Remain in Love Read online

  161 Benefit Street was just a few steps away from the RISD campus. A friend of Donald Munroe’s named Fred Lutz needed a roommate to share the rent and I was pleased to accept his offer. This was the same building that Donald and his roommate, Joan Schwartz, lived in, as well as Kenny Goodman and Karen Achenbach. It was a pretty cool scene—at least I thought it was until someone crawled in the back window and ripped off my stereo and all my records. That hurt.

  My little bedroom was very dark and sad so I bought a gallon of cantaloupe-colored paint to brighten the walls. I adjusted the lighting and that made the room seem much warmer and happier. That was the extent of my redecorating. I didn’t really spend much time in the apartment except to sleep, and I still took my meals in the Refectory with Andi and other friends, so I never used the kitchen except to make some coffee in the morning.

  My roommate, Fred, soon decided to move to a big old loft on Pine Street in downtown Providence. This was 1971 and artist’s lofts were a new idea in Providence. I had no trouble finding a new roommate. He was a Deadhead from Greenwich, Connecticut, named Chris Lushington. Chris looked like a hippie with waist-length hair, but he also had a serious, puzzled Clint Eastwood vibe. He said he liked music that was played tight like the Grateful Dead and I would correct him: “The James Brown band is tight. The Grateful Dead are loose!” One time I went with Chris and some other friends to see the Dead in a giant Quonset hut outside of Providence. We all marveled at the band’s humongous sound system—it was the biggest we had ever seen, pretty crazy looking, and boy, it was loud. The Dead jammed on and on. It seemed like forever. Chris was thrilled. I was wondering how much longer it could go on. I also realized that I missed playing music and wondered how I could get my drums up to Providence from my parents’ basement in Pittsburgh.

  One day Charlie the Model told me that his dog had puppies and he wanted me to have one. He was looking for a good home for each puppy. I asked him what kind they were and Charlie said, “The mother is an Afghan Hound and the father is a German shepherd.” I told him I would have to think about it and Charlie said, “Why don’t you come out to see them and see if you like them?” So, I got into Charlie’s car with him and drove to his home in the country. Sure enough, the puppies were supercute and friendly, very happy little creatures. Charlie said, “They’ve already had their shots and they’re healthy and smart.” There was one in particular, a blonde, that caught my eye. In a moment of sweetness, I said I would take her. Charlie drove us back to RISD. On the way back to town we stopped at a pet store, where I bought her a red collar, a red leash, and some dog food. That night she slept on my bed with me. I named her Lucy. The next morning she gobbled down a big lump of hashish that was sitting on my bedside table and slept for two days! I was very concerned, but when she finally woke up she was hungry, thirsty, and more playful than ever.

  About the same time, Tina was shopping in the RISD bookstore, when a tall, well-dressed Asian man approached her with a little black sheepdog in his arms. He asked Tina if she would look after his dog for a couple of weeks. Tina didn’t even know the guy but the little dog was so cute and Tina loved animals so she said yes, she would take care of her. The guy said, “She’s a Puli, an Hungarian sheepdog. Her name is Natasha.”

  It turns out the guy was breaking up with his wife and had no intention of taking Natasha back, but that was fine because Tina quickly became attached to her. Natasha had a bold personality and became Tina’s little dreadlocked bodyguard. Tina put a red bandana around Tasha’s neck and took her everywhere, even to painting classes. One day, after a few weeks, when Tina was walking on Benefit Street, Tasha, excitedly barking and jumping, ran up to a young mother and her newborn baby. This was the wife of the man who had left Tasha with Tina. She told Tina that she was happy that Tasha had found a good home and she hoped that Tina would keep her. Tina assured her that she would, knowing that the woman had enough responsibilities with a newborn child already.

  Lucy and Tasha were sometimes playmates. Tina still seemed to be in love with her boyfriend, Peter, and I was still seeing Andi. Andi and I were very close, but I was not exactly sure of where I stood with her. I could see that she was strongly attracted to a couple of older guys, but our romance kind of sputtered along. I was very fond of Andi. She was adorable, but I could tell that she was struggling with her emotions. She was going through a difficult time.

  One night I screwed up my courage and knocked on Tina’s door. Her apartment was only a block away from mine, so I made up the excuse that I needed some dog food. Tina was sweet and kindly offered me some. I said thanks and good night. When Tina closed the door, I stood there with Lucy, wondering how to say what I had really wanted to say. I knocked again. When Tina opened the door, I confessed, “I didn’t really come here for dog food. I came here tonight because I want to sleep with you.” Tina looked at me with big blue eyes, smiled, and said, “Chris, I like you, too, but you know I already have a boyfriend whom I love very much. I couldn’t do that!” I paused and finally said, “Well, I’m a very patient guy. If for any reason that doesn’t work out for you, I’ll be waiting.” Tina said, “We’ll see,” smiled again, and closed the door.

  Whew. I had never been what you’d call a smooth operator with the ladies, and now my heart was pounding. As I walked back to my place with Lucy, I felt a great sense of relief having made my real feelings known to Tina. She had not completely shot me down. There was hope.

  9

  ARTISTIC DAYS GO BY

  After a summer working as a welder, cutting and welding caisson pipes for a company called Universal Welding outside of Pittsburgh, I was thrilled to return to RISD. Intense labor and hanging out with the some pretty tough characters were great incentives to stay in college.

  I had spent many of my evenings in my parents’ basement playing drums along with my favorite records and I wished I were in a real band. I still dreamed of being a musician even though the painting thing was going fine. I’ve always maintained that the urge to play music and be a performer is the same impulse that drives you to create a painting. Music and art go hand in hand. Feeling as I did, I asked my father to drive me and my drum set up to Providence. My parents had always encouraged my interest in music. I remember so vividly the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony concerts my mother took me to. I loved all styles of music, but I felt most passionate about rock and roll and rhythm and blues.

  There had been a new draft lottery. College deferments were out and my lottery number was terrible. I was number 21, which meant, unless something happened, I was going to Vietnam. My father, who was a general by then, told me that if I was drafted he would see to it that I got a post with the Army band. Fortunately for me, President Nixon abolished the draft in 1973 and I was allowed to finish school. I know he was a bad guy, but I’ll always be grateful that Nixon did that.

  When my father and I arrived at RISD that fall, I moved my drums into my apartment. I soon found out that a better apartment upstairs, the one Karen Achenbach and Kenny Goodman had recently vacated, was available. The landlord said I could have it. It was two rooms with a kitchen in the middle and a single bathroom. I took the front corner room, which had a view up Benefit Street to the RISD campus. The apartment was funky but had plenty of windows and high ceilings. There was a working fireplace with a marble mantelpiece in my room.

  In a different lottery, Andi and I got a prime painting studio in the turret of the Carr House building. We were still together and we shared a deep love of drawing and painting. The studio was big enough for two people to work and had abundant natural light. The curved windows overlooked the “RISD Beach” and I could see my new apartment down Benefit Street. Tina was not so lucky and got a studio in a room full of cubicles with fluorescent lighting that she had to share with a girl named Candy who never stopped chatting. After the first day, Tina found the situation intolerable and decided to work in her apartment instead.

  Tina and I did have one class together. It was a figure-painting class
taught by a guy who was probably the worst teacher I have ever had. I overheard him say to Tina when she asked him a question about her work, “Oh, what does it matter? You’re just going to get married and make babies anyway.”

  Between the bad teacher and the bad studio situation, I admired Tina for having the gumption to stick it out.

  In January of ’72, a guy I knew named Juan Evereteze asked me if I wanted to join a soul band he was putting together called the Brotherhood. Right away I told him yes. Juan was a soul brother from Boston with a huge Afro who played trumpet. He told me the rest of the band would come down from Boston on Saturdays to rehearse, work up a set, and eventually perform at the RISD spring dance. I told him I was down for that. Meanwhile, we needed a place to rehearse. I got in touch with Fred Lutz, who had a big old loft downtown. I said I would pay him a portion of the rent if I could keep my drums there and rehearse on the weekends. Fred was sharing the loft with a clever electronics enthusiast named Floyd Luton. Floyd had installed all kinds of electronic locks and security in the loft, which was a good thing. They agreed to let me use the place for music part time. The guys in the Brotherhood were serious players. Some of them had studied at Berklee School of Music, which later became the Berklee College of Music. I was definitely the weak link but the other guys were very patient with me and kept good senses of humor. By playing with them, I got better. The hardest thing for me was to get the feel right on the slow ballads. I had never played a song as slow as those R&B ballads in my life. Eventually, I almost got it right. We played covers of soul classics and current soul hits: “Express Yourself,” by Charles Wright & the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band; “I Want To Take You Higher,” by Sly and the Family Stone; “Rock Steady,” by Aretha Franklin; “Cowboys to Girls,” by the Intruders. Stuff like that. By the time the spring dance came along, we would be smoking hot.

  I needed spending money to buy herb and pay for my share of the Pine Street loft, so I got a part-time job washing dishes at a cool little bistro called David’s Pot Belly on Hope Street. The owner, David Levine, had sold his restaurant by the same name on Christopher Street in New York and moved to Providence after his wife had been sexually assaulted. He wanted to give her a new start in a safer environment. David was a brash New Yorker, but he knew his business. He had been in charge of catering at The Woodstock Music and Art Festival before everyone got overwhelmed by the thousands of hippies and kids that descended there. The restaurant served omelets and fancy hamburgers, salads and over-the-top desserts. They did a very brisk lunch business and a more mellow dinner seating. There must have been a cuteness rule because the waitresses were all extremely fetching, especially one young woman called Anki, but I was in the back with the cooks in a tiny little kitchen with no air-conditioning. The cooks were hip young guys. Billy Paden and a black guy known only as Jimmy made the omelets with all kinds of delicious fillings. Chip Young and Josh Miller operated the broiler and cooked the burgers, which also had tasty fillings—you know, a burger with cheese on the inside.

  I learned the importance of working fast and moving carefully around the tiny kitchen so as not to bump the cooks. I enjoyed the job and learned how to crack three dozen eggs into a bowl with one hand. I made salads by the ton with each leaf torn by hand. David Levine took a liking to me and I worked his restaurant until I graduated from RISD.

  * * *

  One chilly Friday night, I was walking down Benefit Street smoking an unfiltered Camel cigarette, when I heard the desperate sobbing and crying of a young girl coming from the bushes in front of the Colonial Apartments, where a lot of RISD kids lived. I had to find out what was wrong, so I climbed a short flight of stairs, and peered behind the shrubbery, and lying there in a weeping heap was Tina. I asked her if she was okay and she said, “No. I feel awful!” She had broken up with her boyfriend, Peter. A so-called friend had then immediately moved in with him without even telling her. On top of it all, she had caught a cold and the twelve-hour cold medicine she had taken did not mix well with the blackberry brandy she was drinking.

  I asked if she would like to go to my place and she nodded yes, still sobbing. Tina was strong but petite and the combination of brandy and cold medicine on an empty stomach had completely overpowered her. Breaking up with her boyfriend, even though it was her idea, had caused her great sadness. She was grieving. I picked her up and carried her down the street to my building, up four flights of stairs, and into my apartment. I laid her on my bed and propped her head up with two pillows and covered her with a warm blanket. I put a bucket on the floor beside her just in case. She was already asleep and breathing evenly. Keeping my clothes on, I lay down on the other side of the bed and closed my eyes.

  In the morning, I made us breakfast. Using the skills I learned at David’s Pot Belly, I made an omelette filled with peaches and cream cheese. Tina loved that. I turned on my little black-and-white portable TV and tuned in to Soul Train. The featured artist that morning was Al Green with a live band, singing “Love and Happiness.” I loved watching the kids dance their fresh new angular dance moves. Tina loved it, too! We watched James Brown, Marvin Gaye, the Spinners, and Kool & the Gang. This would become our Saturday morning ritual, omelettes and Soul Train. Of course we loved the music, but the dancing was a revelation. The kids on Soul Train were inventing new dance moves with every show. During the Soul Train Line, the dancers would groove through a gauntlet of hand clapping and foot stomping. It was so cool and sexy to see. I could never dance that radically, but I admired anyone who could. The performances by Marvin Gaye, Al Green, the Delfonics, Hamilton Bohannon, and James Brown made me rush to the record store to buy their latest albums.

  From this time on, while not really making public displays of affection, Tina and I became closer and closer until we were spending a great deal of time together. I had a bounce in my stride and Tina had a twinkle in her eye. We had been good friends for over a year and now we were falling in love.

  One class we enjoyed together was a study of Conceptual Art taught by Alan Sondheim. Alan’s was an appreciation class and he schooled us about all the great new conceptual artists like Vito Acconci, Dennis Oppenheim, Robert Smithson, filmmaker Michael Snow, and musicians Steve Reich, La Monte Young, and Philip Glass. Alan arranged for La Monte Young to do a performance at RISD. La Monte started off by saying there would be no smoking allowed and then proceeded to do his Hindustani drone thing with slide projections of giant mandalas on a screen behind him. The performance lasted for hours with all of us smokers twitching from withdrawal.

  The performance artist James Lee Byars came to our class to read his avant-garde poetry while dressed in a bunny costume. He was very gentle and sweet.

  Not so gentle and sweet was the writer and performance artist Kathy Acker. She called herself the Black Tarantula at the time and her poetry was a little bit beat and a whole lot pre-punk. Her reading was totally X-rated and nasty. She was making a strong statement about what a woman could be in contrast to what they were expected to be. Alan had asked me if Acker could use my apartment because the school was not providing a hotel room for her that night. I said yes, of course. I could stay with Tina. I cleaned up my room and changed the sheets. Kathy was only there for one night before returning to New York City in the morning.

  I returned to my apartment the next night and in the morning woke up with a case of the crabs that Kathy had left for me. I was grossed out. I had heard about crab lice but I had never had this problem before and didn’t know what to do. One of my more experienced friends told me to go to the drugstore and get A-200 Pyrinate shampoo to wash my crotch and any other affected areas. It worked like a charm. I tossed my crab-ridden bedding into a dumpster.

  When springtime finally arrived, I played drums with the Brotherhood at the RISD spring dance. The band sounded authentically soulful and funky. Everybody in the audience had a case of spring fever and the music we played was just what they needed to get down and dance and celebrate the rites of spring. It felt wond
erful to play my drums with those guys. Sadly, this was the one and only show the Brotherhood would ever play, at least with me.

  10

  THE BEGINNING

  I was the one who encouraged Tina Weymouth to join our band. This took some doing; she didn’t think it was a good idea. I knew she had a wonderful sense of rhythm from dancing with her. I knew she shared the ideals and esthetics that we needed in our band. But she said no. The first time I asked her was in the spring of ’73 at RISD. We had just started dating and one night a friend gave us a line of cocaine, a first time for both of us, and we walked all over town and I told Tina that my dream was to start a new band and that I would like for her to be part of it. She said no, but that she would help me and be supportive in any way she could. I said okay, but I didn’t forget this idea.

  Tina was living in the carriage house of her parents’ house at the corner of Hope and Benevolent Streets, right next to the Brown University tennis courts. Much to her surprise, Tina’s parents, Ralph and Laure, bought a house in Providence and moved in during the summer. Her father had chosen early retirement from the Navy in protest against the Nixon administration’s war policies. After surviving the Pacific Theater of World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War, he’d had enough. He was turning his nuclear expertise instead to working on environmental protections and the cofounding of Veterans for Peace.