Devils & Blue Dresses: My Wild Ride as a Rock and Roll Legend

opposed to mine. That also played well into my father’s “second chance” at music by living vicariously through his talented, singing son. It also went a long way into relieving some of the guilt my mother felt for having so many children that my father had to abandon his dreams. Cynicism? Damned right. Don’t leave home without it.
    The first recording, when I was sixteen, appeared on the Carrie label. My father had befriended a black gentleman named Wade at his place of work and was initially trying to set up a deal for his own recording. Wade’s wife played keyboards at a black gospel church in Detroit, headed by the Reverend James Hendrix (no relation to Jimi), who also owned the label. It was through Wade and his wife that we were introduced to the Reverend. The Reverend was short and surprisingly cordial. He had a beautiful smile that seemed to say, “Hey, I just had a talk with God!”

     
    The Reverend also had a kingly interest in rock ‘n’ roll but, because he did not fully understand it, preferred to keep me on his gospel label. The resulting single, on which I wrote the A side, titled “Fool for You,” and he wrote the B side, titled “That’s the Way it’s Gonna Be,” hit my psyche like a free lunch.
    Unfortunately, hearing my voice on the radio for the very first time was sullied by my accidental witnessing of the Reverend handshake-passing money to the disc jockey as we left the WJLB studio. On our way back to the Reverend’s we listened to our recording being played on the radio and he smiled at me with an insane quizzical grin and wondered why I wasn’t going crazy. I could only stare at the passing landscape and damn myself for thinking I was anyone at all.
    Once we arrived back at the “office,” which was a near empty upper flat that contained a table, boxes of supplies, a bed, and on the bare floor next to it, a telephone, we began pasting album covers together. It was a hot sticky summer day and there was no air conditioning, not even a fan, and so we decided to take a break and sit by theopen windows next to the bed. As we sat, the Reverend slowly began running his trembling fingers with their sharply manicured and polished nails up the length of my leg. His eyebrows were pointing down in a frown but he still had that crazy, toothy smile. I silently rose to my feet and walked down the stairs to the street. I asked myself over and over again why only men kept coming after me. It was depressing.
    I returned to the Village where at least, among other things, I was a “star.” I also began showing up at Thelma Records on the corner of Grand River and Grand Boulevard, hoping to get a contract with Berry Gordy’s ex-wife. That didn’t work out. I failed the audition with Brian Holland at Motown Records because my writing skills weren’t equal to my singing ability.
    It was shaping up to be a really bad winter when a musician friend of mine from high school called and mentioned that his parents were taking him to Florida in a few weeks and asked if I wanted to go along. He said I needed to have a hundred dollars. I knew I couldn’t ask my parents, and as I stood in the outer lobby of the Village preoccupied with thoughts of money the most incredible thing I could imagine occurred.
    Behind the concession stand was a very pretty Jewish girl named Susan Bilsky. She had been working there with her friend Bobbie Segal for a few weeks and every time I came out to the lobby on a break, the two were laughing and having fun, trying to keep the men and boys at bay. I never dreamed of speaking to them because it was clear to me that everyone thought I was a faggot. But unbelievably, Susan said hello to me.
    From then on, I stopped to talk every time I saw her. I couldn’t say she was my girl but it made me angry and jealous when other guys swarmed around her, especially when it was a guy I knew, because I was certain of his motive. Even though I wanted to take her to bed, I was still reeling from the fact that she had said hello to me.
    Over the weeks, as we talked, I mentioned how disappointed I was at the prospect of not going to Florida when, out of the blue, she volunteered the money as a loan. That was so cool. But I missed a subtle little magic in our exchange, and it flew right past me because how could I have known or even suspected that when I turned eighteen Susan would be my wife. Sweet Jesus, what was I thinking? She was a Jew by birthright and religion. I was the mongrel