Unbreak My Heart: A Memoir (9 page)

“Hi, how are you?” he asked, flashing a huge grin. I spotted his under-bite.

“Um, I’m fine,” I said while thinking,
Is this man trying to hit on me?
He was short, stout, and African-American, and he looked a few years older than me. The way he swayed his head as he spoke made me want to snicker. Yet in spite of his onesie zip-up and his weird approach, I decided to let him keep talking to me.

“Are you a singer?” he asked.

I stared and pushed the nozzle farther into my tank. “Yes, I am,” I said with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. That day, I was rocking a Madonna look: a loose shirt hanging off my right shoulder, a taupe skirt, a row of black rubber bracelets on my arm, and a wide belt slung low toward my left hip. I’d even dipped the ends of my hair in ash-blond dye. Very eighties.

“I’m Bill Pettaway, and I’m a producer,” he said, explaining that his job as a gas attendant was his day job. “I’ve seen you singing around town, and I’d love for you to come to my house and sing some songs. Will you call me?”

I paused. “Okay,” I finally said. He then pulled out his card, scribbled a phone number on the back, and handed it to me. I took it.

“You should really call me,” he said, probably sensing my hesitation. “I’d really love to work with you.” I nodded, thanked him, and then stuffed the paper down in my purse. I was already late for class.

That evening, I called my friend Kim. “I don’t think I’m going to call him,” I said. “I can’t just go over to some strange man’s house. I don’t even know him. He might be a murderer.” Kim disagreed. “Let’s go together!” she said. When we were kids, Kim had always been more of a dancer than a singer; to be honest, I hadn’t ever really known she wanted to be a singer until the night when I competed in a singing competition at a club, and she said she wanted to compete. She could carry a tune—and by the time I met Bill, she was hoping for a musical break, too. Though I wasn’t 100 percent sold on the idea of calling Bill, I did sense that his energy was good. My gut told me he was okay. “We should just try it!” Kim said.

In today’s world, a wannabe singer probably wouldn’t just run into an up-and-coming producer at a gas station. But during the late eighties and early nineties, that wasn’t quite as unlikely as it sounds. Dozens of producers like Bill who were trying to make it in the business were more plentiful—especially since this was all long before the days when any would-be artists could just put themselves out there on YouTube and hope to get noticed. Back then, a new singer needed a liaison. And it just so happened that in my area of the country, some big names like Johnny Gill and the group Starpoint, Tony Terry, and Chuck Brown had been discovered. That might’ve been why talent scouts were popping up. But while running into Bill might’ve been more probable then than it would be now, let me be clear about one thing: It was nothing short of a miracle that he happened to spot me that day and actually recognize me as someone he’d seen performing around town. A moment like that usually only rolls around once in a girl’s life—and this was my big opportunity. And even as I decided whether I should call Bill, I somehow knew that.

By the next afternoon, I’d decided to take the risk and call Bill. I fished out the crumpled piece of paper from my purse and dialed Bill’s number. He answered after two rings.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Who’s this?”

“This is Toni,” I answered. “We met at the gas station the other day.”

“Oh yes—I remember,” he said. “I’m so glad you called.”

“I would love to come over and do some demos,” I said. “My friend Kim is coming with me. Where do you live?”

“I’m in Annapolis,” he said. He then gave me his address and we agreed to meet at seven the following evening.

When Kim and I knocked on the front door, an older woman answered. It was Bill’s mother—and she looked like the female version of him. I was relieved that his mother lived there; that probably meant he wasn’t a murderer. “Come on in,” she said, as if she’d been expecting us. We stepped into the foyer. “Bill, your guests are here!” she yelled out. A couple minutes later, Bill greeted us, then led us down a set of steep stairs toward his makeshift studio. For some reason, I imagined that Bill’s studio would be huge—but as it turns out, it was in his mama’s finished basement. The walls were soundproofed with a material that looked like egg crates.

Like most men, Bill couldn’t keep his eyes off my friend Kim—she has gorgeous brown skin and a magnificent smile. I was so used to her being hot and my being homey, which is why Bill’s gawking didn’t bother me. It was the classic
Beaches
story: CC, Bette Midler’s character, wanted to be a star singer, but everyone was always looking at her best friend, Hillary (played by Barbara Hershey). I may not have been all that confident about my appearance, but I was sure about one thing: I could sing.

“Let me play you a couple of tracks,” Bill said, keeping his gaze fixed on Kim. He then played a song that he’d written for one of the guys in Starpoint, the R&B group. “How do you like the song?” We both nodded. “I’ve also done some stuff for Milli Vanilli,” he said, explaining that he’d cowritten “Girl You Know It’s True.” At the time, the world hadn’t even yet heard of Milli Vanilli or the song that made them famous, but Kim and I were nonetheless impressed that Bill had actually worked with a professional artist. As we chatted, I could feel a set of goose bumps forming on the back of my neck.
Bill is a real producer
, I thought.
This could be my magical moment
. After listening to a couple more tracks, we thanked Bill and he escorted us to the front door. Once Kim and I were back inside my Honda, we hugged each other and squealed. “I think this is the real thing, girl!” I said. “It sure feels like it!” Kim said in agreement.

Our first visit to the studio was just a listening session for us to see if we liked Bill’s music—that’s usually the way it goes. The plan was for me to create a demo that Bill could shop around. So a week later, we returned for a second visit. This time when we arrived at Bill’s place, Ky Adeyemo—one of the guys from Starpoint—was in the studio. Ky and Bill had cowritten a song called “Maybe Baby.” Bill played the song for us, and I listened closely to the girl’s voice on the track. “How about if you try it now?” said Bill, handing me a sheet with the lyrics. I nodded and took the sheet. “Maybe baby, you were in love with me,” I began. I didn’t feel even a tinge of nervousness—probably because I’d been performing for most of my life. Once I finished the song, Kim gave it a try as well. She was good—but I knew I’d outsung her.

After the session, Bill walked us back to the front door. “Wow, you can really sing!” he turned to me and said. “You sound like Anita Baker.” No shock there.

Back at home, I finally worked up the nerve to tell my parents that I’d met with Bill and even gone to his house—and surprisingly, they didn’t overreact. That’s mostly because they remembered meeting Bill’s parents at a church conference.

In between classes, I met with Bill whenever I could. My friend Kim eventually moved to Europe, so Bill began working with me one-on-one. As we recorded one song at a time for the demo, he talked me up to the musicians he knew. He finally mentioned me to Ernesto Phillips—the lead singer for Starpoint. Ernesto also had his own production company, Elektra. “I heard about that girl,” Ernesto said when Bill told him about my demo. “Let me check her out,” he said. After Bill played him a couple songs from my demo, Ernesto said he wanted to hear me sing in person. “Really?!” I said when Bill gave me that news. “That’s right,” Bill said. “He wants you to come meet him in his studio.” I nearly passed out. It’s one thing to randomly bump into a producer at a gas station—but it’s a whole different thing to connect with the lead singer of one of the hottest groups. Later that night before I went to sleep, I literally got down on my knees and prayed. “God,” I whispered, “please let me become a famous singer.” Years later, I’d come to realize that I should’ve been far more specific with my request.

The next week, I drove to Ernesto’s home in Crofton, Maryland—his studio was on the top floor of his three-level town house. “How are you?” he said to me at the front door. “I’m great,” I answered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sweat that had formed at my temples. In the studio, he asked me to sing a song that he’d written. To this day, I can’t recall what that song was—and that’s probably because I was so anxious. But apparently he liked what he heard: After just that one session, he said, “I’d love to sign you.” I was ecstatic.

To this day, I’m still shocked that it all happened the way it did—and so fast. Who knew that a trip to a gas station would lead me to the doorstep of a different life? It has been said that there are just six degrees of separation between every person on the planet—but in this case, it seemed there were only three. Even with all of the talent scouts and producers working in the Maryland and D.C. area, no human could have predicted that Bill, Ernesto, and I would cross paths. That’s exactly why I believe it was a God thing.

I finally mentioned my meeting with Ernesto to Mommy. She and Dad asked me a thousand questions, of course, but they were happy about the opportunity—this was as close to fame as I’d ever gotten. When my parents realized that Ernesto’s father, George Phillips, was a chief of psychiatry at Crownsville Hospital, that put them even more at ease. Plus, my father had met Dr. Phillips while visiting churches. So by the time Ernesto came by to meet my parents and the rest of the family, Mommy and Daddy were already convinced he was legit.

Soon after Ernesto signed me, we began strategizing. “How do you see yourself onstage?” he asked. “Do you know what you’ll wear? And who will your background singers be?”

“I’ll have my sisters do my background,” I said.

“Those little girls?” He seemed surprised.

“Yes,” I said.

He paused and then repeated himself: “Those little girls—they can sing that well?”

I nodded. “You have to come hear them.”

A couple weeks later, my sisters and I gathered in our living room and sang “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” By the look on Ernesto’s face, we knew he was impressed with our masterful pitch and intricate five-part harmony. “This is a gold mine!” he said, looking over at my parents. “I can’t believe this is untapped. I haven’t heard talent like this since the Jackson Five. I could sign all of you guys tomorrow!”

The next morning, that’s exactly what he did. In the summer of 1988, my sisters and I landed our very first deal.

H
ow do you write songs for a group of girls whose ages span a decade? That’s the big question that arose for Ernesto once he welcomed us onto his label. In 1988, I was a twenty-one-year-old with a mature voice that was as thick as a milk shake—and little Tamar, just eleven then, still had the high-pitched vocal range of a preadolescent. “Maybe Toni could be the lead singer,” Ernesto said to my parents—but Mommy shot down that idea. “Toni is not the Braxtons,” she retorted. “This is an ensemble.” Ernesto’s concern was that he wouldn’t be able to market us. Yes, he’d signed us to his production company, but his grand plan was to create our demo and then shop us around to the major record companies. That’s hard to do with a group that includes both a tween and a twentysomething.

Once we signed with Ernesto, I got my first lesson in the music business: You earn peanuts in the beginning. My mother hired a local two-bit attorney who oversaw our deal. We received $5,000 in total: $2,500 as a signing bonus, and $2,500 on the back end, once the demo was finished. We also agreed to 50 percent of any future profits—and Ernesto would get the other half. He’d use part of those profits to cover the expenses he’d incur while preparing our demo. Producers know that they don’t have to negotiate with an unknown artist who’s hungry for success. You either agree to the deal or you lose your chance to break in.

Ernesto did his best to write music that could include all of our voices. On the weekends, we began recording songs at Starpoint’s studio. One song he came up with was a remake of the sixties hit “When Something Is Wrong with My Baby.” My parents objected. “My eleven-year-old child ain’t singing ‘When something’s wrong with my baby,’” Mommy said. “She should be singing about her baby doll, not her baby.” Ernesto was stumped—he didn’t know how to respond to my mother. When he and I talked privately, he’d tell me, “Your mother’s a tough cookie. I’ve gotta find a way to work this out.” In the following months, he’d repeat that just about every week. Even still, Ernesto stuck with us; I think he really liked us. And as he spent more time with our family, he became more and more emotionally invested.

By the time we started working with Ernesto, I was pretty used to my parents’ strong opinions. But I didn’t challenge them—in our family and community, you just didn’t do that. Parents were the ultimate authority, and children were to do as they were told. In my head, I’d be thinking,
Why can’t Tamar sing “When Something Is Wrong With My Baby?”
But every time my parents challenged Ernesto about our musical selections, I simply did what I’d always done: I stood by and quietly listened. Were there times when I wished we could have hired an outside manager, so that my parents could just be my parents? Absolutely. But whatever I might’ve felt, I knew better than to vocalize it. And besides that, even when I didn’t agree with my parents or like their approach, I believed their intentions were good.

From the start, Ernesto molded us as artists. “You need to go see concerts,” he told us. He wanted us to become familiar with the business by studying other musicians. So one weekend, my sisters and I went to the Budweiser Superfest, which featured Al B. Sure, New Edition, and Bobby Brown. During an intermission, Ernesto took me backstage to meet a few people. While I was back there, one of the show’s producers spotted me and said, “Hey, let’s use her!”—they’d planned for Bobby Brown to bring some girl up onto the stage during the second half of the concert. So along with another girl who was chosen, I waited in the wings until Bobby called me out onstage. “Little shorty right there, come on over,” he said, beckoning. He started singing into the mic—“The truth about Roni . . .”—and I started trying to sing with him! I think Bobby was surprised that I was actually more interested in singing than in shrieking. After all, the whole idea of calling a girl up onstage is so that she can scream and faint. Once the song was finished, Bobby goes, “Damn, she’s skinny!” The crowd erupted in laughter. I just stood there and blushed. I could feel my oversized hot-pink sweater sliding off my right shoulder. “Are you one of them salad-eating bitches?” he asked, stealing a line from Eddie Murphy’s comedy show
Raw
. “No,” I said, “I like to eat!” After my two minutes of fame, I returned to my seat next to my sisters in the audience. We all high-fived. “That was great!” Traci told me.