We lived double lives as kids, raised in both city and country. I was born in Alabama, but grew up in Detroit, returning to my grandparents’ southern farm every summer. They had an outside bucket toilet; we called it the slop jar. My earliest memory is of a rooster attacking me while I played by it. I could easily have been blinded for life. Ever since, God’s been protecting me.
Music was always a family affair. My grandfather played the banjo; Dad used a guitar to court my mum. When I sing, I try to imitate the powerful voice of my mother. My first performance was as a three-year-old at a church talent show with my two older brothers, which we won. When it comes to music, I have my family to thank.
Racism has been a constant presence in my life. In the 60s we had to fight and work far too hard to convince people we should be allowed to bring Motown to diverse crowds in auditoriums. Rocks were thrown; abuse was shouted. People denied us access to public toilets. When we made it to the stage, we’d wipe off the dust and put on our fancy clothes. However we felt, we’d always step out and shine like royalty.
I’ve walked down the aisle twice, but I’m not sure either time the man standing opposite me saying “I do” truly meant it. Both marriages were annulled. They tried to marry not just Martha but the Vandellas, too – getting with me while also trying it on with my backup singers. Instead, show business has been my husband and to each other we’ve been committed and faithful.
I was offered all sorts of drugs when I became well known. Fame should come with a warning. “Your nose is really made for cocaine,” they’d say. LSD was dropped in my champagne. My doctors gave me all sorts of addictive drugs. At one point I wound up in a straitjacket in a facility. My father came to see me in New York – he saw all my pills on the windowsill. When I saw his tears, I knew there was a problem.
When I sing I feel my spirit set free. I’m one person on stage and another one entirely off it. My mum taught me at a young age to only sing songs you can feel in your heart. If you can’t do it with love, find another.
I was reborn in 1977, though I wish I’d found salvation sooner. I’d been living in LA and witnessed Janis Joplin’s overdose and John Belushi’s demise. I needed to find safety and get out of California. I was taken to a prayer retreat and found a way. I still pick up my Bible and read words from heaven – it’s as addictive as any earthly substance.
Why wait until death to celebrate a life? After Aretha Franklin passed, she had theatres, streets and movies in her name. If only she could have seen and enjoyed it. If there are to be accolades for me, please do it all while I’m here. Give me those flowers while I can smell them; the praise while I can still hear it.
Marvin Gaye asked me to sing Dancing in the Street – a song he wrote. When I opened my mouth, something happened. I feel that same magic today as I did back then, I can’t stop myself from moving and shaking. Not that I need to sing it much now – I just hold my mic out to the crowd, smile and listen.