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The naked truth

Published: 2 years ago

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Words Rob Marriott Photography Mike Schreiber

My life is where I draw my experiences [for my music]. My performances are where I have my therapy,” murmurs Erykah Badu, teetering on the edge of sleep. She’s cocooned in a traditional South African cotton wrap, eyes closed, lying on a couch in her dressing room at Madison Square Garden where she’s just wound up an energetic performance, opening for Maxwell. This is the second of two shows in New York on her 2010 tour. Her Out My Mind, Just In Time tour, to promote her latest album, New Amerykah Part 2 (Return Of The Ankh), is midstream and Badu has learned to catch rest when she can, even during interviews like this.

Maxwell is still on stage and the room vibrates with bass and screams from the mostly female crowd. Badu lies still but, despite the fatigue, she is lucid. Our laidback, post-show chat swings from movies to astrology, then back to tonight’s gig. “That felt good,” she says of her hour-long set.

“The sound was great... I just missed the part when the audience becomes one living, breathing organism. But,” she burrows deeper into her wrap, “this wasn’t really my crowd. They still felt it, though.”

Just as it looks like she might nod off completely, her phone interrupts us and she jolts back to life. It’s one of her producers. “My name is Erica Wright,” she states flatly. “Erica Wright.” She is now wide awake. “We worked on harmonies for three hours but I didn’t hear it in the mix.” She is polite, steady – but assertive and business-like. “I know it’s extra work for you. I’ll call you back.” She hangs up, closes her eyes again. “Now, where were we?”

Stage present and correct

Two hours earlier and Badu, surrounded by the venue’s security guards, has just walked out of her dressing room into the grim corridors that take her to Madison Square Garden’s hallowed stage. She is wearing one of her typical get-ups: a black top hat perches deliberately above a bleached-blonde explosion of hair, gold face paint is splashed over one eye, the rest of her outfit is hidden beneath a black trench coat. Style icon is an overused, much-abused title, but Badu’s truly original and unclassifiable look has evolved as freely as her sound. From the sky-high headwraps, flowing dresses and incense-flecked days of her late-90s, straight-up neo-soul debut, these days a regular Badu look could be trackpants, knee-socks and Foxy Brown afro, demure eveningwear with freaky heels, or something more fuck-you, like tonight’s ensemble. Correspondingly, her sound and performances have moved steadily forwards; while still soul in flavour, she taps more frequently into hip hop, electrofunk and electronica than she ever did on her first album Baduizm. The astral leaps and conceptual edge are still evident but, more than ever, balanced with strong harmonies and a bluesy base. Not that we’re complaining. It’s this ability to effortlessly manipulate her look and sound to reflect current styles and music technology, that have kept Badu vital.

As she walks to the stage the staccato drums of Fela’s Water Get No Enemy echo through the auditorium, then it’s Luniz’s I Got Five On It. Backstage are dozens of framed images from the venue’s glorious past. There’s Michael Jackson, The Beatles, Elvis, Frank Sinatra. Maxwell and Badu are there too, strategically placed so that the performers see themselves as they walk to the stage.

She pauses to examine her portrait. Her face is fuller in the image, semi-concealed under a veil and flapper-style cap. “I was pregnant then,” she recalls. She saunters past the technicians and the multicoloured board of lights and on to the stage. The music blares, the audience applauds and she begins her therapy.

Badu sings and swings her hips slowly. The lights dim. She slinks into a loose version of On And On, her 1997 hit peppered with references to the Five Per Cent Nation, the Nation Of Islam offshoot. Next, her sensuous rendition of I Want You, from her Worldwide Underground album, lulls the audience into a trance. She removes the trench coat to reveal torn sweats. A 1980s-era gold nameplate reading MARS hangs from her neck. It’s the name of her two-year-old daughter, but could just as easily be a nod to the god of war, or the b-boy from Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It. The R&B crowd – dressed to the nines for Maxwell – is briefly taken aback. Is this what she is wearing? Badu and her backing singers (her younger sister Koryan and Keisha Jackson, soul singer Millie Jackson’s daughter) wail sweetly in response.

She plays with her drum machine, going off beat, then coming back. There is a symbiosis with the band. She ends her set with If You Believe from the 70s musical The Wiz. “That’s my time,” she says over the applause. And then she’s gone.

Beginnings

Erica Wright became Erykah Badu, after a stint as Erykah Free, in the mid 1990s. The performing arts graduate crossed paths with label executive Kedar Massenburg, the man who also later found India.Arie and Joe, among others. Via his imprint, she eventually signed to Motown. Released in 1997, Baduizm, introduced the public to a resonant, fire-and-water voice reminiscent of Billie Holiday. It sold more than 3million copies and, at a time when listeners were lapping up Maxwell and D’Angelo, it introduced the world to a female singer with substance and staying power, as well as a voice. Her style has always seemed to seep more from the pages of a Zora Neale Hurston novel than the environs of traditional R&B yet she’s scored major hits including Tyrone, Bag Lady and Love Of My Life. The fact that, five albums down the line, she’s still around, still reinventing herself, still able to grab headlines, proves she was much more than the latest neo-soul find at the time.

Thirty-nine, a Pisces, raised just south of Dallas, Texas – where she still spends much of her time, Badu does things her way. A mother of three, when she’s not on stage or in the studio, she’s making packed lunches for school. Motherhood has been the major life-shaping theme in her life. By her count, she was raised by five mothers. “My mother, her name is Kolleen, gave me a sense of wit.

My grandmother Thelma taught me morality, femininity, manners, how to cross my legs at the ankles, the appropriate alcohol for ladies – those kinds of things. My paternal grandmother gave me a strong sense of spirituality. She made it clear to me that my words and songs had to mean something.”

Mom number four is godmother Gwendolyn, her mother’s best friend. “She was from New Orleans. Every summer she directed the Dallas summer musicals and me and my sister were in them from the time I was four years old until I was 18. I learned everything about the theatre from her.

“Mother number five is Mother Nature,” Badu concludes. “Those things I go to bed with and wake up with, that I don’t tell anyone. Decisions that I have to make that come strictly from the environment around me.”

The reveal

Badu’s celebrity is a mystic brew of shock and candour. Convention galls her. Her public relationships with some of America’s most famous musicians have resulted in songs (2004‘s Love Of My Life with Common) and children (Seven Sirius with OutKast’s André 3000, Puma Sabti with Dallas rapper D.O.C. and Mars Merkaba with Jay Electronica).This year, her controversy trajectory reached its apex with a much-discussed strip for the video for Window Seat. The chatter exploded when it became clear she’d disrobed in the one-take, handheld promo filmed in Dealey Plaza, where John F Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. Internet forums buzzed, newspapers swarmed, while CNN and TV chat shows debated its meaning and relevance. Following the media firestorm Badu landed a disorderly conduct charge that could have put her in jail, not just with the US$500 fine and six months’ probation she received. Once the controversy died down talk finally rested on the revelation that Badu’s hip and thigh proportions are still pretty juicy. And US comedian Wanda Sykes did a spoof of the promo in support of Badu, who went on her show to explain she wasn’t afraid “to show America my butt-naked truth.” It sure is one way to sell records, too.

Talking the talk

After the Madison Square show, Maxwell comes to visit Badu’s room. They greet each other with warm hugs. “You are a queen,” Maxwell gushes. Badu slightly bows her head and smiles sweetly, as her grandmother taught her. Show over, we head south to Brooklyn where Badu, still in her South African wrap, walks down Fulton Street. It’s a full moon and hipsters mill in the streets. There is a Michael Jackson party going on and Common has just finished up in nearby Fort Greene Park. Badu is catching a second wind. She stops at a bar for a drink. The owner greets her with hugs: “Erykah! You don’t love me no more.” We take a seat and talk.

You performed On And On tonight. Does the Five Per Cent Nation philosophy still hold sway with you?

I’ve never been a sole member of anything. When there is intelligent information that I feel is relevant to a certain part of my growth in my life, I practise it, use it, honour it. I think that was a very important part of my evolution and for many of us who were trying to come out of oppression. Seeing our parents, grandparents be oppressed to the point of having no identity gave me a sense of pride and understanding about myself. And I used that math and supreme alphabet daily, I used it and it became a part of me. The Five Per Cent Nation is one of the steps that got me to where I am right now.

So you use it as a vehicle?

Yes. A well-built boat that got me to the next shore. A very well-built boat.

Earlier, you called performance your therapy. Is performance how you deal with pain?

I accept pain as part of growing. Everyone goes through it. And in the process of it, it’s unpleasant but I’m still peaceful and happy.

Does pain ever blind you?

Not at this point. Joy blinds me. Joy, happiness, sadness – they are all blinding, if you lose yourself in any of those things. I feel that I have to stay very accepting and in the moment and not get to a point where I am complacent. I am continually evolving.

Do you practise meditation?

Yes. It’s at the point where I walk in meditation. I practise being here, being present and not being consumed with the chatter of my mind. Being aware of my experiences and the people that I meet. Truly giving them my full attention. I am practising it now.

Do you feel fear?

I don’t know if it’s fear I feel. Sometimes I have caution. And it’s based on fears I’ve had in the past. Neurologically, sometimes I see something that reminds me of something I’ve feared before. I caution myself. But I don’t think there are very many things that scare me right now. Especially human beings.

Have you ever experienced betrayal?

[Long pause.] What I perceived as betrayal. But it wasn’t really betrayal. Each person has his own path. I mean I don’t blame people for the things they do. That is not for me to judge. I can’t believe I am saying all these things to you because I generally don’t get into conversations like this. Because sometimes when it’s written, it’s not written in the spirit that I’m saying it. So it becomes confusing. I’m cautious of that. But I don’t believe in betrayal. People follow their own minds and hearts. I guess that’s a part of what detachment is about.

How can you be present and detached at the same time?

Well, being present means you are aware of everything around you. When I say detachment it means that you don’t connect with the emotion that others have for you. The fear or envy someone has for you, the need to leave you, or leave the situation. That’s their stuff. What they feel or think about you is really none of your business. Your business is to be aware and always know that you are synonymous with what is going on around you. And that way your feelings don’t get hurt when they make a decision that doesn’t agree with you.

Which brings us to love. What is love?

Love is the opposite of fear. [Someone is blaring Drake’s Fancy out of a car window and the conversation turns to music.] Drake is a genius. Magnificent. He’s an artist. That is my brother and friend. He’s a very humble person.

The great ones usually are.

A lot of people are not anything like they are on stage. They are split. Beyoncé is so shy. She barely talks. André 3000 is like that. He is very humble. He loves being an entertainer but he does not like being a celebrity.

Do you?

No.

How do you negotiate that?

I just don’t do it. I know that I’m a record company’s nightmare.

You’ve never considered conceding to commercialism.

I wouldn’t know how to do it even if I tried. I just feel there’s something working with me that’s giving me doors. I am becoming. And I can see that I am definitely a slow burn.