The Diva Rules Read online

  My confidence, not my competence, earned me my big break when I was nineteen. I was sitting at the front desk, manning the phones of Casablanca and Fundamental Things, when my best friend at the time, Idalis, called. She was this stunningly gorgeous, twenty-six-year-old model and bartender at the Palladium. She was my style icon and, when we went out to the hip-hop clubs, my wing woman. (I couldn’t get laid at the gay clubs, so I went to the hip-hop clubs when I needed to meet some meat that wasn’t tucked.) Anyway, by the time I got out “And Fundamental Thiiiiiings” on the phone that day, Idalis interrupted me. “Hey, girl, listen to this! I just got into a girl group!”

  “What?” I said.

  “This guy was at the club and thought I was pretty and asked if I could sing, so I did!”

  “What?!” I said.

  Idalis filled me in on the group. Two producers, Robert Clivillés and David Cole, who you might also know as C&C Music Factory, were putting an act together quickly. They’d written a song called, “You’re My One and Only (True Love),” and had the great Martha Wash ghost-record the vocals under the group-to-be’s name, Seduction. (If you can’t remember this song, I will sing you a line of the chorus, and you will never be able to forget it again. Even if you want to.) Vendetta Records, a subsidiary of A&M, signed this nonentity known as Seduction, and when the song started to climb the charts, venues all over the world were suddenly asking to book a group that never really existed. So, David and Robert became desperate to throw together a group, and to make a splash, they wanted it to be the first interracial girl group in music history. Idalis, by the way, is a Puerto Rican goddess.

  “Do they have a white girl yet?” I asked. “Give me their number!” Idalis said yes, they did have a white girl already, and no, I couldn’t have their number. She told me she didn’t want to overstep or make them mad at her before she even started. “Idalis, I’m not going to embarrass you!” I said. “Give me their number!”

  Eventually, she relented, and the moment I hung up with her, I dialed the digits she gave me. This was the first time in my life I literally had a direct line to someone in the music business. I was so friggin’ nervous. This was really happening, and I was not gonna let the moment pass without giving it all I had to give. While the phone rang, I swallowed all of my self-doubt and prepared a little speech for when someone, anyone, answered. Their manager picked up the phone. Without waiting for him to hang up on me, I said, “My name [pause for effect] is Michelle Visage. I hear you’re putting together an interracial girl group and you need a white girl for it.” When he told me, “Sorry, they already have a white girl,” I countered, “Well they don’t have me.” I had nothing to lose, and honestly, I think he was just so impressed, or at least intrigued, by my confidence that he felt he needed to meet the crazy bitch on the other end of the line. Luckily, he couldn’t see my hand shaking.

  THE

  IF YOU EVER FEEL YOURSELF GIVING IN TO YOUR INNER EVIL TWIN, KNOW THIS: In every battle, from lip-syncing to real life, presence always trumps perfection. Confidence trumps competence, so wear it like an accessory. Make it the last thing you put on before you leave the house every morning. It’s taken me four long, sometimes tear-filled decades to learn that lesson. You know now that I don’t believe in regret. I like to drive my life forward and try not to look in the rearview mirror, because what’s done is done and nothing can change it. But if I could go back and talk to my nineteen-year-old self, I’d say, “Less hair bleach, more black eyeliner, and waaaay longer nails . . . but, most important, stop being so hard on yourself.” One of my all-time favorite RuPaul quotes sums it up: “What other people think of you is none of your damn business.” Life is hard enough already, and the only way to make it easier is to start loving yourself. And until you can do that, then, girl: You gotta fake it ‘til you make it!

  That night after work, I took off my big, bulky, fashion-savvy, cable-knit long sweater and walked fifteen blocks downtown to their office on Twenty-third Street in my Doc Marten boots, tight leggings, and even tighter cami. Their space looked nothing like I’d imagined Clive Davis or Tommy Mottola’s would’ve looked. It was a small, plain office that appeared to be more suited to Dunder Miflin than a music-management company. But before I had any time to take it in, they buzzed me into this tiny little conference room with a tiny little conference table. I threw my shoulders back, dumped my bag on the floor, and said, “Hi-yeeee! I’m here to sing for you.” And that’s exactly what I did. I sang Teena Marie’s “Déjà Vu,” and though they seemed as captivated by me as one could be sitting under fluorescent lights at a conference table, they asked for another song. I gave them “I am Love” by Jennifer Holliday, who, if you don’t know her, was—no exaggeration—a four hundred-pound, Tony Award–winning black gospel singer. Before I had to muster up the confidence to actually hit the high note, I conveniently stopped at that point in the song and was like, “Well?” Then David Cole said, “Why did you stop?” I said, “Do you need more?” and David retaliated with, “If you hit this note, you’re in.” I did, and they said, “Pack your panties. You’re going to Virginia Beach.”

  Within a week, Idalis and I, along with our official black girl, April Harris, made our debut as Seduction at a club in Virginia Beach, opening for Buster Poindexter. (I’d insert a joke here, but I think opening for Buster Poindexter is punch line enough.) Six weeks later we recorded an entire album, Nothing Matters Without Love, and in under a year, we had sold more than half a million copies of it. And all of this happened because I refused to give in to my self-doubt. I refused to believe anyone on the entire planet might possibly do a better job as the white girl in Seduction than I could, including, by the way, the poor girl who had already landed the gig until I came along. Look, I know I’m not the best singer in the world (I have a pretty voice; I’m just no Mariah or Xtina), and if I listen to my inner voice, I could probably even convince myself that I sound more like Roseanne. But I’ve learned that real divas are born in those darkest, most private moments, when your inner saboteur is trying to shout you down. That’s when your true strength and grit will be tested. It won’t happen when all eyes are on you. It’ll happen when you’re staring at yourself in the mirror before you leave your house, or your dressing room, or your car. That’s the moment when you choose to burn out or shine bright. That’s when you decide to fall to the negativity or rise to superstardom no matter the circumstance.

  rule no. 12:

  EXPOSURE ISN’T MONEY, but SOMETIMES IT CAN BE WORTH MORE.

  If you are trying to break into the music, fashion, film, TV, or any other kind of media-based business, I guarantee you that at some point in your career, especially if you’re just starting out (and maybe even if you’re not), someone somewhere will ask you to do work for them for free, though they won’t actually say the word “free,” because that would be totally presumptuous of them and insulting to you. Instead, they’ll say something like, “We can’t actually pay you, but we can offer you great exposure!”

  You and I both know your work is worth something, so part of me wants to tell you to put your hand on your hip, swivel your neck, and answer, “Bitch? Puh-lease.” Because, when it comes down to it, exposure won’t put food on your table. You can’t explain to your credit card collectors that you have no money but lots and lots of people know who you are. Your elevated Klout Score can’t keep your car running or your lights on. You literally cannot bank on exposure. But—and you knew that was coming, didn’t you?—if you get the right kind of exposure, you can trade that shit in one day. Big-time.

  When I landed in the girl group Seduction, I thought I was on my way. “Watch out, world. Visage has arrived!” My queens back in the clubs were giddy for me. My parents were bursting with pride. Even my middle-aged lady coworkers at Casablanca and Fundamental Thiiiings toasted me with cheap champagne at our office party, served in paper cups.

  But there was just one catch: Before we could go on tour or record our album, David Cole and Robert
Clivillés, the musical geniuses behind Seduction, presented me, Idalis, and our third, April Harris, with a contract that they required us to sign, seal, and deliver. So, not wanting to risk losing out on my dream and believing their assurances that I was indeed going to be a rich and famous pop star one day, I put my trust in them, signed on the dotted line, and hoped for the best.

  Signing that contract was probably one of the biggest mistakes of my life, but like everything, it was a learning experience, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. I didn’t, however, realize just how bad it was until recently . . .

  Unbeknownst to me, I basically sold my twenty-year-old soul to two savvy music producers. Under the contract I signed, the producers paid Idalis, April, and me almost nothing but seemingly pocketed almost every remaining penny that our group earned. Thus, no matter how many albums we sold or concert seats we filled, Idalis, April, and I were paid a flat, piddly weekly salary. It was just more than double what I was making as a nine-to-five receptionist at a midtown purveyor of polyesters. To put that in perspective, this was one of the worst deals in music history, on par with that of TLC’s and the Supremes’.

  In the beginning, I just had stars in my eyes. For our first gig, which was just a few days after my audition, Robert and David handed April, Idalis, and me some cash and sent us out to shop for our own wardrobe. We went to New York’s Eighth Street, which at the time was The End for fashion, and with our tiny allowance we had just enough for three matching half shirts and three pairs of billowing ankle pants. I was the group’s mouth, and coincidentally the Virgo, so I took charge and volunteered to be the wardrobe girl. I was responsible for the costumes when we flew to Virginia Beach for our first show and opening for the pompadoured Buster Poindexter, who was best known for his rendition of “Hot, Hot, Hot.”

  For that gig, they put us up at the Holiday Inn Express, all three of us in one tiny room, and when I opened my suitcase to get ready for the night, it seems I’d somehow forgotten April’s outfit. It was a complete mistake and I felt horrendously guilty, so I offered to take her out and buy her another on my own credit card. Forget it. April just kept mad-dogging me. Gurl, it’s not even human how mad she got at me. She immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was trying to sabotage her, and no matter what I did, she held tight to that ugly theory for as long as we worked together. Her hatred of me was palpable, and so we stayed as far as away from each other as possible, which wasn’t always easy considering we shared not only the stage, but also hotel rooms and a tour bus. I may not have been earning much money, but I was learning how to manage difficult group dynamics, which has actually helped me later in my life.

  After that gig, we returned to New York and set to learning our songs for our first album, Nothing Matters Without Love, which we released six weeks later. It was actually our only album, but of course we didn’t know that at the time. Oddly enough, our biggest single, “Two to Make it Right,” was my least-favorite song, and I was so happy it was assigned to April. Yup, that song was meant to be sung by just her, but the record company heard something big in the demo and decided to make it a duet by having me sing half of the lines. Oh, April loved that (sarcasm). The real T? I’ve always hated that song, and I still do. It’s just so bubble gum and soulless. I was trying to be Teena Marie, not Marie Osmond. Even so, the song struck a chord with plenty of other people. Four months after we released the album, “Two to Make it Right,” hit #1 on the Billboard Hot Dance Club chart; a month later, it reached #2 on the Billboard Hot 100; and by May, the album was certified gold. Why didn’t it go to #1 if it was such a hit? We can thank Paula Abdul and that damn animated MC Scat Cat. A cartoon cat with an even more unfortunate name. “Opposites Attracted” them right to #1.

  We worked our tight little asses off to sell that album, but no matter how much effort and hustle we put into it, Robert and David were seemingly the only ones making money, and we were none the wiser. To launch us, they sent us on a six-month radio tour and the deal was we’d travel from city to city and go on air, do an interview, and perform a few live songs, and in return the station would start spinning our record. As we watched our album move up the charts, we started to realize just how unfair this all was. Idalis, being a fiery Brooklyn-born-and-bred fighter, couldn’t keep her anger under control. We were sisters, always as tight as could be, and we saw eye to eye on music, boys, fashion— everything except how to handle our emotions. She was so frustrated by our near servitude that eventually she just boiled over. She became resentful, and she’d do things like strut into a radio station, get in the DJ’s face, and say, “Why the f*ck aren’t you playing our record already? Everyone in the country is on it, why aren’t YOU?” God, I loved her tenacity.

  But alas, after the umpteenth episode like this, they pulled her aside to talk to her and tell her that she couldn’t act that way, that it was accomplishing the exact opposite of what she was trying to do. After about six months, Robert and David fired her from the group. I begged them to give her another chance, but they wouldn’t listen. Idalis wanted me to leave, too, in solidarity with her, and when I didn’t—after all, this was still my dream, even though it was a broke-ass one—she felt betrayed and refused to talk to me for years. That broke my heart. I was devastated. Chalk that up to another lesson learned: I may not have been able to protect my own bottom line, but I was learning how to protect something even more valuable to me: my reputation.

  By the summer of 1990, Seduction, which now consisted of me, April, and a new girl, Sinoa Loren, was on fire, and our label, A&M, sent us out on an eight-month-long tour through the U.S., Canada, and Japan with the hottest (both literally and figuratively) act at the time, Milli Vanilli. I finally felt official. We had a supersweet tour bus that came with a supersweet driver named Boots, we had an actual choreographer and a stylist, and we finally got our own rooms whenever we stayed at a hotel. And yet, despite the fact that we were performing night after night, regularly selling out fourty thousand-seat arenas filled with screaming fans who knew all of the lyrics to all of our songs, I was still struggling to pay my most basic bills at home. Robert and David were home in New York, making money off of us hand over fist, and we were still only pulling a fixed paycheck of about a grand a week. But again, we were clueless. We thought that was the way it was.

  I remember our first gig with Milli Vanilli. It was in Louisville, Kentucky. Motivated by equal parts courtesy and curiosity, Sinoa, April, and I went into the stadium to watch our tour mates’ first sound check. And sure enough, “Girl, You Know It’s True” was blasting, but the boys were nowhere in sight. That’s when I had my first inclination that something might be up with them. I mean, in concert, Seduction sung to track too. Back then, everybody who did huge, full-on, choreographed concerts did—it was just the best way to do it so you didn’t huff and puff on the mic and sound hideous when it was time for a vocal to come out of your mouth. It was pretty much the industry standard at the time, but, of course, we all sang our own albums, and if the track ever failed during a concert, which it did from time to time, we all could still sing live. When that happened, by the way, the audience would go wild. They loved it. Milli Vanilli, however, we’d later learn, couldn’t sing a single note. In fact, these poor guys were just a couple of dancers from Munich who had been secretly hired as professional lip-syncers. They didn’t sing at all on tour, but the real scandal was that they didn’t sing on their album either.

  After that strange sound check, we had a tour meeting that night, and that’s where we got to meet the boys for the first time. I remember the moment exactly. Everyone on the tour—us, the roadies, the sound techs, our bus driver, Boots—was sitting on the floor in a hallway in a hotel. About an hour into our meeting the Vanilli boys walked in. I thought I’d be attracted to Rob Pilatus, the light-skinned one with the blue eyes, but he was so harsh that he quite honestly scared me. He was always mean and controlling. Onstage, he may have been hot, but in person, he was a total turnoff. Fabrice
Morvan, however, was so sweet and warm and French and chocolate brown, and though his English was terrible, we had an instant connection—and a sizzling- hot love affair that began the first night we met and lasted throughout our entire tour.

  At the time, they were both huge druggies. After each concert, we’d sit around on couches backstage, and someone would always show up with a silver platter. On it were long lines of powdery white cocaine, which they, along with plenty of the cast and crew, snorted like it was Pixy Stix. Though they would always politely offer some to me, I never took so much as a single bump, fearing not only for my life—I knew I’d be the one to try it and die on the spot—but also my career. I saw firsthand how unearned success can poison a person, and I vowed that I’d always work hard, so I’d know deep down that whatever I got, I actually deserved. My mantra: I have further to go, further to go, further to go. I’m so proud of myself for always staying clean.

  Everything—my relationships with Fabrice, Milli Vanilli, Seduction—fizzled out as quickly as it started. By the end of our tour, Milli Vanilli had been outed as frauds and their Grammy had been revoked. I was thoroughly disenchanted with Seduction and still as broke as ever, and we performed our last show as a group on New Year’s Eve 1991, at a club called Stocks and Bonds in Boston. It was a fitting name for our final venue, since the issue of money, or the lack thereof, had been on our minds for more than a year. By this time, all the members of Seduction, past and present, were completely over it. April and I could hardly stand to share the stage anymore, and we were all just done with one another, personally and professionally.

  THE

  DON’T BE AFRAID TO STAND UP FOR YOURSELF, PROTECT YOUR INTERESTS, AND FIGHT FOR WHAT’S FAIR. You deserve it. It’s not rude to ask for a fair deal. It’s smart. And if someone isn’t offering you one, you have to decide in your heart whether the exposure is worth it to you. As a rule of thumb, I think generally if they’re asking you to get naked, pose on a car, have sex, pee, or eat bugs on camera, the exposure will not be worth it, no matter how much they’re paying you. None of that, I assure you, will build your career. But everything else might be worth your consideration and possibly, someday, even something more.