Lighting & Sound America - Smoke & Mirrors, 5 Rick James By Paul Dexter Rick James passed away on August the 6th, 2004. He was 56 years old. That's a relatively young age these days to die of "natural causes," but I knew Rick and of his lifestyle. I can tell you, first-hand, that he crammed three lifetimes into those 56 years. Between the latter part of 1978 and 1981, I was Rick's lighting designer. It is rare to work with an artist and witness a meteoric rise in concert attendances as happened during Rick's ascent to fame. I started off in a small club in San Jose and ended up playing major cities with multiple dates in 12,000+ arenas, during his "Super Freak" heyday. The man had more attitude than a prizefighter. He was raised poor in a Buffalo, New York, ghetto. I was there when the mayor gave Rick the keys to the city and named the street where he grew up, "Rick James Street"--mainly because he clawed his way out of the ghetto into worldwide fame with his own brand of music and put Buffalo on the map. Before Rick, the only thing Buffalo was known for was chicken wings. The first show On that first show in San Jose, he screamed at me, an incident that left an indelible mark on my young memory. From that time on, whenever anyone--another infantile recording star or irascible producer--would shout at me in a wild or disrespectful way, I learned to not let it affect me negatively. Before the first show, Rick's management said he had his own ideas about lights and wanted to discuss them with me. They gave me his phone number, which I called several times. I couldn't reach him. I reported my unsuccessful attempts back to management. They instructed me to go to his house in the Hollywood Hills on such and such a day and time and Rick would be there. In those days, I naively believed them and drove to see him. It was an hour from my house. When I got there, nobody was home. Instead, I studied his recordings and developed my own scripts. However, when I entered the dressing room in San Jose and met him for the first time, all he saw was pure white boy. All I saw was Rick's long braids, tight glitter outfit and, with his platform shoes on, how he towered over me. He said, "Look, all I want from you is, when I count to four, put all the lights on!" It scared the crap out of me. Feebly, I said, "Okay", and walked out to the lighting console. The house lights went out. I could see the band getting into position and I waited with my finger on the "all on" button. The band started the first song, but I was still waiting for the count to four, as explicitly directed--in the dark. It didn't take long to figure out that I had better creep the faders up and get on with it. Next night in the dressing room...I walked in, looked around, and Rick came right up to me and yells, "Mutha F----r, where were you? I told you, when I count to four, I want all the lights on!" I was petrified! He wanted to fire me. Finding my opportunity to speak up during a break in the ranting, I said, "You didn't count to four." That stopped him for a moment, then he started up again with his defense until other band members actually came to my defense, saying, "Rick, you didn't count to four." That was certainly a vindication and it made me feel a whole lot better. What was even better than that was, through all of the shouting; Rick was wearing these ridiculous pink curlers in his braids‹it was priceless! Whenever you come across a person who shouts at you, imagine them in pink curlers, and you will never take it seriously again. It works every time! Trouble with the law I'll never know why or how Rick did this, but he took one promoters' advance money for a tour and ended up using another promoter--but didn't pay the first promoter back. Consequently, there were sheriff's cars appearing in most major cities, trying to take Rick into custody. He always was able to elude them. For some reason, the stage is sacred ground. Rick knew it and he played that card to avoid capture on a number of occasions. For example, one thing he would do would be to light a big, fat, pre-rolled joint as part of the show. He didn't care who was there and he never got taken to jail for illegal use, no matter where we were--probably because it had to do with the sacred unwritten, you-can't-go-onstage-with-the-artist rule. In Dallas, during a sold-out show, sheriff's cars were lined up at the loading dock doors. Several officers came in to make themselves visible and stood on the side of the stage--but not backstage. Rick couldn't help but notice and, as per normal, fired up the joint and blew it in their direction. Nothing happened! However, at the end of the show, it was clearly their intention to arrest Rick to finally answer the charge of taking the promoter's money. The show ended and the sheriffs told the crew that the equipment was impounded. This prevented load-out for about 45 minutes until they figured out that the equipment was all leased and none of it belonged to Rick. In the meantime, they were searching the dressing rooms, backstage area, and buses, but Rick was nowhere to be found. In the end, they gave up and went home. As it happened, Rick had been tipped off earlier about the impending capture plan. A small black duvetyne quick-change booth had been set up onstage behind the backdrop for his musicians, the Stone City Band. After the last song, there was a longer-than-usual delay. Being at the front-of-house position, I had no idea what was happening, but Rick was changing into an Afro wig, denim overalls, Converse sneakers, and wrap-around sunglasses. In the meantime, California, Rick's valet, walked onstage wearing one of Rick's white floor-length bejeweled capes. Keeping his head down and back toward the audience, California stood there with his arms stretched out for at least 90 seconds. The crowd was screaming--it was a moment of high drama, as they were waiting for one more encore. While all this was going on, Rick casually walked down the stage steps, right past the police and into a waiting cab. He didn't return until after load-out, to catch the tour bus taking us to the next town. I don't think Rick was intentionally bad; it's just that his mind worked that way, from his deprived upbringing and surviving in the ghetto. For the most part, his bark was louder that his bite. He was an extremely talented, brilliant writer and performer, but he just did bad things and broke all the rules. The freebasing didn't help his good side either, but it was unfortunately a favorite pastime, which ultimately destroyed the inside of his body, leading to hepatitis, diabetes, and heart trouble. May he rest in peace. His life here was, without a doubt, turbulent--the high price to pay for leaving us with immortal music‹and a memorable ride.