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SHE SAYS: Savoring the Moments with Liz
Posted May 02, 2008 |
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By Lisa J. Fehoko
LaieBoyz.com |
 The 1980’s, as a decade, underwent an experimental phase; it was a time of debauchery in short order, when indulgences included junk bonds, neon colors, biker shorts, and the last hurrah for casual trysts. A time when the precursor to the New Jack swing was Cameo’s pelvic thrusting with a crotch guard. This was all before Duane “The Rock” Johnson gave Tom Cruise a run for his money by donning synthetic briefs. Before Troy Polumalu crossed over from being just another Polynesian football player, with locks rivaling Rapunzel, to being a main staple on YouTube.com. The ‘80’s held the last demarcation between various fields, before the internet changed the scope of advertisement in the early ’90’s. Back then, the median of South Pacific imports levying the national conscience was limited to two groups, both of which, now, have familial ties to Laie: a powerhouse wrestler named Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka and a transplanted Tongan musical troupe out of Minnesota called The Jets. “Superfly” Snuka’s fame gave minorities a valid excuse to own their libidinous streak, while The Jets empowered school kids, especially Polynesian kids, to harness their groupie tendencies through teenybopper magazines. Both groups dawned a new era for Oceania that has since allowed other Polynesian talents to carve their niche into a predominantly urban Americana culture. The success of Superfly Snuka and The Jets contrasted the minimalist exposure of earlier predecessors—possibly due to timing. In this backdrop of sub-culture fusion, synthesized by the ever changing face of the music industry, Elizabeth, the co-lead singer of The Jets, who is better known now as Liz Wolfgramm-Atuaia, was enmeshed in a musical career that flourished for nearly two decades.
She hails from a family of seventeen kids; ten boys and seven girls. The eight oldest siblings made up the band, The Jets. As a child, Liz was quiet, introverted— wedged somewhere between parental dictation and bookworm tendencies. She was a nerdy kid; she loved books and felt out of place because her main goal in life was to either be a gymnast or a teacher.
Large families are not abnormal in the Polynesian culture, especially in Latter-day Saint Polynesian culture, and the Wolfgramm clan is a crowning example of big families. When Liz’s parents met in Tonga, her father’s family, the Wolfgramms, were strong members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, giving up their lands and dedicating everything to their faith; on the other hand, her mother’s family was hardcore Catholic. But denominational differences did nothing to dissuade the inevitable.
“When my parents met, my mother was on her way to be a nun. She and a friend had taken off to go to a (church) dance; my parents met at that dance, and my dad told my mom, ‘I’m going to marry you.’ They ran away and got married. Of course her village beat her up.”
Eventually, the newly weds and extended Wolfgramm families made their way to America, resituating themselves in Salt Lake City. Liz’s career began in Salt Lake City; she was five years old at the time—back in ’77, when Polynesian performances were limited to lounge acts in seedy hotel chains and self-promotional touring. From Utah, the budding Wolfgramm family moved around, looking for places to settle in to.
“In ’77, Dad had sold everything. He quit his job and started the band…For eight years, we lived in a motor home; we moved all over Canada—Winnipeg, the Midwest, British Calvary. I thought we were like…other kids. At the time, my mom was the lead singer (of the singing group). (My parents) taught us with tough love. Back then, we did dancing—a Polynesian revue show…(of) Tongan and Samoan dancing.”
Interdependence allowed the family to thrive. Their world revolved around each other, but the kids missed out on having a social life because of the constant upheavals and relocations that came with the Polynesian tours—a foreshadowing of how strident the music business was going to be in their lives.
“In elementary, I attended seven different schools. (To make ends meet) my dad worked at Safeway at the milk department. He had an idea to do iate (Tongan for landscaping) on the side, but he didn’t want that lifestyle for us. At one point, we didn’t have any food and my dad prayed. He shot a moose and we lived off that for a while—we couldn’t get it out of the water, so we left it there. That taught me gratitude at a young age.”
Extracurricular activities for the young Jets were music oriented. The children played clubs in Minnesota for three years, with zero social lives. The turning point for their Polynesian revue happened in Minneapolis, where the hotel chain they worked at went bankrupt.
“We were stuck in Minneapolis. We switched from Polynesian revue to doing top forty clubs. There was this car dealership that had a manager that worked with David Bowie and the Jacksons. My parents hassled him every day until, finally, they got him to invest his money in a demo tape and a video. Boy George wrote our first hit, ‘Loop, no strings.’ I was eleven years old. We traveled to Reno and signed with MCA records in 1984.”
As their career started to take shape, they learned to balance education and entertainment. To manage their time more effectively, Liz and her siblings were given tutors; she was in the fifth grade. Childhood, in its elusive normality, was tautly stretched under the umbrella of their Svengali-like existence; most children would’ve cracked, but the bond that tied the family together was faith, loyalty, and love, not despotism. Fame, at such tender ages, never dissuaded the siblings from their goal of being the best at what they could be—ambassadors of good.
“We didn’t serve missions, but my dad told us if we lived good lives through our music and examples, that would be our mission.”
Liz was already old hat at crowd pleasing when she and sister Moana took center stage; their group dynamics on stage were merely an extension of what they were—a family. The squeaky clean image that the band espoused was reminiscent of the Osmonds, but with a Polynesian twist. When The Jets went mainstream, their music was a compliment to the direction that the music industry was moving towards, and the love ballads and bubble-gum pop from their first album, The Jets, fused them with the rest of young America. Almost overnight, the pop group sensation from Minneapolis, Minnesota became a household name; songs like Curiosity, Crush on You, and Private Number were heavily rotated on the radio and The Jets did concerts, tours, and promotional gigs to help elevate their records into the stratosphere. The stage literally became a playground for the band members as they experimented with style and dance, and a new synthesized sound that kept the hits coming. Their pop singles reflected the angst of teenage puppy love, but the love ballads were surprisingly mature. Liz’s voice resonated a depth of maturity that was at odds with her age, but not with her identity; fame never affected her.
“It never went to my head. Sex sells in the industry. That song from our first album, Private Number, that was originally Private Lover (the song was written by Prince). Then Prince wrote some (other) songs, but they had to remind him that it was a family band. That was a challenge.”
When The Jets bore down and seriously toured, it was to a worldwide audience; touring moved from the U.S.A. to the Far East, Thailand, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Europe. This didn’t include the frequent stops in the Kingdom of Tonga. They also got to work with some of the biggest names in the business at the time—New Edition, Debbie Gibson, Lisa Lisa and Full Force, Run DMC, Fat Boys, and the resilient LL Cool J. To top things off, they performed at the Apollo, collaborated with Sheila E, put out five records, and received nods from their critics. The upside of fame with all the glitz and glamour could’ve been addictive but the young stars took it all in stride.
“People would listen if we had something to say.” When asked what she misses most, the answer is simple—“I miss having room service when we traveled award shows. I liked that.”
She personified legendary individuals through name; there was a power in the name Elizabeth that her father foresaw. Furthermore, musical influences such as Olivia Newton John, Pat Benatar, Patsy Cline, and Jazz helped to galvanize her western sense of self. But identity, culled in childhood, reflects the vacillating notions of one society, and by birthright, Elizabeth carried two. Beneath the layers of the American dream instilled within her, vicarious normalisms, groupie haunts at concerts, and even outside of the early days in Minnesota, lay an identity that predated the evolution of the prepackaged Jets.
“In Tonga, you find your roots. (My brother) Leroy was born there. When we were in Tonga, everything came full circle—you get (so) used to seeing the faces of hauolis all your life and then in Tonga you understand. It was humbling…My grandparents (maternal) are humble people. When we performed, my mom’s dad didn’t show up. He said he knew his place, so he stayed home. I hope I have that.”
Indeed, that humility was what bore her up when cancer ravaged her body; her music career took a back seat to an illness that physically racked her vitality and youth. What began with hard work on the pathway to lucrative ease, sidetracked into the micro-horrors of gene expression gone awry. The ill effects of the disease were allayed by what she defines as divine intervention; her paternal grandfather Iohani Wolfgramm administered to her and the cancer miraculously regressed. When Liz pushed beyond the shelf-life of pop-stardom and the divisive effects of cell division, she found new horizons; thus, a life of extremes is only ameliorated by its counterpart.
She formally met Mark in 1990. Not unlike child stars that have been on the road most of their lives, Liz had limited interaction outside of the immediate family. Since growing up in Minnesota gave the family marginal contact with some Samoan families at campsites, the full exposure to the familial atmosphere that Laie engendered made it “such a special place.”
But it wasn’t until 1994 that her relationship with Mark thrived—on Utah soil.
“There was just something about him that I was immediately drawn to…I remember being so nervous to see him because it had been so long.”
The chemistry between them obscured whatever obstacles the Fates had twined into their future; and despite the locale, long dormant feelings that were sown in magnetic lulls of deep affection disrupted Liz’s logic of ho-hum waiting.
“I knew that if I didn’t do something about it, he wouldn’t—because he probably thought that with my family, there was no chance of anything happening. I got his number and called his house. He picked up the phone…(and) was quiet for a long time.”
They were engaged while Mark was still a junior at BYU-Provo, and shortly thereafter, the nuptial bells tolled.
“When I married Mark, I stopped living out of a suitcase. I settled down, had a family.”
The movement from factual recollection of what her former life was like, to talking about her husband and children, creates a warm glow that imbues the phone conversation with nocturnal memories of star gazing. Her laughter is a honey drop in warm cider. The shift in tone is subtle, yet the excitement thrums; she checks on Teancum before continuing.
“(Up until that point) I had been in the music business eighteen years. From the beginning, he made it all slow down. I grew up too fast, so I didn’t know how to be silly.”
“(At first,) my parents didn’t like Mark; it was hard for them. I had breast cancer, I met Mark, and I (eventually) followed my own heart. It was hard to walk away at that time because my family needed me, but I had to choose. The greatest lesson I’ve learned from this is that whatever you choose to do, make sure you love it. No money, fame, big or little house is going to make a difference—just follow your heart and do what you love.”
When asked about how the role of motherhood has changed her, she’s thoughtful.
“Sometimes I get up early; I like seeing the kids when they’re sleeping. My greatest joys are my family and the kids. I was lucky with my companion. When I came to Laie, I fell in love with it.”
The session begins to wind down and she exhales. A parting question of what has been the most consistent throughout her life is answered simply in two words—“The gospel.” The silence is comforting, filling the immensity of space between us. After saying our farewells, she closes our conversation with a soft “Thank you.”
Thus, the girl that once wrangled the stage with a maturity beyond her years now savors nostalgia through the eyes of her growing brood. And since the hands of time have dimmed fanfare into a more organic existence, her goal of Carpe Diem has evolved into seizing each intricate breath that life offers.
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| Reach Lisa J. Fehoko at LJFehoko@hotmail.com |
| This article property of LaieBoyz.com. Copyright 2010 Laie Boyz Incorporated. All rights reserved. |
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| ©2010 Laie Boyz Incorporated. All rights reserved. |
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