After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye (7 page)

I
’m touched,” said Marvin. “I’m joyful. I’m grateful to God. I
couldn’t be happier, dear.”

He took me in his arms and held me to his chest. My heart beat wildly. I was deeply relieved. He had proven to be the man I knew he was.

“A son,” he whispered in my ear. “We will have a son.”

His statement took me aback.

“And what if it’s a girl, Marvin?”

“I think you’re having a boy.”

I didn’t like that thought. I didn’t like the pressure.

“We’ll see,” I said, forcing a smile.

We dropped the subject of boy versus girl, but his attitude continued to bother me. At the same time, I wanted to please Marvin. In the early years of our relationship that single mantra—
I must please Marvin, I must please Marvin
—never faded. If I didn’t please him, I was afraid he’d discard me.

The news of my pregnancy came at a great time. Marvin’s long-overdue record was complete. I had been to the studio countless times where I had heard the songs over and over again. I never tired of listening to that strangely erotic-romantic suite of songs. Even though Marvin contemplated his death in “If I Should Die Tonight,” even though he was pining for a woman lost in a faraway landscape in “Distant Lover,” even though he was drenched in sorrow and regret in the marriage-ending “Just to Keep You Satisfied,” the album’s dominant theme was sex, sex, and more sex. He wasn’t simply pleading “Let’s Get It On” once, he was pleading twice with “Keep Getting It On” and reinforcing the act of love a third time with “You Sure Love to Ball.”

At the moment it had been decided that “Let’s Get It On” would be the first single—the very night he finally played the album for the Motown executive who flipped out and called it an across-the-board smash—Marvin and I went back to our little cave on Cattaraugus. He slipped the single into the cassette player and together we slowly slipped out of our clothes. Our naked dance of love gradually moved to the bedroom, where the song of love repeated endlessly as the act of love was the most intense in our still-young relationship. I had never been more inside his music, inside his life, inside his heart. That night the world was beautiful, blissful, passionate, and peaceful. Nothing could go wrong.

And then everything did.

I thought it was the result of being too sexually active. Turned on about being parents, Marvin and I had intense, athletic lovemaking sessions. With
Let’s Get It On
playing in the background, we tried to get as close to each other as was physically possible.

It was only days later when I began hemorrhaging. The blood was sudden and startling. I called my mother, then Marvin, then the doctor. Marvin met me at the hospital, where the doctor used the one word I did not want to hear:
miscarriage
.

The impact on both of us was enormous. We felt a great sense of loss.

“Dear,” said Marvin, “these things happen. God gives and God takes away. We praise him for his goodness and trust that next time he will bless us with a healthy boy. I have no doubt, darling, that there
will
be a next time.”

I wished he wouldn’t have restated his insistence on having a boy, but no matter—I was greatly relieved that he was comforting and loving and still committed to our relationship. As crazy as it might sound, I was afraid of disappointing him. I even feared that the miscarriage might chase him away. Fears of losing Marvin—fears of being undermined by those around him, fears of being banished from his world—were never far from my consciousness.

For years to come, love and fear shared the same chambers of my heart.

On certain nights
the anxiety subsided. On one such night, the moon was full and the world was at peace. Marvin and I were driving up Highway 1 past Malibu. In the backseat were the actor Richard Lawson and his future wife Denise Gordy, the niece of Berry and Anna.

There seemed to be no hidden tension. Marvin and I had socialized with Richard and Denise before. We all got along splendidly. We loved to get high and laugh like little kids. The weed we had been smoking intensified the happy mood. The stars glittered. Moonlight danced off the Pacific. The ocean breeze was cool and refreshing. The universe was a friendly place. On the way up the coast, switching radio stations, we heard “Let’s Get It On” three different times. The song was soaring up the charts. Marvin couldn’t have been more delighted.

A few miles north of Malibu at Trancas Beach, the car sputtered to a halt. Without losing his customary cool, Marvin announced, “I’m afraid we’ve exhausted all our resources.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“No gas,” said Marvin.

“No problem,” said Richard. “The men will go get gas while the women wait behind.”

Marvin and Richard were gone for a good hour. When they returned, they were empty-handed.

“The gas station was closed,” said Richard.

“But all is not lost,” Marvin added. “Our resources are, in fact, not completely exhausted.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a joint. Denise and I applauded. Smoking added to the wild and woozy nature of the night.

“What now?” Richard asked Marvin.

“Now we explore,” said Marvin. “Look at that beach!”

Not concerned about a thing, Marvin was the first to throw off his shoes and step onto the sand. Denise followed by removing her top. I was a little hesitant.

“What about you, Jan?” asked Marvin. “Surely you have nothing to hide. Reveal yourself, dear. Reveal yourself proudly.”

For a second, I flashed on that awful day in Bel Air when, at age fourteen, my mother had allowed me to strip for Luke and Big Jack. But that was different. Those guys were creeps. Marvin was my man. He was proud that I had perfect breasts. I exposed them.

As we all made our way down the beach, Richard, not to be outdone by the women, decided to remove his pants. It took Marvin less than a minute to do the same. Our ridiculousness only added to our pleasure. Where were we going? We didn’t know, didn’t care. We cavorted as though we didn’t have a concern in the world.

Not fifteen minutes passed before we saw a woman coming in our direction. Marvin and Richard stepped back into their pants. Denise and I didn’t bother to put on our tops but covered our breasts with our hands. The woman stopped in her tracks.

“My God,” she said, “you’re Marvin Gaye. You’re absolutely beautiful!”

Before Marvin had a chance to reply, I whispered, “That’s Margot Kidder?”

“I am,” said the movie actress. “And I’d love for you guys to come to a party. I’m on my way there myself.”

“We’ve no good reason to refuse your kind invitation,” said Marvin. “Lead the way.”

Boldly, Margot planted herself next to Marvin. I thought that she might have the hots for my man. A few minutes later, the five of us reached a well-lit beachfront house where a party was in progress.

“Look who I brought,” announced Margot as we entered the living room. “It’s marvelous Marvin Gaye! Can you believe it?”

The host was the well-known actor Peter Boyle, thrilled that his friend Margot had somehow found Marvin wandering the beach outside his home. By mere chance, someone at the party had brought a copy of
Let’s Get It On
. Within minutes the song was blaring. All eyes were on Marvin, basking in the attention.

The party people freely shared their goodies. There was plenty of pot, coke, and acid. There was wild hippy dancing, arms flopping around with hips swerving. There was incense burning and candles lit everywhere. It was a laid back atmosphere. A few of the couples wandered off into the bedrooms. Margot stuck close to Marvin. Given the free-flowing sexual vibe, I wondered whether she would actually make a move on him. Before Margot had a chance, though, Peter Boyle made a bizarre move of his own. He took off the music to announce a surprise.

“Gather around, everyone,” he said. “It’s time for me to offer up something I’ve been waiting to show you all night. With our surprise guest of honor now in attendance, I will not keep you waiting.”

The next thing I saw was Boyle pulling down his pants and revealing his pale, hairy backside. It was quite a sight. That’s when Marvin decided that it was time to split. Against the protests of Peter and Margot, the four of us bade the party people good night and headed back to the car. Peter gave us a can of gas, and we were on our way home. There was a full moon out that night.

“How’d you like the evening?” Marvin asked me when we were back on Cattaraugus.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting good or interesting bad?”

“It was a little crazy,” I said. “I still can’t believe what we saw, but I’m glad we went.”

He kissed my forehead and slowly undressed me.

“It was exciting seeing you on the beach,” he said. “It’s exciting seeing you on the bed.”

That night we made beautiful love. In one another’s arms, we slept until early afternoon.

When I awoke, Marvin was staring into my eyes.

“I want us to go away,” he said.

“Where to?”

“Away from everyone, where it’s only you and me and Mother Nature. No city smog or crime or sirens in the middle of the night. No sounds except the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. Fresh air. Blue skies. At night, looking at the stars. Let’s just get away from it all. Escape. Hide.”

“But your record’s out and it’s a hit. They want you to promote it.”

“Even a better reason to get away. What do you say, dear? Will you come with me? Can you run away with me into the woods?”

“Where?” I asked again.

“It doesn’t matter. As long as it’s in the middle of nowhere and no one can find us.”

“And why is it so important that no one finds us?”

“Because I want you all to myself. I want
us
all to
ourselves
. I want nothing interfering with our love. I want nothing between us and God and nature.”

“Are you really serious about moving out of the city?”

“Serious as sin. And it will be a sin if we don’t make our escape from the madness that’s about to unfold. What do you say, dear? Will you run away with me?”

“You know I will.”

F
rom his perch on top of the world, Marvin was tired of
seeking. He wanted to be sought. And though there were times when he loved the spotlight, this was a time when he assiduously avoided it. After the triumph of
What’s Going On
, he had worked for years to develop a follow-up that would create as great a furor. He had accomplished just that with
Let’s Get It On
. Yet rather than welcome the accompanying acclaim, he ran from it.

I couldn’t help but wonder if he was running from himself. Even though I remained in awe of his talent, I had seen that his insecurities, hidden under a veneer of cool, were potent. Those insecurities alarmed me. While Marvin was gratified that his new album was an immediate hit, he worried that it might soon stop selling. Because Anna was furious with him—and because Anna had such influence with Berry—he worried that Motown might work against him and cut off promotion. He worried that his fans would lose interest in him. He also worried that, in order to bolster sales, he would have to
tour. Performing in public was something he dreaded. He had long suffered from stage fright.

I didn’t like seeing Marvin scared. I didn’t like seeing him as anything but perfect. Yet every day his imperfections, in tandem with his seductive charms, became more obvious. This was especially true when we escaped to the rural retreat he called our romantic paradise.

Topanga Canyon, across Highway 1 from the Pacific Ocean, was less than an hour’s drive from Mid-City LA, but a world away. It was that part of the Santa Monica mountain range that, only a few years earlier, had been home to a large colony of hippies, including the Charles Manson family. Marvin’s rustic mountaintop A-frame home was built on three levels. It was all pinewood and glass. It smelled fresh and clean. Its remote location didn’t bother me in the least. In fact, it excited me. I’d have Marvin all to myself.

“Is it too hippie for you out here?” he asked.

“You forget that I grew up with hippies. My mom’s a hippie. I’m a hippie. We’re all hippies. Groovy! Peace! Far out!”

“I hope you won’t be offering any invitations to your mom to visit us anytime soon.”

“I won’t be offering invitations to anyone. I just wanna be with you.”

“And the dogs, of course.”

Marvin had bought two handsome Great Danes, Shad and Caesar, to safeguard us from any outside intruders. He loved them a little more than I did. Uninvited guests and curiosity seekers would not be able to find the house. There was no paved street or address. The only way to reach the place was to call from a gas station on Highway 1 and have either Marvin or me drive one of his two jeeps or his green pickup truck down the mountainside. The visitor must then follow the jeep through a series of twisting roads. Thank God, I reflected, that Marvin had taught me to drive. Before long he bought me a black Porsche 911 that zoomed through the canyon like a rocket.

Marvin had also taught me to make his favorite dish: mashed
potatoes, hamburger patties, gravy, and mustard cabbage cooked according to a special recipe from Marvin’s mom. There were frequent trips to the little health-food market. There were blissful evenings by the wood-burning stove with Marvin at his little portable keyboard. There were long and languorous lovemaking sessions in every part of the house—on the living room rug, in the loft, in the kitchen, outside on the balcony, under the stars above. In the morning he and I awoke to a chorus of birds. At night the coyotes howled. Time stood still. Love deepened. The real world was remote, but the real world never stopped calling.

For weeks Marvin kept the outside world away. For our protection he had an AK–47 assault rifle and a shotgun. We hunkered down, but that didn’t stop Motown from knocking at our door. Requests poured in. As
Let’s Get It On
became the sensation of the summer and one of the fastest-selling hits in history, every DJ in the country wanted Marvin on his show. Motown execs were telling him that if he toured, sales of the record would quadruple. But Marvin said no. No interviews, no tours. Leave him alone. Let him sing to me. Let him sing to the birds. Let him enjoy this respite from the crazy world of show business.

“I’m an artist,” he told me over and over again. “I’m not made for show business. Show business views artists as products. I am a highly sensitive person and you, dear, are all I need to be happy—not the fawning crowds or the mad demands of money-hungry Motown.”

I cherished his words. I wanted this time to last forever. I wanted to believe that we would, in fact, live out our lives in Topanga Canyon, free of the world’s worries and pressures. That belief, though, couldn’t last for long. The world offered prizes that Marvin’s ego couldn’t resist. One was the promise of a
Rolling Stone
cover story.

Observing Marvin at close range, I saw that his insecurity was the flip side of his egomania. There were days when he swore he would no longer perform again because he doubted his ability to sing before a live audience. On other days he unhesitatingly said that he
wanted to be remembered as the greatest singer in the world. A
Rolling Stone
cover excited that part of him that sought glory and reveled in his own talent. His grand plan was to have
Rolling Stone
seek him out here in the wilds of Topanga. If they put him on the cover, it would have to be on his terms—no studio shot, but Marvin photographed in his rustic hideaway, communing with nature.

When the magazine met his terms, he was satisfied. He was doubly gratified because precious few black artists had graced the cover of
Rolling Stone
, a publication primarily devoted to white rock ’n’ roll.

Marvin drove the jeep down the mountain to fetch the reporter, Tim Cahill, and the photographer Annie Leibovitz. When they returned, he introduced me as “his friend.” Then we all got stoned. Marvin had never been more charming. He began speaking of the mysterious nature of his father’s esoteric Christian church. He described what it means to speak in tongues and to tarry—to repeat “Thank you, Jesus” over and over until the Holy Ghost has entered your spirit and cleansed your soul. He talked about being able to sense the spirit in the song of a bird, an ocean breeze, even a raindrop or snowflake. When asked to speak more about his father, Marvin’s eyes glazed over. He paused for a very long while. His answer was a song. “My father has a magnificent voice,” he said, “and when he sings about Jesus, his is the sweetest sound you can imagine.” Then he sang his father’s song. Tim and Annie were mesmerized. I was mesmerized. The sun sank behind the mountains. The dusk was golden. Photos were taken.

“I used to be afraid seventy percent of the time,” Marvin confessed. “Now I’m only afraid ten percent of the time.”

Another joint was rolled. The subject switched to sex. I wondered what he would say.

On the inside of the
Let’s Get It On
album, he had written, “I contend that SEX IS SEX and LOVE IS LOVE. When combined, they work well together, if two people are of about the same mind. But, they are really two discrete needs and should be treated as such . . .
I don’t believe in overly moralistic philosophies. Have your sex, it can be very exciting, if you’re lucky.”

He looked at me and said yes, very lucky. He admitted that when it came to sex he was a fantasy person. When asked if all his fantasies had come true, he turned coy. He wondered about the thin line between an exciting fantasy and an exciting perversity. He wondered if sex, given willing participants, should ever be considered perverse. He concluded by saying that we Americans needed to loosen up and be free.

When the long interview was over and the
Rolling Stone
people were gone, I considered all that had been said. I was particularly intrigued by Marvin’s remarks about sex. The sex between us, while always exciting, had started to take a different turn. Marvin had become more oral, which, of course, pleased me. Even though I began our physical relationship in his lap, he had increasingly become more willing to reciprocate the favor—a breakthrough for him. At the same time, he had introduced into the mix a certain kinkiness that, although not exactly my style, was something I was willing to entertain. Not to do so would only anger Marvin. I went along with his program, which, from time to time, involved fantasies of me with other women.

These variations did, in fact, bring me new pleasures. The omnipresence of pot and the increasing use of cocaine facilitated my willingness and widened my enjoyment. At times I feared that I was falling down a slippery slope but quickly dismissed such anxieties.

“No need to be uptight,” Marvin urged. “If it feels good, that means it
is
good.”

I didn’t have to justify my willingness to be led down the path. I felt privileged to be on the path. I still couldn’t believe that somehow this extraordinary man had chosen to live his life with me by his side.

Nestled inside a woodsy canyon, looking down from the mountain, I watched time move slowly. An entire day might be devoted to nothing more than an unhurried walk along the beach to watch the
sun slip into the ocean. We sat on the sand and stayed silent as the waves crashed to the shore. Flocks of birds staged whirling formations and flew off into the distance. I took his hand; he kissed my face.

Back up at the house, I was not surprised to see that Frankie Gaye, Marvin’s brother, had arrived. Family members were always showing up. Three years younger than Marvin, Frankie bore a striking resemblance to his older sibling. Frankie had Marvin’s quiet demeanor. Like Marvin, he spoke in a whisper. Like Marvin, he was a gentle soul. He harbored ambitions to sing but, unlike Marvin, lacked the drive to break into show business. He was also a Vietnam vet—the returning soldier at the center of
What’s Going On
—and a man who had been deeply traumatized by the war. On the surface, though, Frankie was an easygoing character. Only his heavy drinking habit bothered Marvin, who had little taste for alcohol.

“He’ll be hanging out with us for only a few days,” Marvin told me. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you, dear?”

“Of course not. He’s family.” I loved Frankie, who had the same lighthearted sense of humor as Marvin.

I soon learned, though, that family—especially the Gaye family—could be as much a burden as a blessing. When Frankie’s stay extended beyond a few days to a few weeks and then months, I despaired. The love nest was crowded.

On another front, another invasion threatened our domesticity. Motown never stopped calling with the same messages: Your album’s a smash; you’re more popular than ever; your fans are dying to see you, hear you, show you their devotion. How can you resist their love? How can you resist their money? How long can you hide out?

Promoters found their way through the canyon to Marvin’s door with extravagant offers.

“You’ll be returning to the stage a conquering hero,” they promised him.

He lit a joint, he smiled, he pondered, and then he refused. But
they refused his refusals and ultimately came back with more money, more perks, more ways to flatter his ego. Finally he succumbed. He set a date for one concert and one concert only. During the late summer of 1973, he committed to playing the Oakland Coliseum in November. The decision came after weeks of mental turmoil.

“At least you’ve made up your mind,” I offered in the way of comfort. “Maybe you’ll even like getting back in the ring.”

“If you really knew me,” he snapped, “you wouldn’t say that. I’m just not ready.”

“Then why did you agree?”

“To make you happy.”

“To make
me
happy? What!”

“Yes, dear. Don’t you want to watch me onstage being adored by thousands of women and then come home with me?”

“Of course. And your show will be great.”

“It’ll be a nightmare. I’ve screwed up.”

“Then cancel.”

“I’ve given my word.”

“It’ll be fine, Marvin.”

“Roll a jay, dear. I need a smoke.”

“No problem,” I said.

The smoke only increased his apprehension. When the first rehearsals came around, he skipped them. The promoter began to panic. Marvin hadn’t appeared in public in over a year. He didn’t have a regular band or a set show. There was an enormous amount of work to do. He needed to get started, yet he kept procrastinating.

Tickets were printed. Ads were placed. The Coliseum sold out within minutes. Orchestrations were written, musicians hired. If he didn’t start rehearsing now, he’d be in deep trouble. Marvin was courting disaster.

“Marvin loves to cut it close,” Frankie told me.

“Why?”

“He loves the drama.”

“Drama or not, he’s going to have to start rehearsing. He can’t cancel now.”

“Tell the promoter that it’s off,” Marvin said. “November is too soon. I’m not ready.”

“But . . .”

“No buts about it. It’s off.”

A month later,
it was on again. Marvin had rediscovered his courage. He was also motivated by a need for cash. Although
Let’s Get It On
was a hit, royalties would not be forthcoming for a while. In the time since
What’s Going On
and
Trouble Man
, Marvin had spent all the money he had made. When it came to finances and, for that matter, all practicalities, Marvin was defiantly irresponsible. He spent what he wanted to spend when he wanted to spend it. He never heeded the advice of accountants or managers.

“I’m simply unmanageable,” he was quick to say.

He ignored all admonishments about saving money and, most alarmingly, paying taxes. Only when he was forced by dire consequences—like losing the house in Topanga—was he moved to action. Yet even then, action was not immediate.

The Oakland concert, canceled in November, was now rescheduled for the first week of the new year. The mechanism was set back in motion. He was due for the first rehearsal in Hollywood for a show that was only three weeks away.

When he missed the rehearsal everyone panicked—everyone except Marvin. Though anxiety was building up on the inside, on the outside Marvin was cool as a cucumber.