My Love Story Page 11

  The song is about prostitution. I never had to stoop to that in my life, but I think most of us have been in situations where we had to sell ourselves, one way or another. When I gave into Ike, when I kept quiet to avoid an argument, when I stayed with him despite longing to leave, that’s what I was thinking about when I sang the song, the sadness of doing something that you don’t want to do, day in, day out. It’s very emotional.

  We found more songs, including “Steel Claw,” with Jeff Beck on guitar, “I Can’t Stand the Rain,” “Better Be Good to Me,” and others—all memorable to me because I was doing what I loved, in a city I loved, and with people who genuinely cared about me and my future. There were so many times in my life when I felt I had to rise above bad karma. But, when I was making Private Dancer, life showered me with good karma. I am constantly amazed by my fellow artists. They were busy with their own work, but didn’t they all make time for me, and my album? The experience really proved that musicians are incredibly generous. They wanted to lift me, not bring me down.

  And I was lifted higher and higher from the moment the Private Dancer album was released. During the summer of 1984, I was on the road with Lionel Ritchie (I was his opening act on the Can’t Slow Down tour), when “What’s Love Got to Do with It” started to climb the charts. How exciting it was to have people sing along with me when I performed it or “Let’s Stay Together” onstage.

  I discovered that the music business was changing in ways I’d never anticipated. It wasn’t enough to record and release a song. With MTV, the new twenty-four-hour cable channel that had become so popular, artists had to make little films—music videos—to illustrate their songs. The first one we did was for “Let’s Stay Together.” As Roger liked to say, the production was “cheap and cheerful”—just me and my dancers, Annie and Lejeune, a camera, and a tiny budget of two thousand dollars. It created quite a stir because when people saw the three of us dancing close they thought it was a little naughty. We had a good laugh over that.

  We tried something different with “What’s Love Got to Do with It.” We shot one version in black-and-white—a little artsy—but my record company thought it looked too serious. Later that summer, while I was in New York performing at the Ritz again, we took our cameras to the streets. I was filmed strutting through Brooklyn and lower Manhattan, wearing what has become an iconic look for me—a denim jacket, miniskirt, heels, big hair, and red, red lips. The video was a huge success and went on to win an MTV Video Music Award in 1985.

  Suddenly, we were shooting music videos for every song, so I did get to release my inner actress. I don’t know where we found the time. The one we did for “Private Dancer” was really ambitious, with fantasy sequences, dances choreographed by Arlene Phillips, five or six costume changes for me, and a wonderful location, the old Rivoli Ballroom in London.

  I don’t think I ever stopped moving during this time.

  Of course, I was excited about my best-selling records, but my favorite part of my success (which was years too late to be seen as happening overnight) was the avalanche of opportunities that came my way because of it. Every time I had a chance to collaborate with a great singer, songwriter, or producer, or to try a different kind of music, I was becoming a better artist.

  Take Bryan Adams, for example. He was so young when I met him in 1984—twenty-four, I think—and adorable. He had this glint in his eye, just like Dennis the Menace. Bryan claimed to have been a fan of mine for years (although he didn’t look old enough to have done anything for years) and said that when he was a teenager he came to see me at the clubs where I did my cabaret act. He sent me tapes of songs that he wanted me to do, but they were never right. Not that rejection kept him from trying. He was very persistent, and I’m glad he was.

  When I heard “It’s Only Love” the first time, I knew it was the song for me. Bryan came on as producer, the record was a hit, and we had such a good time performing it together that I invited him to come on tour with me. I introduced him as “a guy from Canada”—the audience immediately knew who I was talking about—and added “He’s really cute, you know,” because he was! Bryan had such great energy when he opened the show that he made me want to come out singing and dancing—which was exactly what the Rolling Stones said about Ike and Tina back in the 1960s.

  I’d been interested in doing more acting ever since I did Tommy, so imagine how flattered I was when Steven Spielberg approached me about playing Shug Avery, one of the lead roles in The Color Purple, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. As worthy as the project was, it just didn’t feel right to me. The story was uncomfortably close to the story of my life with Ike. Did I say close? It was practically next door! I didn’t want to relive any of that nightmare ever again, even on screen.

  Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome was a completely different kind of film. I’m told that when the producers were discussing casting ideas for “Aunty Entity,” the strong, larger-than-life heroine at the center of their futuristic action/adventure film, they kept saying “Let’s get someone like Tina Turner”—they actually referred to her as “the Tina Turner character.” Finally, it occurred to someone to ask the real Tina if she would consider taking on the role.

  I had seen the two previous Mad Max movies and was a huge fan of director George Miller’s work, especially Road Warrior. He made my heart beat a little faster when he offered me the part. This was my type of acting! I didn’t want to do Hollywood, because Hollywood is all about glamour and beauty, and I never saw myself as a beauty. I was still a tomboy at heart. The thought of traveling halfway around the world to the wilds of central Australia, shaving my head, wearing armor, and driving in fast cars, not to mention playing a queen . . . Are you kidding? This was a dream come true. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about the dust, or the heat—that the temperature would rise higher than 125 degrees, so high that it made it difficult to fill the gas tanks on the stunt cars because the fuel evaporated as soon as it hit the air! I was thinking about the fabulous character and the realization of one of my favorite fantasies: playing a woman who has the power of a man.

  I really connected with Entity. I can be many different women at different times—sexy, jolly, silly, younger than my age, wise beyond my years. But the woman at my core is very much like Entity, strong and resilient. She lost so much, and then she went through so much to get the men in her world to respect her. I related to her struggles because I lived them.

  The physical process of transforming myself from Tina into Entity was very interesting. I learned how to shave my own head every day, because the skin is so tender that it’s better if you do it yourself. I was surprised to see that my face was very, very nice with a shaven head. I was a little worried about that. Then, the hair and makeup people came in to build the look, which was topped off by a wild blond wig. Finally, they put the gear on me. My armor weighed seventy pounds and was made of chicken wire, dog muzzles, and who knows what else. Oh my God, I looked fierce.

  The costume department did an amazing job, but I didn’t trust them to get the shoes right. No one ever does. I brought my own heels to the set, designer heels I knew I could really stand in (good thing, because I had to wear them for hours at a time). At the end of each prep, I was sprayed with all sorts of finishing stuff, and when the team was done, Tina was gone. I was Aunty Entity, from head to toe.

  Because I’m a little bit daring, I insisted on doing my own stunts. Even I have to admit it was scary at times. Beyond Thunderdome had some wild scenes. On a movie set, the trick is to work with the crew to protect yourself from getting hurt. For example, I was supposed to make a dramatic jump while wearing high heels. I took one look at the drop (this is the same person who didn’t think twice before jumping off a stage when she was eight months pregnant) and decided I was guaranteed to twist my ankle. I told them we needed a box to break the jump—and I took off the shoes while I was jumping and put them back on for the shot of me landing. Ah . . . the magic of moviemaking.

  I was
responsible for Entity’s signature laugh. George Miller heard me laughing on the set one day—I think someone’s hat had blown away and landed under a truck, or something silly like that—and he decided that Entity had to sound just like me—playful and sinister at the same time.

  One of my favorite pastimes was sitting behind George to watch him while he was directing the other actors. I wanted to see what the movie world was really like. He’d say, “You are the most focused singer/actress I’ve ever seen.” I think he was surprised to find that I worked easily with others: that I wasn’t a prima donna. I wanted to tell him, “You don’t know where I came from! No prima donnas allowed.” When I look back, I see that I’m not terrific in the movie, not as good as I’d like to have been. But I did my best, and I guess I’m good enough.

  I was charmed by my costar, Mel Gibson, whom I always called “Melvin,” because he had a little boy quality that reminded me of one of my sons. He’s very loose and playful. Working with him was very much like working with musicians—you have a good time, but you get the job done. I developed such an affection for him that, after the movie was finished, it troubled me to read stories about his bad behavior. I knew that Melvin was better than that, so I sent him a picture of himself with the note, “Please don’t mess this up.” He took my words seriously and was happy that I was supportive and concerned about his well-being.

  I can’t help mothering the people I care about. I’ve always been that way. Keith Richards described me perfectly when he told Vanity Fair that he saw me as a “favorite aunt” or a “fairy godmother,” because I was always trying to take care of people when we were on the road. If anyone had a cold, I’d nag them to button up their coat and wear a scarf, and I’d offer VapoRub for sore throats. At heart, I’m equal parts “Mother Earth” and “Rock ’n’ Roll,” and I think that’s why my friendships with others in the business have endured.

  The wild and wonderful ride that started with Private Dancer culminated at the 1984 Grammy Awards, which took place on the night of February 26, 1985. I was feeling a little woozy because I had the flu, but even if I had been in the best of health the evening would have been an out-of-body experience. When I entered the stage at the top of a flight of stairs and walked down singing “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” I felt the warm embrace of the audience. They loved the song, but they also loved the story that came with it. I think I spoke to all the people who dream of getting a second chance and work tirelessly to make that dream come true. Roger was with me that night, but neither of us imagined that “What’s Love Got to Do with It” would win two Grammys, one for Record of the Year and one for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance, and “Better Be Good to Me” would win yet a third award, for Best Female Rock Vocal Performance.

  The Private Dancer album went on to sell eight million copies in its first year.

  Don’t worry, Roger, we’ll be fine.

  It’s funny for me to remember the first flush of my new success. There was no time to stop and think about what I was doing—between making Beyond Thunderdome, fulfilling individual concert obligations, and setting out on the first leg of the Private Dancer tour, I traveled constantly, rarely touching ground. I didn’t even have a chance to get a credit card, although that didn’t stop the newly affluent me from becoming a world-class shopper. Actually, I was always a world-class shopper, but now I could afford it! In one of my “Tina Turner Comeback” interviews, I told People that all I wanted was an American Express Gold card. Until such time that I could get my hands on one, I borrowed a credit card from my manager and anyone else in my orbit. “Don’t worry,” I assured the interviewer. “I always pay them back.”

  About a month after the Grammy Awards, I performed a duet with David Bowie. I still get goose bumps when I think about it. David and I stayed close after that night at the Ritz. We developed a special friendship—a togetherness that came from mutual affection and admiration, and shared interests. He, like me, was a Buddhist. He joked that at a certain point in his life, he had to choose between becoming a Buddhist monk or a rock ’n’ roll star. I’d listen to him speak and ask, “David, how do you know so much?” because he was smart about everything—not just music—everything. He could talk about art, religion, any topic. He’d laugh and say, “Tina, I never stop studying.” He was a student of life, a real Renaissance man, but not in a heavy way. When I think of David, I think of a beam of light. He practically had a halo.

  The music video we made of his song “Tonight,” which was filmed during a live performance at the NEC Arena in Birmingham, England, in March 1985, says everything about our feelings for each other. I began by singing “Everything’s gonna be all right, tonight,” swaying to the seductive reggae beat of the music. Then David appeared, stepping out of the mist wearing a short white tuxedo jacket. The audience was surprised, and the place vibrated as if an earthquake had struck! He looked so beautiful, like an angel. I wanted to say “Wow!” but I couldn’t speak. I had to do something other than stand there, so I did a dramatic double take. Who wouldn’t at the sight of such a vision?

  While we were rehearsing the night before, I had made some discoveries about David. He really knew how to dance, and he knew how to act. Not all singers do. When we embraced on that stage, it was a wonderful moment. We looked transported, like a couple in love. Although, contrary to rumors—and I hate to disappoint anyone here—we never had that kind of relationship. We never even slept together. David was different from other rockers. He was a real gentleman.

  I might as well move on to the next hot topic. One of the most debated questions in the history of rock ’n’ roll, and I don’t think I’m exaggerating here because I get asked this question all the time, is “What did David Bowie whisper in your ear when you were dancing together in the ‘Tonight’ video?” Journalists and fans beg for the answer. Some have suggested they might bring in a lip reader to decipher David’s words, but his mouth is so close to my ear and his lips are not completely visible, so that won’t help.

  To recap: David leans in and whispers, and I react as if I’ve heard something very naughty. No, he did not say anything smutty. I definitely would remember that. But I’m trying to recall what he did say to me.

  The truth is, I just don’t remember. And now that David has gone to his grave, his words will have to remain a mystery—although there’s no guarantee that his memory would have been any better than mine. He probably forgot, too.

  At some point during our duet, a young woman came running up onto the stage and grabbed David by the arm. It happened fast—the guards removed her, and David, who had a wonderful sense of humor and was quick-witted, immediately joked something like “I guess I should be glad it was a girl”—meaning that the press always made such a big deal about his sexuality, they’d have had a field day if a man had done something like that. Today, they wouldn’t say anything, or they’d describe him as being sexually “fluid,” but at the time, it was a big story, and that amused him.

  After “Tonight,” I mentioned to David that I wanted him to write a song for me, something similar to the feeling of “Putting Out Fire.” He said yes, but I doubted that he’d get around to doing it. Artists often said yes to me, and they meant well, but then they’d go off and get involved with their own lives and forget about it. Not David. He called me a few months later, while he was skiing somewhere, and said that he had a great song for me, “It’s called ‘Girls,’ ” he told me, describing it as “really rough,” just the way I liked it. “And,” he added, “if you don’t take it, I’m going to do it.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “If you want it, that means it’s right.”

  Sometimes, when people try to write a song specifically for me, it doesn’t work. I tell them, you don’t understand, I can relate to what you relate to. If I hear that they’ve written it for themselves, and that they would sing it, then I’ll take it. As soon as David expressed a desire to sing “Girls” (and he did end up recording it), I knew it was a good song,
a universal song. I love what it says about women, that they’re powerful and mysterious. It took me a little while to understand it when I was getting ready to record it, but that’s what I love about David’s music, it always makes me think.

  The last time I saw David, he was performing in Brussels. I stopped by his dressing room after the concert and we caught up with each other. Our visit was sweet, although he was so secretive about being sick that I didn’t know it was our “last dance,” our final goodbye.

  “Love you, Tina,” he said.

  “Love you, David,” I answered.

  I’m so glad those were our parting words.

  Erwin, who knows the music business inside out because it’s been his profession his entire adult life, once asked me, “Why did Bowie and Jagger take you under their wing? They didn’t do that for anybody else.” I explained to him that the English were appreciative of me from the early “Ike and Tina” days, and they became even more supportive after I left Ike.

  I think they saw something they liked—a woman who could stand up to them vocally, collaborate onstage in a rock ’n’ roll way, and make it all look like great fun. David always said, “When you’re dancing with Tina, she looks you in the eye.” We were partners. Equals. At the time, there were no women who sang and danced like me—women who could be sexy without making it sexual. I went out in high-heeled shoes and a short dress, and there was good dancing and laughter and fun, without making the women in the audience feel like I was after their men. There was never anything coming from the stage that was negative. Beyoncé has that same kind of energy today, but I was the only one back then.

  How many women can hold up their end of the stage with Mick Jagger? Yet Mick and I always had the best time together, and our performance at Live Aid in 1985, the historic concert organized by Bob Geldof to raise money for the famine in Ethiopia, is a perfect example.