her: “No, it gives you a sense of power. You’re saying, ‘I am a single woman, I’m strong and I’m proud!’”
She eventually gave into the idea and it was decided we would model the recording on both Sinatra and Holiday’s records.
We were now finally in the studio with producer Andre Fischer and a very large orchestra. We struggled a lot with Nina’s vocals because her voice was not what it used to be. She just couldn’t hit certain notes anymore. She was initially embarrassed that her voice was not up to par. Time and age, coupled with the fact that she hadn’t been in the studio and around a producer in years, all made working with her difficult.
There was a lot of splicing of tape to get the vocals to be spot-on. It was a huge effort and an immense amount of time on Andre’s part to get her voice to the point where it sounded like it did at its peak. When he played it back to her, Nina would say: “See! I told you I was sounding good!” I looked over to Andre and winked.
By that time, Andre was stretched to the limit. Getting the vocals correct proved to be very demanding, so no matter how poor we felt she sounded, and how much work we were doing—to keep her cool and calm in the studio, we just kept telling her: “Yes, Nina—you sound great!”
We finally finished the record toward the middle of 1993, and Nina loved it.
Yes, A Single Woman is about love, all kinds of love. Especially, a full grown woman in love. A woman in the process of defining her life, deciding her fate, accepting, without shame or guilt, her own needs and desires . . . Depending on how well we have been loved or not loved, these lyrics and the earned authority of Simone’s voice will bring hope, reassurance, or the right to grieve.5
However, the overall reaction to A Single Woman was mixed.
Incomparable and unfathomable, Nina Simone is in her finest form when tearing into the guts and pathos of unlikely songs—by the likes of Bob Dylan, Kurt Weill and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins . . . But overall, A Single Woman aims to do nothing more than entertain pleasantly, and that’s the one thing Nina Simone, effortless when provoking, grousing or despairing, just can’t do.6
Nina promised to do a lot of press to promote the album, except she ended up only doing two interviews. One was a huge piece in the New York Times by James Gavin.
Nina Simone has just released her first major album in fifteen years, and she is doing everything possible to stand in the way of its success. . . . But none of this is unusual for Ms. Simone, a cult diva whose shamanistic hold on audiences is matched by an infamous temperament. . . . Lavishly arranged for strings, [A Single Woman] avoids the political rallying that has dominated much of her work to concentrate on themes of solitude and yearning. Dark, brooding versions of standards like “If I Should Lose You” and “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” are combined with several newer songs, one of which is a searing rendition of “Papa, Can You Hear Me?” from the movie “Yentl.” That song holds special meaning for Ms. Simone, whose father died in 1971. “Nina and I had both lost our fathers,” says Michael Alago, the album’s executive producer. “Issues of love, loneliness and loss kept coming up. I knew that was the kind of record we were going to make.7
Nina was hugely volatile, which she was well known for and, although our friendship became unbelievably close, I was not immune to her rude, hurtful outbursts.
A few months after the album was released, I read about an incident in the New York Post: “Diva’s Home on Fire.”
Apparently, there had been a fire that had taken over Nina’s house. I immediately called her. However, for some reason, she wouldn’t take my call. I asked her housekeeper, Juanita, about it: “How come she doesn’t want to talk to me? What’s this fire I read about in the New York Post?”
“Oh, she won’t talk to you—she said you started the fire!”
“How could I start a fucking fire? I’m at 75 Rockefeller Plaza! And you’re in the South of France! Can somebody tell me what the real story is?”
“Well,” said Juanita, “part of the story is you faxed her all day long and she said, tell Michael Alago, I’m not a white man! I’m not a business man. I’m an artist! And what does he want?”
“You tell Nina, I was faxing her all day because I want to send her the rest of her advance!”
Suddenly, Nina piped in.
“Oh, honey! Is that you on the phone!?” she cried.
“Nina, have you been on the phone this whole time?
“Oh, no! I picked it up just now!”
“Well, whatever—I didn’t start that fire,” I said.
Apparently, she had been drinking and her cigarette fell down on the staircase when she was going upstairs to go to sleep, and it set the linen closet on fire.
“Well, there was a fire here!” she screamed. “And you know, there was a man who tried to get in my window! He was trying to fuck me!”
“Nina!” I said. “That man wasn’t trying to fuck you! He was a fireman, he was trying to save your life!”
“Child!” she cried back. “You’re gay! You don’t know—everyone wants to fuck a black woman!”
“Whatever, Nina—he was there to save your life!”
A couple years later, I caught another story in the New York Post about Nina. There was a teenager wandering in her backyard and Nina shot at him with a BB gun. I immediately called her about it:
“Nina, I heard you shot someone!”
She came back in a deadpan sigh. “Only in the leg. That kid was lucky! Because, you know, I turned killer a long time ago! And I have a gun under my pillow!” That was the level of drama with her—all the time.
Around November of 1993—a few months after A Single Woman was released, I went out to L.A. for Nina’s appearance on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
Unfortunately, nothing was ever easy with her. Everything was wrought with extreme tension. We arrived at the studio and went into the Green Room and, right away, she demanded to know if she was getting paid.
“Of course you’re getting paid,” I told her. “But you’re going to have to sign an agreement. We’re dealing with a union and they need written approval of your appearance. Then they will mail a check to you. I think the fee is $750.”
She looked at me.
“How do I know I’m going to get that money?” she insisted.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “This is NBC. You’re going to get your money.”
She went on and on about this and it turned out, the door to the room was ajar. Apparently, Jay Leno had been walking by at that moment, and heard everything. He stuck his head into the room and said hello, very graciously. I smiled back.
“Are you Michael Alago from Elektra Records?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I replied, trying not to sound nervous.
“May I please speak to you for a moment?”
“Sure,” I said, and I followed him out to another Green Room across the hall, thinking to myself the whole time, “Oh my God, did he actually hear what was going on between me and Nina?”
Mr. Leno shut the door after we entered the room.
“What was all that about, I just heard?”
And in the most professional way I could, I explained that Nina had gone through a lot of financial abuse over the years and was super distrustful about getting paid for any performances, appearances, or anything. Money was a big issue for her. He nodded, hearing me, but he was basically not interested.
“Okay,” he said. “Is she going to sign the union agreement?”
“I hope so.”
“I hope so too.” Leno replied.
At that point he seemed totally aggravated. Even though I had tried to keep things as cool as possible, it definitely got a little heated between us.
He then left, and I went back to Nina.
“You really have to sign the union agreement Nina,” I said to her, hoping she would agree.
“I refuse!” she screamed back at me. “I ain’t signin’ anything! I want my money!”
A few minutes later, a very angry Jay Leno returned. He slammed open the door.
“May I speak with you again, Mr. Alago?”
We went back to the room across the hall, and he pulled $750 in cash out of his wallet and placed it in my hand. Then he turned and walked out. I was a nervous wreck. He didn’t have to do that. He could’ve just pulled the plug and not have her on the show at all.
I went back to Nina and threw the money on the table. I was furious.
“Here’s the $750! Sign the agreement! I don’t want to talk about it. You’re going to go on! Leno’s going to do a short interview with you after you sing the title track to the record.”
The taping for the show started. When the other guest segments were finished, Leno introduced Nina. She went on to perform “A Single Woman” and when she finished, she stood up from the piano and took a bow. Leno went over to her, took her hand, and walked her back to the dais. Unfortunately, Nina performed at the end of the show, so there was no time for an on-air interview. But she did get to sing and Leno was very gracious to her. I was so relieved it was finished.
The record didn’t do very well and it didn’t help that Nina refused to promote it. Elektra Records had bigger fish to fry. Bob let me know I had to tell Nina the label was releasing her from her contract.
She was furious. I apologized a million times.
“You got a huge advance!” I reminded her. “And we made a great record!”
She was in no way pacified.
“Don’t they know who I am!?” she screamed.
I sighed, and said to her, “Every time I suggested something to you that we needed to do to promote the album, you flat out said ‘no.’”
She was livid, but there was nothing I could do.
It broke my heart. As an artist, I adored her. It was never easy working with her, but her music was everything to me.
Sunday
July 11, 1993
At Home
At Bouc-Bel-Air
Dear Michael,
I have an hour to talk to you. That’s all. I have thought about this all night and it’s time. You insulted me with your letter. I don’t want to lose you, that’s why I’m taking the time. I told Jim to tell you weeks ago that I wanted no more Americans over here—cause they’re all full of tricks. And at that time you were no exception but I paid (for the very last time) 10,000 hard earned dollars to get a bodyguard over here.
I was attracted to you because you were innocent to a real woman and I knew that you were gay (yes). But you were sweet. I knew it might not go anywhere, but in America, it was better than having nothing.
Okay—let’s move on. Don’t ever tell me again about my age which you nor anyone else should ever have known. Don’t give me advice about my medication + alcohol. I’ve done all that Michael Alago. You obviously are having relapses about when you were on drugs. I’ve even taken drugs, and the Trilafon you + everybody else talks about (only in America, I might add) had made me a zombie for 5 years, thanks to little Mark and my dead father, I found a Dr. who took me off the stuff. Now what you’ve done is listen to all this bullshit (forgetting that I’m a passionate woman) Michael—Do you hear? I don’t show my legs for nothing. These songs are for men—men. Even little Mark wanted me + told me so. He used to massage me, feed me, clothe me, shop for me + clean + cook for me. Okay?
I knew the French loved me. I’ve known it for 20 years. When the fire was here, it was they who helped me + just this morning, a man + his son got on the roof + replaced one of the roof (rocks) that had leaked water from when the bodyguard was up there.
Lastly, I played + sang the record. What the hell is Elektra (with their millions) doing to promote it? Where will the posters be—in what stores. Where in the world—what magazines are they advertising in? You had enthusiasm, I had talent—it’s their fucking job to promote it. “Point of No Return” is being promoted all over Aix-en-Provence it starts July 14th. I’m not impressed by Elektra. I’ve been with many record companies. If they wanted they could get a hold of all my past records + use them (plus the photographs which you say you’ll get) to launch a major campaign. Why is all this shit up to me? That’s not fair + I’m not buying it. I won’t be calling you, Michael. I have no fax, no telephone + today no electricity. Mark Penniman bless his heart, came over here and got to the roots of things. I said I had no time for business. But I get upset when you Americans write me things. And I’m interested in my money.
Learn to respect me, Michael, like Jim and Mark do + maybe we can still be friends + make Elektra do its job!
I’m a Doctor of Humanities from Malcolm X College and a Doctor of Music from Amherst College! Did you know that? Mark is the only one who’s come over here + helped me and saw my needs. He wanted to take care of all of them. But I’ll wait for Africa! where I hope to go July 24th. I need a lover all the time + with “Dr. Feelgood” (As Aretha says “there is no more need for pills of any kind”)
Write me—
Love
Nina.8
Two Years Later—Phone Call with Nina, February, 1995:
Me: Happy New Year! How are you?
Nina: I’m doing fine.
Me: I’ve been thinking of you, you must forgive me—is today your birthday, or the twenty-third?
Nina: Yesterday.
Me: Yesterday! Oh! I missed it by one day! Happy Birthday!
Nina: Thank you, darling . . .
Me: How have you been in general?
Nina: Well, I’ve been sick.
Me: Like, with the flu?
Nina: Well, no, I had something much more serious than that. I had surgery.
Me: Oh, Nina, I’m sorry . . . are you recovering okay from it?
Nina: I’m recovering.
Me: Thank God. I’m glad to hear that.
Nina: The doctor said I can’t work till September . . .
Me: Did you know that I finally met Lisa here recently?
Nina: How did you do that?
Me: I was on a business trip in Chicago and she was in the production of Rent and I went to see it and I saw that she was listed there . . .
Nina: She was great in it.
Me: Did you ever get that big jar of peppers that I sent you? Ha-ha! I thought it’s so big, I gotta send that to Nina, she’ll get a kick out of it.
Nina: Yeah, I use it, too.
Me: Good! I’m glad to hear that. . . . well, you’ve just been on my mind so much . . . because it’s February and it’s your birthday and I’m glad you’re recovering, so you’ll stay now in the South of France till your full recovery?
Nina: Yes, I will, and meanwhile I’ll go to Africa sometime between now and September. I bought some land down there. I have a number-one hit in Holland right now.
Me: With what?
Nina: “Ain’t Got No, I Got Life.”
Me: Really? Was it reissued on a record or something?
Nina: Uh, an insurance company put it out.
Me: Oh, on a commercial?
Nina: On a commercial.
Me: Wow! So you made money from it?
Nina: Yeah.
Me: Damn right. Good, good. I’m happy to hear that.
Nina: It was 11 and now it’s going to number 1.
Me: Wow! What label would put it out in Holland, do you know?
Nina: BMG
Me: BMG—yes, that’s right!
Nina: Well, thank you for calling, my sugar.
Me: You’re always in my thoughts, my prayers . . . I think the absolute world of you, Nina, and I always want the best for you and, uh, like I said, I’m just calling to give you a big kiss, to say Happy Birthday and try to be in touch when you can.9
The last time I saw Nina was in July of 1999. She was doing a concert in London. She was part of the Meltdown Festival music series at The Royal Festival Hall, being promoted by Nick Cave from the band The Bad Seeds. Artists from all genres—featuring Alan Vega, Elvis Costello, Lee Hazelwood, and, of course, Nina Simone—were appearing:
Now 66, Simone is a bulky, forbidding figure who seizes complete control of the stage despite the fact that she can walk only with difficulty. As she launched into “Black is the Colour,” you didn’t need to be a professor of musicology to work out that her voice is barely a husk of its former self, shorn of such luxuries as pitch and intonation . . . [w]hat her performance has, though, is an uncompromising rawness, and an implicit attitude that says, “If you don’t like it, **** you.”10
On the afternoon of her show, I showed up at The Ritz in Piccadilly where she was staying. I arrived with two dozen white roses and a bottle of champagne because I knew she would love both of them. I hadn’t seen her in a while and we were both thrilled to see each other.
There was a lot of activity in her room. A few people were making sure her clothes were pressed; another woman was cornrowing her hair, braiding it close to her scalp so she could wear a turban for that evening’s performance. But once she saw me, she kicked everyone out of the room and threw open her arms. We hugged, we kissed, and then she said to me, “Oh, my dear, we should take a bubble bath!”
“What?” I asked, a little shocked. But then I thought to myself, Well, it is Nina Simone—we’re going to take a bubble bath.
I went into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet, but of course—no bubbles. I called the concierge and asked them to call the chemist and see if they have any bubble bath products and, if so, would they purchase it, put it on the bill, and bring it up to Nina Simone’s room.
After the porter brought the bottle to us, I poured it into the tub and waited for the bubbles to rise up. Nina came in, and without a thought took off all her clothes and climbed into the bathtub. I wasn’t too hot about taking off all my clothes, so I kept my boxers on and got in with her.
I had brought the champagne with me and poured out two glasses. We started drinking and laughing and telling each other completely silly stories. We felt totally free, without a care in the world.
Eventually, the bubbles disappeared, and we climbed out of the tub. Her assistants and hair stylist returned to dress her and finish her hair.
I gave her a big kiss and left. I returned to the hotel at 6 p.m. to take her to the show at The Royal Festival Hall. She rose to the occasion that night. Her performance was unspeakably remarkable.
[T]he most spine-tingling number of all is ‘Four Women’, a defiant song about the legacy of slavery. Here we have vintage Simone, staring into the abyss. This is where her genius lies—in her ability to take the listener right through pain, and then transcend it. The stark, lyrical images and the brooding intensity of her voice makes a feted pop/soul newcomer such as Lauryn Hill seem like a mere pretender. There is such supreme conviction, such a definitive quality in the way Simone sings “My skin is black/My hair is woolly”, as if hers is the last word.11
After I saw her in London that year, we stayed in touch through phone calls and letters.
During this Third Act in Nina’s life, she continued to perform and make appearances. She also sued and tackled every record company and publisher that hadn’t paid her fairly over the years. By early 2003, she owned two homes, was receiving royalties on a multimillion-dollar catalogue, and was playing to audiences of thousands all around the world. She had become comfortable in her own skin and grateful for the recognition she was receiving as the true icon she was.
In April of 2003, as I was walking to the subway on 8th Avenue to go to my dad’s grave, which I do every year in the spring to clean it and plant new flowers—something stopped me and told me to call Nina. The feeling I had was very strong.
I went back to my apartment, put my stuff down, took off my coat, and called the South of France.
Juanita answered the phone and I asked to speak to Nina.
“You know, Michael, it’s Dr. Simone.” (She insisted on being referred to as Dr. ever since she was awarded the honorary doctorates.)
So, I followed protocol and said, “Can Dr. Simone come to the phone, please?”
“Well, you know, Michael, about all the procedures and everything,” Juanita continued.
Nina had been battling breast cancer for a long time and she recently had a small stroke.
“I just want to say hello.”
Juanita put the phone up to Nina’s ear and I said, “Hey, Nina! It’s Michael! I love you!”
“Oh, sugar lips! How are ya’?” Nina whispered.
“I’m good, but you don’t sound so great, honey.”
“I’m not doing too good,” she said. “I don’t know why you never ever married me!”
“Well, you know I totally adore you and I’m going to come and visit you tomorrow.”
There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone which made me think we may have talked a little too long. Juanita came back on and said:
“You know, Michael, she’s very weak.”
“I understand,” I replied. “Is her assistant, Clifton, there?
“No,” she said.
“Will you please let Clifton know that I’m getting on a plane tomorrow to Marseille? And that someone needs to pick me up at the airport to take me to Carry-le-Rouet, Bouches-du-Rhône? And here’s my number if he has to call me and, just so you know, I’m getting on the first plane out in the morning.”
We hung up. I went to the cemetery, returned home, and started packing. Later, when I went to sleep, I forgot that I had left the computer on and when I woke up, I noticed the CNN homepage on the screen. The headline read: “Nina Simone, Dead at 70.”
I was wrecked, a complete mess. I tried to call her house, but I couldn’t get through. I emailed, but got no response. No one contacted me about the funeral either—not Clifton; not Roger, the head of her fan club; not her daughter, Lisa—no one. They all knew of my relationship with Nina, but no one contacted me. I was surprised and deeply hurt.
Finally, I had to let it go. I knew, personally, what I had with Nina was very special. It still amazes me how I had become so infatuated with her at the age of twelve, and then, as an adult, was given the chance to work with this truly incomparable artist. That was my life with Nina Simone, and I adored her.
Every generation has to discover Nina Simone. She is evidence that female genius is real,” [said] Germaine Greer . . . [s]he sings about women’s love—that great, unmanageable, obscene thing.12