Photo by Neil Bloomquist

Teddy Pendergrass: Teddy Bear Returns


Photo by Neil Bloomquist

Life-changing accidents are commonplace among spinal cord injury survivors, but few have tumbled from the heights that Teddy Pendergrass achieved and had to pick themselves up with the whole world watching. Chris Reeve comes to mind, but Reeve’s film persona was illusory, his battle mostly personal. Pendergrass, on the other hand, was theromantic, sexual icon of R&B in 1982, the first black singer to record five consecutive platinum albums. With a mansion, a Rolls Royce, a Lear jet and crowds of swooning female followers, he seemed inseparable from his Teddy Bear image. Then the brakes on his Rolls failed and a C5-6 spinal cord injury abruptly ended his career–or so it seemed. Over the years, though, he has battled back, recording gold albums, appearing on awards shows, Leno and Arsenio, all the major morning TV shows, as well as participating in several entreprenurial ventures. Now, in his 20th year as a quadriplegic, Pendergrass has returned to his first love–performing onstage–and yes, the Teddy Bear still has the magic.

TP mounted his first full-scale concert, post-injury, at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City on Memorial Day 2001, fittingly close to the scene of his first big break. During the summer of 1968, as an 18-year-old table waiter at Edgehill’s supper club, he auditioned for and won a job as the new drummer with Little Royal–a James Brown clone who eked out a living on the “chitlin’ circuit.” After touring with Little Royal, he returned to his hometown, Philadelphia, where he played drums for the Cadillacs–an imitation of the real Cadillacs, whose “Speedo” was a top hit in the ’50s. The group, although a copy, was solid. Eventually they became the latest version of the Blue Notes, with Pendergrass as drummer. Before long, Harold Melvin, the group’s leader, having heard Pendergrass sing, encouraged him to share the spotlight as one of the lead singers for the Blue Notes.

The group hit the big time when they signed with Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff of Philadelphia International in 1971, going on to record R&B chart-topping singles like “The Love I Lost,” “Wake Up, Everybody,” and “If You Don’t Know Me By Now,” which was nominated for a Grammy. By this time they were known as Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, but the real draw was Teddy Pendergrass. The combination of Melvin’s greedy management practices and Pendergrass’ rising popularity resulted in Teddy’s leaving the group in 1975. Several others from the group followed him, and they toured for nearly a year, calling themselves the Blue Notes featuring Theodore Pendergrass. Teddy stepped into the national limelight as a solo act in 1976.

Then came his remarkable string of platinum albums and sold-out concerts “for ladies only.” His seductive rough-edged voice, combined with tender lyrics, superb backup and unequalled stage presence, worked its magic on a growing international following. Teddy Pendergrass, whose absent father was murdered when he was a boy, the only child of Ida Pendergrass, daughter of a South Carolina sharecropper, had climbed to the top of the entertainment world by the age of 32.

Rude Awakening
At the pinnacle of success, disaster struck. The nightmare–losing control of his Rolls in the wee morning hours in March of 1982 through no fault of his own, waking up paralyzed a week later on his 32nd birthday–instantly derailed his career. Like many SCI survivors, he went through denial, grief, bitterness and depression, struggling not only with his personal self-image, but with the larger-than-life Teddy Bear image that, now disconnected, seemed doomed. But after a period of self-imposed seclusion, he edged back into the rough-and-tumble music industry with a new album, Love Language–aptly named by friend Stevie Wonder–followed by a surprise appearance at the Live Aid concert in 1985 and another album, Working It Back, that same year.

Then came Joy in 1988, followed by Truly Blessed in 1990 and A Little More Magic in 1993. The entire Joy album was nominated for a Grammy, as were tracks from his next two albums. In 1996, testing the waters, he toured 22 cities with a gospel musical, appearing on stage for a single song in each performance. It was then that the prospect of a return to full-scale concerts began to seem real. In 1997 he released another album, You and I. Currently he’s recording again, but his heart has clearly turned to performing live.

While working his way back into the spotlight, Pendergrass has had his share of the usual SCI complications–skin grafts, urinary infections, numerous hospitalizations, a couple of brushes with death. But he prefers not to dwell on these. “We all go through it,” he says. “Over the years, I’ve had everything. The important thing is to get up and keep going.”

It’s demanding work for a C5-6 quad to sing live for an hour-and-a half. First he had to believe he could do it, then strengthen his voice and work on his stamina–with vocal lessons and strenuous physical therapy. Each performance requires an all-out expenditure of energy. So how does he sound? Pendergrass is the first to admit that his voice lacks some of the explosive force that marked his pre-injury days. He no longer shouts gospel and blues at the same decibel level, but his distinctive voice covers a wide range of effects and comes across expressively, especially on the bittersweet love ballads that have defined his style since he started his solo career more than 25 years ago. He’s still soulful, still romantic, still the Teddy Bear.

He viewed his Memorial Day 2001 return to the stage as a trial. Pleased with the response, he gave his longtime booking agent, Daniel Markus, the go-ahead to begin scheduling concerts. To date, his live comeback has energized sold-out audiences across the country–from New York to Los Angeles–with concerts in several major cities. At press time, Pendergrass had just concluded a sold-out Valentine’s Day performance at the Wiltern Theatre in Los Angeles [see Nancy Becker Kennedy’s review on page 40]. As in concerts past, teddy bears were handed out to the women in the audience, perfectly timed to complement TP’s seductive artistry. The performance was filmed for DVD sales, with the release timed for sometime prior to Mother’s Day in mid-May.

The final third of Pendergrass' autobiography, Truly Blessed, deals with the aftermath of his injury and his gradual return to music.
The final third of Pendergrass’ autobiography, Truly Blessed, deals with the aftermath of his injury and his gradual return to music.

In the last few years Pendergrass has widened his interests, establishing a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping SCI survivors find their way back into education and employment. The Teddy Pendergrass Alliance is headed up by Deidre Davis, formerly a Clinton administration appointee who worked under Madeleine Albright in the U.S. State Department. Davis, well-known and respected in disability advocacy and a wheelchair user from a T10 spinal tumor since childhood, has the responsibility not only of overseeing the day-to-day business of TPA, but also of growing the organization. The plan is to expand to other cities and eventually become a national presence in the world of disability services and empowerment.

At present TPA is active in Philadelphia, with offices on the outskirts of downtown. The Alliance has a working relationship with Temple University and is seeking to develop scholarships as well as provide “one-stop shopping” for people seeking referrals to various services. TPA can be reached by calling [number TK].

In 1998 G.P. Putnam’s Sons published Pendergrass’ autobiography–Truly Blessed–which he co-authored with Patricia Romanowski. The book–well-written, true-to-voice, detailed–is a behind-the-scenes account of his life growing up in North Philadelphia and finding his way in the dog-eat-dog world of the music business. The story of his gradual comeback after his accident unfolds in the final third of the book.

In January I talked with Pendergrass about his life–pre- and post-injury–as portrayed in Truly Blessed.

TG: Your book struck a balance between a tell-all book, which it wasn’t, and withholding details, which it didn’t. …

TP: I refuse to do a tell-all book, which is probably what I was hired to do. I set my parameters, I believe wholeheartedly that it is not my business to tell people my business. As a celebrity, you protect your privacy, because when you give your privacy away and people know all about your business, then what do you have left? Then you belong totally to the public and you have nothing left for self. And I do not give away self. I fought too hard for self.

TG: Your mother helped you develop a strong sense of self when you were growing up–teaching you not to be a “corner boy” [gang member] –“A good run is always better than a bad stand.” Then your father was murdered. Because he had never been part of your life, you had reason to be bitter, but I never got the feeling you were. How do you explain that?

TP: I can’t. The only thing I can say, honestly, is that I was never made to feel any less than a loved individual by my mom. She never went over and above being a mother. She never tried to be a father, never tried to do anything like that. She just was an example of hard work, diligence and determination. I had everything. I just never missed the fact that my dad wasn’t there, because when you don’t have it, you don’t miss it. Father figures weren’t there that much in the inner city, so it wasn’t like my buddy down the street had a dad who always took him somewhere, and I was sitting on my step going, “Oh, woe is me, I don’t have a father.”

TG: You write about the importance of your mom coming to see you perform for the first time in Baltimore. As an entertainer, by then you had made it to the world of Las Vegas, which epitomized sin city, at least in the minds of many who knew you from your childhood church days back in North Philly, your mother included. When she finally came to see you perform, did you feel you had come back to full acceptance within the church?

TP: I don’t live for the acceptance of a church, at all. I’ve learned over time that my faith is not in the church, my spirituality is within myself. Having been around the secular world, the gospel world, I had seen the two cross, had seen ministers in coke houses, seen preachers in nudie bars, you know, hanging out in the clubs and going to church next morning and preaching a sermon, and that told me that my belief doesn’t need to be in a church or a man.

TG: The first time I heard one of your songs when it really struck me was back in the ’70s–“Wake Up Everybody.” You were asking people to wake up, teach their children the best they can and so on–

TP: Do the things that matter.

TG: Yes. That song was perfectly timed–at the end of the Vietnam War, riots and assassinations behind us, and your voice saying, “It’s time to do the right thing now.”

TP: I didn’t write that song, but it was a song I felt compelled to sing. It was on the pulse, just like Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?”–Do we really understand what’s happening, and what do we do about it? Because the state of the world is a shambles, and that song is as good today as it was yesterday, as it was back then and will be in 10 years, it’s a timeless song.

TG: “The world ain’t gettin’ no better.”

TP: Nope. In fact, it’s gettin’ worse! (laughs). I don’t know about you, but I’m scared as hell to fly. Although I do fly, because of my work, my stage work, I have to go to people. I’d love to do it in my backyard, but I don’t know how many tickets I’d sell (laughs again).

TG: Can we talk about that special connection you have with your audience? You’ve described it as being like a relationship with a lover. When you’re on stage, the audience is fully giving as well as forgiving, real and immediate. Do you still need that connection?

TP: Every time. That’s the reason why I do it. That’s where I make the connection, that’s where we are one. And that’s where I feel if I’m going to belong to anyone, it’s then. I tell the story, and the response I get is a response I work for. I don’t expect it, but I expect to work for it. Anybody who knows me knows if I’m going to go onstage, I’m going to try to put you on the floor.

TG: You write about the denial that accompanied your quadriplegia, your reluctance to accept it, about the struggle to try to feed yourself at Magee Rehab. Not that you couldn’t do it, but you just didn’t want to. Was there a moment when you decided, “I have to go on”?

TP: Denial is one thing, but it’s not a river in Egypt, either. It’s a truism. We don’t want to believe that it is the way it is, but for me, everything that I was doing six months before I wasn’t doing anymore. There was a definite distinction. I was onstage in Europe, now I’m lying in a bed, and that was hard to accept. As everybody’s situation is for them. I think when I accepted it was a little while later when I was just at my wit’s end. When you get there you make up your mind whether you want to live with it or take yourself out. And I’ve never been a giver-upper.

TG: The most difficult thing about spinal cord injury is dealing with that sudden change in self-image from before and after the accident. Most of us do this privately, with friends and family. You did that as well, but in addition, you had this huge public image–Teddy Bear–the sex symbol on stage, romantic singer extraordinaire. After your accident, people wrote things like, “Who will be the next Teddy Pendergrass?” as if you had died. You write about how much that hurt you. How did you deal with that?

TP: That’s a difficult one. That’s the first thing I had to battle–how do I reestablish myself, how do I go out and face people again, the embarrassment, the insult, the humiliation of the image stuff that people put on you. That was one of my biggest battles. I remember in the rehab center there were days we were allowed to go out, and I would almost hide and turn away from people, because I would see people looking as if to say, “I know who you are” and, “is that you?” One day I wanted to get out of rehab so bad and have a day to myself. My friend Henry, and Karen, who later turned out to be my wife, came to visit me. At the time, she lived not far away, and Henry pushed me all the way to her house, and she cooked dinner. I said to myself, I’m gonna go, and I don’t care if people look or what they say. He pushed me about seven city blocks to her place, we had dinner, he pushed me back, and I did that. I got that out.

Probably for the next year or so, after getting out of rehab, I didn’t go outside the confines of my estate. I stayed right behind my gates. I was not ready to deal with my own disability, much less other people gawking at me and questioning, and all those things that I felt. In rehab I did it that one day, and just kind of put it away. When I got outside into the real world, I went back into my shell again. I was on my own, it wasn’t like trying to get outside a little two-by-four room–at this point I’m home. Now what do I do? Faced with all these things and the responsibility I had, I just stayed behind my gates. So it was difficult, it was very difficult. I had to find a way to get past it, to kind of say, “to hell with it,” and that happened over time, in stages.

TG: When you were making Love Language (first album post-injury), you did the video in the gym–alone in your wheelchair in the dark–a picture of what you’d been through. Was that important for you to see yourself in that setting like that, to just come out and say, “Here I am?”

TP: I wanted to get back, I wanted to participate in the industry. I knew in order to do it, I had to do what we do–we do videos. It was important to me for people to see me as I was, it was important to me not to cover it up. Many times I had been asked to cover this wheelchair up, to put covers on it and then take pictures, and I just flatly, avidly denied that I would do that. Once I accepted myself, then everybody else had to accept me. So what the hell am I going to put a cover on and decorate the chair and take a picture for? It’s not a lounger, it’s not a cushy thing, this is who I am.

TG: When you did finally get back to performing onstage, in 1996, it was with a gospel musical tour. Did that complete the circle?

TP: At the time. It was a proving ground. I needed to prove to myself that I could do it. It was an opportunity for me to learn or to know once and for all what people would say under show circumstances. How would they respond? And because it was “My Arms Too Short to Box With God,” it was a safe thing to do. We’re talking about the death of Jesus Christ, which is all very endearing to me. So I took the challenge. It was safe with the people I did it with, the whole purpose was safe, and I just had to make sure that everything was in place. And I had sound people with me. Different people who have been in my life are there, and those that aren’t, aren’t. I’ve had to let some go and let that be somewhat of a challenge, to prove to them that it’s their loss. Again, I came from the celebrity standpoint, where I had lots of people that I associated with, but once I had the accident, they were gone.

TG: So you got to know who your real friends were.

TP: Quick! And I want to point out one thing. I’ve never been asked by one of my friends do I need any help. I don’t know if it was an oversight by these people who assumed that I was OK because I was Teddy and I was so well off. I don’t want to say that they weren’t concerned, or would not have done it. The question never came up. And there were many times when I wished that question would have been asked.

TG: You’re saying that after the accident you had a need for some help financially?

TP: Well, just say that I wished that that question had come up. It’s nice to know that you have support if you need it. I’m not going to say what the circumstances were, but it’s disheartening when you don’t hear the words from people that you know. Now, I do remember hearing it from one person, who shall remain nameless, who said if you ever need me, call me. When I say no one said those words, it doesn’t mean that no one has helped, it doesn’t mean that there haven’t been people there to do things and give me an opportunity to do things for myself. I’m not saying that. I’m just talking about hearing those few words–“Teddy, if you need any money, will you call me, let me know.” That kind of security.

TG: In your book there are plenty of instances of people helping you. Now it seems you have taken an intentional step toward helping others with the Teddy Pendergrass Alliance. Can you tell me about that?

TP: It came from my own experiences, where I came from in rehab–I’m sure you experienced the same thing–there was nobody there to give you a job or give you an option. They didn’t say, “OK, you did this, but now this is open for you.” Or, “Here’s another job offer.” I didn’t get that. It was very sterile. You know, a psychologist that wants to say his line about what was wrong with me … and I just looked at him and said, “You have no idea. You just don’t have a clue.”

So, over the years, I just developed a life, and I felt that that is what most people with disabilities want more than anything else–the opportunity to have a life. My life has taken me back to television, back to award shows, I’ve been nominated for Grammys, I’ve gotten a chance to go back into the industry that I enjoyed and loved. At the time I wrote the book, I had just finished the musical gospel, so I thought, God, this is the end of the story. Now I can write the book. Now it’s full circle. I didn’t want to write a book where the ending was a drop off the mountain. If it couldn’t lift people up, then what was the sense? So, for me, that’s what the Teddy Pendergrass Alliance represents. I want to be a catalyst to give people an opportunity to have a life.


Support New Mobility

Wait! Before you wander off to other parts of the internet, please consider supporting New Mobility. For more than three decades, New Mobility has published groundbreaking content for active wheelchair users. We share practical advice from wheelchair users across the country, review life-changing technology and demand equity in healthcare, travel and all facets of life. But none of this is cheap, easy or profitable. Your support helps us give wheelchair users the resources to build a fulfilling life.

donate today

Comments are closed.