Perhaps the most important book for me at the time was Out on a Limb by Shirley MacLaine, in which she chronicled her exploration of New Age spirituality. The book brought ridicule to MacLaine for her talk of aliens and trance channeling. In her speech after winning the Golden Globe Award for Best Actress for her role in Terms of Endearment, MacLaine said, “If you can dream it, you can make it happen.” I was hooked. Shirley was famous, and I wanted her recipe for success.
Fast forward to 2000. I walked onstage for one of my one-woman shows and immediately spotted a head full of red hair sitting sixth row center. It was Shirley MacLaine. Need I say, I performed my ass off that night. I wasted no time at the end of the show pointing out that she was indeed in the house and had been an influence on me and my spiritual journey.
When she came backstage after the show, she embraced me, pulled back, and held me by the shoulders. “That was the best show I’ve seen ever,” she said.
I wrinkled my face a little, thinking, “Sinatra? Sammy? Judy? Me?”
And then she repeated herself: “Ever.”
She said something else I’ll never forget: “Your landscapes are vast.”
Well, let’s just say that after that, I never gave a flying fuck what anybody had to say about anything. After Shirley’s amazing compliment, she invited me to walk with her on the beach early the next morning. Trust me, I wouldn’t get up that early for nobody but Shirley MacLaine and her dog. She said to me, “I have one question for you—why aren’t you the biggest star in the world?”
I looked at her and said, “I am the biggest star in the world.”
I knew she understood.
I was beyond excited to be cast as a featured performer in Harlem Story, which was conceived by Peter Herbolzheimer, a German arranger and conductor known for bringing American jazz artists to perform with his orchestra in Cologne. Harlem Story was a musical revue of works written or recorded by African American jazz and gospel artists. A producer friend assembled an impressive company of gypsies and Broadway actors, including Clare Bathé, Vondie Curtis-Hall, Connie Brazelton, Ty Stevens, Yolanda Graves, and Roxanne Reese. I soloed in a scene featuring songs made famous by Bessie Smith and a medley of songs by Eubie Blake.
It was wonderful to be away from New York City. I strolled along the Rhine River and visited the city’s gothic Cologne Cathedral. On the down side, I found the German food inedible and mostly ate McDonald’s.
I seriously thought about remaining in Europe to do the whole Josephine Baker thing. She was the first black person to become a world-famous entertainer and to star in a movie. In the 1920s, Baker fled American racism and became the toast of Paris. But never being good with languages, I took my ass back to New York.
I wrote a series of shows with Mark Brown and David Holdgrive, including Jenifer Lewis in the Cosmos, which was a celebration and a send-up of my spiritual search. We three also wrote Jenifer Lewis Broke and Freaking Out, which is self-explanatory. Unlike my earlier solo endeavors, these shows had a through line, and thanks to Mark, a lot of commentary about current events and politics. I also unveiled characters such as Little Jenny Lewis and a Baptist pastor. The shows at Don’t Tell Mama were mostly sold out Tuesday through Saturday nights. The eight o’clock show usually was full of tourists. The eleven o’clock show would be filled with savvy New Yorkers and Broadway gypsies who’d just come off stage at whatever show they were performing. The Dreamgirls gypsies came damn near every night.
Occasionally I’d get out-of-town bookings at places such as the Tralfamadore in Buffalo, New York, and the Pilgrim House in Provincetown, Massachusetts. I did private parties in the Poconos and even went back to Kinloch for a “home girl makes good” concert. I was asked to do a benefit performance for an AIDS Charity at Studio 54. The legendary disco was just a block from where I lived, but it was my first time there, and it would be my last. I was there to work. I didn’t go to clubs to socialize, not disco clubs anyway. I wore a silver lamé jumpsuit designed by Don Klein and a big, fabulous vampiress mask. The famous husband-and-wife comedy duo Stiller and Meara introduced me on stage to perform “Blackuella.” It went a little something like this:
My name is Blackuella
And you are my prey.
Don’t tell me you gave at the office
Cuz I don’t drink during the day.
I hope you’re without a date tonight.
You want me to tell you why?
Cuz I’m gonna pick you up and dust you off
Then drain you ’til you’re dry.
Why? I’m a vampiress.
Jon Voight, who had won the Best Actor Oscar a few years earlier, was in the audience that night, and I could see him eyeing me. Later, he asked me to dance, and we did, scandalously, to Annie Lennox’s “Sweet Dreams.”
At the end of the night, Jon and I walked to Central Park and took a romantic carriage ride. We admired the moon and the reflection of the illuminated skyline off the lake. We talked about being from families of hard workers. We stared into each other’s eyes and kissed. We went to his room on the thirty-fifth floor of the Essex House. I was spellbound by his sensitivity and kindness. He ordered cognac and caviar. Let’s just say he was a real Midnight Cowboy. He walked me the six blocks to my apartment the next morning. I wanted so badly for one of the gypsies to see me with Jon Voight, but gypsies don’t get up that early.
I began to develop a more mature, professional performance. I had learned so much from Bette, like the technique of getting the audience laughing hard and then changing the mood on a dime and dropping some knowledge.
And I found myself comfortable enough to improvise based on what was going on with the audience. I’d give latecomers sass from the stage: “What time does your ticket say? You missed my first three numbers—which I did naked!” If you have ever seen one of my stage shows, you know I love to fuck with errrrrybody!
JENIFER
[To audience member returning to her seat from the ladies’ room]
You there in the red dress. Everything taken care of?
AUDIENCE MEMBER
[Completely baffled and embarrassed]
Huh?
JENIFER
Could you still hear me in the ladies’ room? You know they’ve got a speaker in there.
AUDIENCE MEMBER
[Now playing along]
No, I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.
JENIFER
Well, we heard you!
But don’t get it wrong, I am no Don Rickles. For the most part, I am the butt of my own jokes.
It was nothing for me to walk the halls of my apartment building looking to bum a cigarette. With my head wrapped and wearing a fuzzy robe, I’d knock on a neighbor’s door, regardless of whether I knew them. One time when I knocked on a strange door, it was opened by the Hollywood musical star Jane Powell. I immediately recognized her and after chatting a bit, I invited myself into her penthouse. She was gracious and lovely and told me I was a “sweet girl.” Thank goodness she didn’t live next door to my loud ass!