My Love Story Page 13

  A few months passed. I ran into Erwin when I was promoting Private Dancer in Basel, Switzerland, and got that old feeling. I had rented a house in Gstaad for the holidays, and I invited Erwin and some other people from the EMI team to visit. One night, I was sitting by the fireplace with my friend Harriet, when I said wistfully, “Oh, I wish Erwin were here.” He had made such a deep impression on me that I couldn’t stop thinking about him. But I wasn’t very hopeful about him joining me in Gstaad. Harriet said, “Be careful what you wish, honey. You just might get it.” I’m not sure if she knew something, or if she was a little bit psychic, but suddenly, my security guard called up to say, “Tina, someone’s here to see you.” When I went to the door, there was Erwin. The universe had given me exactly what I wanted. How did I feel? Happy. Excited. Nervous. Ready.

  Erwin was wearing a little country hat that’s popular in Germany—funny, but cute. In a rush, I remembered that I liked everything about him, including his funny hat. Erwin exuded a masculinity that I found irresistible. There was the roguishness of a boy, and the wisdom and composure of an older man: a great combination. And now, because he was here, on my doorstep, I knew that he liked me. By the end of the evening, our fates were sealed. I made up my mind to pack up and move in with him during my upcoming vacation. From now on, wherever Erwin was would be my home.

  Before we could begin a public relationship, there was something Erwin insisted on doing. He was always extremely professional about his position at EMI. When Erwin graduated from college, his father encouraged him to accept a job with a steel company, which promised to offer him a solid, if unexciting, future. The problem was that Erwin had come across an advertisement for a position at a music company that asked, “Do you want to work with the Beatles?” Well, of course he wanted to work with the Beatles. He loved music and was enthusiastic about turning a passion into a profession. He responded to the ad, which had been placed by EMI, was hired, and began his career in the music business, ultimately achieving such success that even his father had to admit that he was right to choose the Beatles over steel.

  Erwin didn’t think it was appropriate to date an EMI artist (namely me) without discussing the idea with his superiors. He made an appointment to see Sir Wilfried Jung, EMI’s managing director for Central Europe, to explain the situation. Erwin was nervous because he couldn’t predict what the reaction would be. What if he had to choose between his job and me? He presented his situation to Sir Wilfried, who listened attentively and appeared to be thinking. Finally, he spoke.

  “There is a problem,” offered Sir Wilfried.

  “May I know what that problem is?” Erwin asked respectfully.

  “I could become a little jealous,” Sir Wilfried answered, which was his way of giving Erwin his blessing.

  He had one caveat. “Listen,” he cautioned Erwin. “If this is real—if it’s a romance—that’s great. But don’t let me read in the paper next week that it’s over.” With these words, Erwin was free to move forward. Thus began my love story.

  I’m going to back up for a moment to discuss the elephant in the room—the sixteen-year age difference between us. It was never an issue in my mind, then or now. First of all, Erwin and I were both adults when we started dating. Age was far less of a problem than the fact that we had different backgrounds, life experiences, and personalities, issues most new couples face. I’m American and he’s German. That’s the biggest difference of all.

  The world might view Erwin as Tina’s “younger man,” but the truth is that, at heart, he’s really sixty and I’m sixteen. Erwin has always been an old soul. He’s much more mature than I am. He thinks ahead and exercises caution, while I’m the one most likely to leap without looking. He can be very set in his ways. He still plays his accordion, as he did when he was a boy. And when we first got together, I was surprised to see that he had a routine of closing doors and turning off lights before we went to bed, something I’ve never done. When I asked, “Why are we doing that?” “It’s nighttime—we close the doors and turn off the lights,” he answered, matter-of-factly. I teased him that he sounded like an old man!

  Actually, I found that most people were happy for me, and even celebrated our relationship. My behavior helped older women to feel less self-conscious about becoming romantically involved with younger men. I was so confident about us, I tried not to pay attention to anything negative. Why should I? I’d already had a hard life, a bad marriage, and all that. It was time for me to take care of me.

  My attitude about Erwin is an extension of my feelings about aging in general. I don’t believe in limits. I don’t care that I’m getting older, as long as I feel good and keep myself fresh and up-to-date with the times. As Deepak Chopra says, there’s a new kind of “old age.” We’re living longer, doing more, even dressing differently. I’m not trying to dress like the young girls. I’ve found that I can look just as good without showing too much cleavage, or wearing very short skirts. I have to cover up a little as I get older, but there’s nothing wrong with that. You just have to accept it and find a style that works for you. There’s an expression, “You’ll never get out of this world alive.” It’s true. We won’t. Go forward. Do your best with your makeup, hair, and clothes. You have to evolve. Like Erwin, I never think of age or color as being obstacles.

  Cher and I discussed this subject with Oprah during an interview a few years ago. When Cher was asked how she felt about getting older, she answered, “I think it sucks!” I disagreed. “I welcome it with open arms,” I told the surprised audience, enumerating the many ways life improves with age. I explained that my senior life is so much better than when I was young—the wisdom, the way I think, my attitude. There’s a good change when you’re still healthy and you still look good. I will accept eighty, ninety, whatever, when it comes.

  Meanwhile, when I was forty-six, I didn’t look older than thirty-year-old Erwin, and I don’t look older than him today. Oprah once asked if when we’re alone together I ever think about the fact that Erwin’s a younger man. I told her no. It just feels like me and Erwin. Even at night, there’s nothing that makes me feel like I have to work at looking pretty in bed. We’re past that. What’s love got to do with it? A lot! We’re comfortable in our own skin and, more importantly, comfortable with each other.

  So I made the right decision when, head-over-heels in love, I packed my bags and headed for Erwin’s apartment in Marienburg, Germany, a Bel Air–like suburb outside of Cologne. His place struck me as being minimalist, but I thought it was because he’d moved in recently. When I got to know Erwin a little better, I learned that “minimalist” is his middle name: he hates stuff. Me, I’ll cover every surface with books, candles, photographs, potpourri, anything to add personality. But Erwin’s philosophy is “less is more.” His dream coffee table would have nothing on it but a lone television remote. More about this later . . .

  Erwin’s two-room apartment was a classic bachelor flat, outfitted with a great sound system, but not much else. Artwork leaned against the walls and piles of record albums were stacked everywhere, although Erwin claimed that he’d sold thousands before he moved and kept a mere few hundred of his all-time favorites. I immediately thought, Well, this room really needs decorating. I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t know when it would happen, but I already had some ideas and I couldn’t wait to start the makeover.

  A more pressing problem was my luggage. I planned on staying an entire month, so I’d packed about ten Louis Vuitton suitcases with a broad selection of clothing, enough to cover every possible occasion. There was no room for any of it in Erwin’s one-hundred-square-meter apartment. I had to store my bags in the basement and run down to get my clothes. Erwin’s neighbors had to push past the stack of “Louis” whenever they needed to use the building’s washer and dryer. It was a bit of an inconvenience, but imagine their surprise when they walked into the laundry room and came across Tina Turner, rummaging through her luggage, trying to find something to wear.


  My security people were with me on this trip. Strange as it seemed to me, now that I’d become an “overnight sensation,” I couldn’t travel without them. They slept in a nearby hotel (where they didn’t have to store their bags in the basement), while I stayed with Erwin. Not that I was uncomfortable. I loved being with him. I wanted to spend more time together, not run away, which was how I’d always felt when I was with Ike. For the first time, I felt that I was truly in a relationship. This is how it’s supposed to be, I told myself. We were two people, happily sharing a space, enjoying daily life.

  I’m sure that Erwin rolled his eyes from time to time, as he’s never impressed by celebrity and all that goes with it, not after all his years in the music business. “Stay grounded,” he said. “Don’t depend on the privileges that come with being famous because they can disappear as quickly as they came.” It was good advice, but even he had to admit that it came in handy to have my security team around. We communicated via walkie-talkie. They protected me when we were out in public and made it possible for us to enjoy private time together at home. When we didn’t have the energy to leave the apartment, they’d drop off food so we could have the luxury of dining alone.

  I confess that there was one instance when my enthusiasm for our new life got me into the kind of trouble you’d see on an episode of I Love Lucy. Not all of my crazy schemes turned out to be good ideas. Erwin had to fly off to Brazil on a short business trip—just for a weekend—and I stayed in the apartment. I couldn’t help myself, so, as soon he left, and I was alone, my urge to redecorate swept over me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I raced over to Pesch, the famous home interiors store in Cologne, and did a whirlwind shop. Normally, fine furniture has to be ordered six months in advance. But when I pleaded for a speedy delivery, the store managed to schedule it for the very next day—one of those privileges Erwin warned against. I rearranged everything in the apartment and eagerly awaited the unveiling of his big surprise.

  Erwin had a terrible trip home from Brazil—he was injured on the flight when a food cart ran over his foot—so he hobbled in on Sunday, overcome with pain. What he saw did not make him feel better. He thought he was in the wrong apartment—no, the wrong world, as he put it. Everywhere he looked, there was stuff, stuff, and more stuff. I’d filled the rooms with furniture and accessories. I even had someone come in to rewire his beloved sound system. I was proud as can be that I’d managed to do everything in two short days, but poor Erwin was horrified. He wished he could make everything go back to the way it was before I meddled. The situation was turning into one of my worst “Operation Oops!”

  Luckily, a friend joined us for dinner that night, so Erwin had to contain his aggravation. By the next day, he’d calmed down a little and was getting used to the changes. Eventually, he accepted them. Isn’t it funny that he had a harder time adjusting to new furniture than to the new woman in his life? We survived that battle, but the decorating war continues to this day. Erwin still longs for that minimalist room with a bare table and a lone remote control, while I surround myself with antiques, art, mementos—and anything and everything I consider beautiful.

  Gradually, we settled into our own version of a routine, if you consider flying from one continent to another on a day off a routine. I introduced Erwin to my family during the Christmas holiday, and he passed that test with flying colors. Muh, who could be difficult, loved that he was so polite and respectful, so genuinely interested in her and in Alline. Erwin asked a lot of questions and Muh and Alline liked to talk, so it was a good mix. I wasn’t surprised that they got along so well. How could my mother and sister resist Erwin’s many charms? He liked them, too, and appreciated that they were so down-to-earth.

  Erwin never came out and asked me to be his girlfriend, although he did ask in his charming German way, “Are we together?” Which means “Are we a couple?” It wasn’t the way we would have said it in America, but I liked it. He was starting to really feel something for me, but he was afraid to move too quickly because he kept thinking, Oh, those wild and unpredictable California girls, remembering the naughty pass I had made at him when we first met. He worried that I was just playing, that I might run off one day. He had to learn to trust me the way I trusted him. I had no fears. I wasn’t looking for a husband, I wanted to be loved. Childhood—never loved. Past relationships—never loved. My whole life—never really loved. More than anything, I needed to feel that Erwin loved me.

  When work took me away, we got really good at maintaining our long-distance romance. But it was difficult to be parted by an ocean so much of the time. It meant being uprooted a lot. I explained to Erwin that I had to have a home, a place to roost. I wasn’t ready to move to Germany, because I couldn’t speak the language, but I decided that London would be a good choice for an intermediate step. I’d be closer to Erwin, and the city was already a second home to me. In 1988, Rhonda helped me to pack up my house in California, and I moved to Kensington, near Notting Hill.

  When I first settled in London, Erwin (who was still living in Germany) flew over to spend weekends with me when I was in town. I lived in a beautiful white town house, the kind of building that I’d found so charming on my first trip to London in the sixties. I often thought about my younger self, a girl who had wished she could stay in the fairy-tale land of double-decker busses, Big Ben, and “God Save the Queen.” Twenty years later, here I was, living my dream. Most of the time, I could walk the streets undisturbed. If my English fans approached me, they did it politely and discreetly, so I had a bit more freedom to move around—and enjoyed more of a private life—than I did in other cities.

  Take Milan, for example. I’ve been chased all the way to my hotel by people waving cameras—after all, the word “paparazzi” originated in Italy. Whenever I walked out onto the street, I’d have to stop and give the fans an autograph session before I could do anything else. I loved that the Italians were so enthusiastic, but it made it a little trickier to navigate the business of everyday life.

  Everywhere I went in Europe, I was astonished by the outpouring of love and support from my fans. Germany is one of my favorite countries for that reason. I never lost my audience there, even after I left the Ike and Tina Revue, and before the success of Private Dancer. One of my most exciting shows took place in Munich in 1985, when I was greeted by a fantastic crowd of twelve thousand loud and appreciative fans at Olympiahalle.

  That night held a special meaning for me because it brought me back to the first time Ike and I played Munich. For some reason, no one had shown up at that concert—it was a sad turnout of about a hundred people. Ike was so disappointed and angry that he refused to go onstage. I had to convince him that whoever was out there deserved our best show, and he finally agreed to let us perform. To return to Munich on my own, and to see the thousands of people who came to see me—well, nobody can know how happy I felt. We had a wonderful time together, and the evening ended with a spectacular fireworks display.

  I was touched by the reaction of my fans in Sweden when I had to cancel a concert at the last minute. I had developed a nasty sinus infection and was too sick to perform the night of the show. The promoter walked out on stage to deliver the bad news, expecting to face an angry crowd. Instead, the people were so concerned about my health that they clapped and cheered to show their support. They sent cards, letters, and flowers, and when we rescheduled, the audience was even larger than the first time. Wherever I travel in the world, I find that my fans are the best people.

  Touring became a way of life for me. The Private Dancer tour was followed by the Break Every Rule tour in 1987, the Foreign Affair tour in 1990, and the What’s Love Got to Do with It tour in 1993. With imagination, resources, and a wonderful family of musicians, dancers, and crew, the shows got more and more spectacular, and I loved that. At the same time, it was important to me to keep it personal. I wanted my fans to have the best possible “Tina” experience.

  I did make one mistake at the beginning of the Break E
very Rule tour. I didn’t perform “Proud Mary” at the first two shows. I was a little tired of singing it, and I thought the audience might be a little tired of hearing it. It wasn’t until I put the song back on the set list in Amsterdam that I realized how much we all had missed it! The crowd went crazy and sang the song for us. “We’ve got to bring ‘Mary’ back,” I told my associates. “She’s still rolling on the river!” On every tour, whenever we performed “Proud Mary” onstage, the entire backstage crew would drop what they were doing and dance along with us, complete with all the spins, hand motions, and head pops. This is the way we do “Proud Mary.”

  How did I pick my songs? It didn’t have to be a song I could relate to in terms of experience. In fact, I never liked autobiographical songs because I’d done enough of those, and I sometimes got tired of singing the blues. I had to like the lyrics, but the melody was also very important to me because that’s what motivates me to get into the delivery. I like songs that can go both ways and appeal to the young and the old.

  The order of the songs, or the “set list,” as it’s called, is important, too. I always started the show with a song that would get people excited, something like “Steamy Windows,” a little naughty, but also lively and fun. After a couple of songs, I’d change my clothes and start a different set, maybe with something more moody, like “Let’s Stay Together.” One song led to the next, until the last, explosive set of “Proud Mary” and “Nutbush,” the numbers that took me out to the people. The music was organized in such a way to give the audience an emotional experience.