After Tokyo, we went to Australia and did fourteen shows in twenty days. We had a two-week break and then hit Europe—Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Ireland, England, Scotland, back to Germany and the Netherlands, and then France. Somewhere after Brisbane, they all started to blur together, and I started getting the standard tour jokes about not knowing what city you’re in or even what day it is. The tour manager would usually remind Prince before he went out onstage, but every once in a while, he’d say something like, “You look so fine, Copenhagen!” and the tour manager would be in the background yelling, “Ghent! We’re in Ghent!”
Touring at that level requires tremendous endurance, speed. The one thing that kept us going was the music. We’d look at each other, and we’d be in the zone. That all went out the window when we got offstage two hours later, dizzy from hunger and dehydration. My head was reeling. What just happened? How long did we perform? We’d stumble back onto the bus and wait to see if there was an aftershow, which would mean another two hours onstage.
We could tell there was going to be an aftershow if the sound people rented extra equipment, because the equipment from the show would have to be boxed up immediately and sent on to the next city. Extra equipment meant we were gearing up for a second shift. Sometimes we all went along to these aftershows. Sometimes he just wanted me to come and dance while he played guitar. Sometimes he’d go by himself, and I’d get the call at five in the morning to come over and see what he did. We’d sit with our feet up, munching popcorn and watching the videotape on the roadie case like we did when I was sixteen. We’d fall asleep at seven or eight and wake up a few hours later to do it all again.
There wasn’t much downtime. We’d travel, get to the hotel, head to the stadium, go to a dressing room—always a familiar place, thanks to the foo foo elves—then do the show, do the aftershow, crash for a few hours, and travel again. Huge eighteen-wheelers hauled the set and gear. There were three buses: one for crew, one for the band, and one for Prince. I was officially on board the band bus, but I often traveled with Prince. It was comfortable and easy when we were together, but the fact that we were close put some distance between me and the rest of the band. When the tour started, the dancers were already there, doing this whole thing that he created and everyone liked. When it was clear that I was not leaving, people started questioning why I was there. I was questioning it myself!
As the tour headed across Europe, the German producer at that little record label in Frankfurt (toooo dramatic, remember?), caught wind of the fact that little ol’ Mayte was now onstage with Prince, and they quickly released the single I’d made when I was fifteen. They didn’t ask my permission, and they certainly didn’t send me any money. I didn’t even know about it until some members of the band got hold of it and started playing it in the hotel hallway one night, singing along at top volume.
“Too dramatic! I don’t know why; it’s just the way that I am!”
Hilarious. I couldn’t deny it.
Less amusing was the fact that I was now touring with the biggest rock star in the world, my first single was out there getting airplay, and the janitor at the record label made more money than I did.
One morning in Australia, I went for pancakes with a male band member. Back at the hotel, I saw I’d missed several calls from Prince.
“Where have you been?” he asked when he finally got hold of me.
“Eating some pancakes.”
“With a guy?”
“No, just—”
“With who?”
I told him.
“That sounds like a guy.”
“Yeah, but not like—wait a minute.”
I didn’t understand what he was getting at. I wasn’t his girlfriend, and even if I was… But that didn’t matter. He was displeased, and people around him, including me, wanted him to be pleased. I could see this poor guy sweating like there was a hammer over his head, even though he’d done nothing wrong. Not surprisingly, no one wanted to hang out with me or even talk to me after that.
The hotels were booked on the ABC system: Artist (something swank with a presidential suite), Band (something less swank but still upscale), Crew (something budget conscious and close to the venue). I stayed in the same hotel as the band, but Prince would call me sometimes to come and hang out with him. I’d go over to the Artist hotel and watch movies and talk and laugh and make him laugh until I was tired, and then I’d ask one of his security people to take me back to the Band hotel.
One night as I was on my way back to my room (I won’t even pretend to know what city we were in), I passed a room where the door was ajar, and some of the people from the band were inside talking and laughing. I stood still, close to the wall, listening to the jumbled bits and pieces of the conversation.
What’s this belly dance thing he’s got going on? Why is she here?
I couldn’t tell who was saying what in the mix of male and female voices, but I could tell they were talking about me. I suddenly felt profoundly stupid with my Wonder Woman turn and my ballet work ethic. When the music is my music, I’m dancing it, but there was very little of my music in this show. I was in only two or three numbers. He had me here so I wouldn’t go to Cairo. And somehow I was the last person to know it. He kept talking to me about “7,” saying, “I’m already there, but I have to do this.”