Betty Davis
Those who worked with the funk-soul legend said she was outrageous, raw, and ambitious in a time before material girls and nasty gals. But then she disappeared, leaving a trail of lace, sweat, and steamy tracks behind her.
By Melissa Silvestri
Published: July 5th, 2007 | 2:49pm
According to writer Oliver Wang, “Betty Davis embodied the kind of outrageous, sexual, flamboyant, and fierce style that an entire generation of performers has emulated.” She prowled onstage, resplendent in fishnets, heels, black lingerie, silver jewelry, and an Afro that stretched out far and wide. The rasp of her voice got under the skin and tingled the nerves. She was sexier than Tina Turner, wilder than Patti LaBelle, and could out-freak James Brown. In short, she was a cosmic star in the rocknroll world of the early ’70s.
But as quickly as Davis exploded onto the music scene, she gave it up. And since 1974, Davis hasn’t recorded music. For years her music could be found in record-store bins, vinyl flea markets, and rap-song samples. Davis’ albums — collected for years by funk and soul fans — were recognizable by her use of the album cover as a peek of what was inside: She worked the early-’70s look of silver boots, paisley shirts tied above the midriff, denim hot pants, and a natural, shining beauty. The albums’ covers evoke images of rocknroll in a freer, more communal time and showcase Davis’ international fashion influences and wild, unconventional style, later found in the images and performances of Prince, André 3000, Kelis, and Missy Elliott — whether or not they were aware of her influence.
In June 2007, Light in the Attic Records reissued two of Davis’ ’70s albums on CD — her self-titled debut and They Say I’m Different. Re-mastered, the songs are in perfect condition and, like Davis, seem more current than ever.
FLY FELLAS AND FLASHBULB FAME
Born Betty Mabry in 1945, Betty Davis grew up in Pittsburgh and Durham, North Carolina, where she cultivated her love for music. She spent hours listening to her grandmother’s vast blues collection: B.B. King, Jimmy Reed, and Elmore James — among many others — and began writing songs at age 12. Her first song was a sweet ditty called “I’m Going to Bake That Cake of Love,” perhaps an indication of what was to come with its sensual connotations.
At 16, she left Pittsburgh for New York City, enrolling at the Fashion Institute of Technology while living with her aunt. It was there that she soaked up the Greenwich Village culture of the early ’60s, hanging around folkies and absorbing their blues-like purity. In recollections from those close to her, Davis was said to be quick to make friends; and just as quickly, Davis associated herself with frequenters of the Cellar, a hip uptown club where young and stylish people congregated. It was a multiracial, artsy crowd of models, design students, actors, and singers, and Davis soaked up the youthful creativity like air.
To support herself, she took up working as a model while being one of the stars of the Cellar, where she played records and chatted people up. Michael Lang, her future record-label boss, remembers Davis as “very unique and self-possessed.”
Yet the seeds of Davis’ musical career were planted through her friendship with soul singer Lou Courtney, who produced her first single, “The Cellar,” and which had simple, catchy lyrics like, “Where you going fellas, so fly? / I’m going to the Cellar, my oh my / What you going to do there / We’re going to boogaloo there.”
The single was a local jam for the Cellar. Yet Davis’ first professional gig wasn’t until she wrote “Uptown (to Harlem)” for the Chambers Brothers. Their 1967 album was a major success, but Davis was already moving on with her modeling career. As to be expected, she was successful as a model, with striking good looks and a bohemian style, but she felt bored by the work. According to Oliver Wang’s They Say I’m Different liner notes, Davis says, “I didn’t like modeling because you didn’t need brains to do it. It’s only going to last as long as you look good.”
For Davis, her appearance was only part of her appeal. There’s no doubt Davis was beautiful; but as previously noted, she was also self-possessed and bold. Thanks to her assertive attitude and ease with diverse individuals, she met the man who would open her up to new musical individuals and, in turn, Davis would give him a new creative outlook on the future of jazz. His name was Miles Davis.
Miles and Betty may have had a short-lived marriage (Miles’ own admittance to an abusive temper and Betty‘s impatience with childishness are both legendary), but they shared a strong chemistry and left an immense musical impact on each other. For Miles, Betty was a vivacious, independent-minded woman who could challenge his musical sensibilities.
One of Betty’s close friends, Devon Wilson, was dating Jimi Hendrix, and it is believed that Hendrix’s jazz-rock fusions opened Miles’ eyes to new musical styles. Hence, the album Bitches Brew is unofficially dedicated to Betty and her “cosmic ladies” friends.
Carlos Santana, in his essay “Remembering Miles,” says, “You could see how these ladies were affecting Miles. They changed the way he dressed, the places he went, and the music he listened to. … I have always thought that Bitches Brew was, in its own way, a tribute to Miles’ language to those women who opened his eyes to a whole new world, and who encouraged and prodded him to take that next step.” Miles may have already been a living legend by the late ’60s, but he knew that Betty was no starry-eyed groupie.
Despite the Davis’ symbiotic musical relationship, their personal relationship faltered, and the marriage ended a year later, though they both held each other in high regard afterwards, with Miles continuing to write songs about Betty (“Mademoiselle Mabry” and “Back Seat Betty”), and Betty appreciating his musical ingenuity.
JUST ANOTHER LEVEL OF FUNK
Davis’ next step was recording her own music. After writing songs for the Commodores, she got together with Michael Carabello, the original percussionist for Santana and a sometime lover. She went to San Francisco to see Carabello and met Paul Ford, the West Coast representative for Michael Lang’s record label, Just Sunshine. Lang, known best as the man behind Woodstock, was a record-label president at the time and was struck by Davis’ style. In an interview with Wang for the reissue’s liner notes, Lang says, “She was beautiful, and outspoken, and different from anyone I had ever met. I obviously had input into the album, but she had great ideas. And she was very, very, clear about the approach she wanted to take.”
Greg Errico, the former bassist for Sly & the Family Stone, had gotten a similar impression from Davis. “Michael brought Betty by the studio one day to meet me,” Errico says in a May 2007 interview. “This was back in 1974. She had just signed a record deal with Michael Lang. She wasted no time in talking about her musical ideas. She would hum riffs, sing lines and lyrics. If I remember correctly, she started the same day we met at the studio. You could tell she was very enthusiastic about doing this. Come to find out later, she’d made some attempts at doing her music with Miles that didn’t come to fruition.”
Davis’ self-titled debut was finally put together in 1973. Aside from Errico, she also had a stellar cast backing her up: former Santana guitarist Neal Schon, Doug Rodrigues, the Pointer Sisters (credited as her “Ladies”), future disco star Sylvester, Merl Saunders (a frequent collaborator with Jerry Garcia), and Hershall Kennedy and Patrice Banks, both members of Graham Central Station. That kind of all-star ensemble was key for an artist who had to prove herself as a solo star, not just as backup for others.
The self-titled debut exploded with funky compositions like “If I’m In Luck I Might Get Picked Up,” “Steppin’ in Her I. Miller Shoes,” and “Game is My Middle Name.” Her voice was unusual for 1973: raspy yet intimate, and drawing the listener into her world. In his liner notes for Davis’ re-released albums, Wang says of her voice, “Of course, Betty never thought of herself as a finesse singer … and her singing heroes — bluesman like Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker — reflect that. Yet, because the tracks were so funky and gritty, the rough, jagged edge of Betty’s voice actually enhanced that aesthetic in ways that someone with a pitch-perfect, dulcet voice would have sounded ‘off’ over.”
Davis’ originality and vocal power would inevitably be compared to male artists. She received labels like “the female George Clinton” or “the female Bob Dylan.” Yet Davis didn’t consider herself the female version of a man, and she wasn’t like her female compatriots either. The closest comparison to Davis’ style would be Tina Turner, a pairing she wasn‘t quite enthusiastic about. Davis’ response to the “female so-and-so” talk was to brush it off. “I’m me and I’m different; my music is just another level of funk. I love Tina, but we are two totally different people. The same with Jimi Hendrix, Sly Stone, Larry Graham, and Stevie Wonder — we all make your fingers pop, but for different reasons. So don’t compare me.”
On her next album, the 1974 They Say I’m Different, Davis changed her record’s lineup from the original incarnation, replacing past members with percussionists Pete Escovedo and Victor Pantoja, and backup singers Trudy Perkins, Elaine Clark, and Debbie Burrell (who would end up in the original cast of Broadway’s Dreamgirls). The only members to return were Saunders and Kennedy, but as keyboardists instead of on electric piano and organ, respectively.
There were no hard feelings from Errico or Lang. Errico says, “I just got the feeling at that time, she felt like, ‘Ah, I can do this now.’” And Lang agrees, “I was not interested in second-guessing Betty. She was so clear about her musical ideas — where she wanted to go — I was just in the frame of mind to support her.”
From the scream, “He was a big freak!” on the track of the same title, audiences got another taste of They Say I’m Different’s cool-cat queen. Standout tracks include “Shoo-B-Doop and Cop Him,” later sampled by Ice Cube on his hit “Once Upon a Time in the Projects,” the lackadaisical “Your Mama Wants Ya Back,” and the title track, which surprisingly sounds like a 2000-era funk rock song by Joi or Kelis, rather than a 1974 number.
“WHO’S THAT COMING?”
In the same year that .They Say I’m Different was released, Davis went on the road for the first time (starting her live shows in New York) and was interviewed by DJ Al Gee at the time, explaining why she hadn’t performed live before: “Before I decided to work, I really thought about it seriously, because people only see the surface part of the music business, they don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes. It’s not all glamour. I know a lot of musicians, I’ve known a lot of musicians, and I know what they’ve gone through. I know a lot of pain that they’ve gone through, so I really wanted to get into the business the right way. [I had to know] this is what I want to do, and this is why I want to do it.”
If Davis was going to play her material before an unfamiliar crowd, she wasn’t going to half-ass it or “test” her songs for approval. Errico says that although he didn’t normally perform with her, “We did a show together when I was touring with the Weather Report in Philly. And if I remember correctly, the audience was intense with anticipation and really up for it!”
Live, Davis was backed by her Ladies, engaging in a playful back-and-forth with the band and building up Davis’ entrance. “Who’s that coming?” the Ladies would call, and simultaneously respond, “It’s Betty.” “Betty who?” “Betty Davis.” The exchange may have been influenced by James Brown and the band’s call-and-response vocal repartee in songs like “Sex Machine.”
Aside from the Ladies on tour, Davis was joined by her first cousins Larry Johnson (bass) and Nicky Neal (drummer), and friends Fred Mills (keyboard) and Carlos Morales (guitar). The band was recruited from Davis’ birthplace of Greensboro, North Carolina, replacing her star musicians with familial and familiar talent. This gave her live shows a different feel than the more glamorous, well-traveled musicians she had recorded with, but it didn’t fail to provide electric concert memories for audience members. “Davis knew how to light up people’s imaginations,” Wang says.
No concert footage exists of Davis’ performances, so word-of-mouth is critical in putting together the visual impact of a Betty Davis show. According to Parliament Funkadelic illustrator-artist Ronald “Stozo the Clown” Edwards’ memoir-in-progress, “Betty’s show was burlesque funk. She was sexy, bold, provocative, groovy, and just downright fine. Long, beautiful, mesmerizing legs, funky space clothes, and silver leather psychedelic boots that were made for funkin’. Her voice, along with her backup singers and band, roared at you like a pack of lions.”
The attitude and style that Davis cultivated on her albums translated so well to the stage that they would steal the spotlight from their opening acts. Davis’ drummer, Nicky Neal, told Wang that they were originally supposed to open for KISS, but after seeing their show, “[KISS] said, ‘If we opened up, we would steal the show from them, so they wouldn’t use us.’”
Davis may have been a new artist, but she’d had friendships with so many musicians over the years that the shows were guaranteed gigs in the best rocknroll spots: the Roxy Theatre in Los Angeles, the Bottom Line in New York, and Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club in London. She could also count famous fans among her audiences: Richard Pryor, Ahmet Ertegun, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Muhammad Ali.
CRASHIN’ FROM PASSION
In 1975, Davis released her third album, Nasty Gal, the title foreshadowing the Prince-penned and Vanity 6-sung “Nasty Girl” and Janet Jackson’s “Nasty.” This time Davis worked solely with studio musicians, following her tradition of changing the lineup in the hope of obtaining new sounds. Yet, despite retrospective comments from fellow musicians that it was some of her best stuff, the album failed, and Davis tried with a new album, Crashin’ From Passion, which Davis re-recorded in order to give it a more pop, radio-friendly appeal at her label’s request. But the label soon dropped Davis from their roster.
This series of disappointments is surmised to have left Davis with personal frustrations about the record industry and may be one of the reasons why she hasn’t recorded since. In her official They Say I’m Different biography, a clearly disappointed Davis said, “The rock era is dead now. The people who didn’t die physically have died emotionally. You see, it’s hard enough to keep it together personally. Then you have to give a piece of yourself to the public, and a piece to this one and that one. By the time you’re finished giving pieces away, you don’t even know who you are.”
Now 62, Davis has lived a private, non-recording life in the Pittsburgh area. It’s unknown what she has done since 1976 or how many of her musician friendships she has maintained. Neither Errico nor Lang has seen her since 1974. And subsequent interview requests have been rejected. But during Davis’ absence, her funky-sexy music and balls-out style have been replicated in the personas of many artists, including Peaches, Rick James, Prince Paul, Lil’ Kim, Millie Jackson, Christina Aguilera, Kelis, Joi, and Amy Winehouse. In effect, Davis has been an underrated influence for many years, but this may soon change with the re-release of her first two albums.
Listening to Davis’ first two releases now, it’s clear that Davis was so much more than a funk-soul ingénue, jazz legend muse, or the “chick” lead singer. She had been in the music industry for more than 10 years by the time she stopped recording, and she had worked with and written for everyone from the Commodores, to the Chambers Brothers, to T. Rex’s Marc Bolen. No matter the labels applied to her, Betty Davis was always making her own music, always reaching for ways to express herself beyond mere pageantry and prop, and still inspires generations of musicians and performers to be different, no matter what they say.
Issue #35
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