by Berry Gordy
It occurred to me that if I listened to what they had to say first, then maybe they’d be more receptive to hearing my ideas. So I became a good listener. It worked! But too well; I got hooked on people.
Listening to their problems, thoughts and feelings excited me because I connected with them. I learned that what they were interested in is what I was interested in—what everyone was interested in. I learned we all basically wanted and needed the same things.
As a songwriter that’s what I wanted to write about—what people needed—whether it was love, a reason to dance, a reason to cry.
I had made that big discovery all because I was forced to listen.
One thing I knew the Gordy Print Shop needed was customers. And I had an idea to help them. When I went in to see them about it, as always, they got real busy and tried to avoid me. But I knew this was going to help them, so I hid behind a column and waited. Seeing no customers, I knew they couldn’t fake it too long and the minute that they relaxed—voom! I jumped out.
“Fuller,” I said, landing right behind him.
He screamed. They all jumped. I had never heard my oldest brother holler like that before. “Junior! What the heck are you doing?” he yelled.
“That’s not funny,” Esther said.
“I thought we were being robbed,” George shouted.
I told them I was sorry but I was so excited about my idea to help their business. “I just wrote a great radio commercial for you. It’s a song called ‘Let Gordy Be Your Printer Too,’ and it sounds just like Nat King Cole!”
“Who’s singing it?” Fuller asked.
“I am.”
“I know, but who’s going to sing it on the radio commercial?”
“I am.”
Interest was disappearing fast. But before they could say another word I began snapping my fingers and singing… “Whether your job is large or small, Gordy Printing will do them all. Give us a try, we’ll do it right and Gordy will be your printer for life. Let Gordy… da da da da… be your printer too!”
They liked it and arranged for me to record it in the basement studio of a local disc jockey named Bristol Bryant. Soon it was playing on the station where he worked, WJLB. Some people really thought it was Nat King Cole. Even though it was just me singing and playing the piano on the one-minute commercial, I’d written and produced something meaningful. Their business picked up and my proud family started taking me a little more seriously.
Shortly after that Mother had some friends over. I was sitting in the living room and could hear voices from the dining room bragging about their sons and daughters who were in college studying to be doctors and lawyers.
“Yes, that’s right,” one of the guests was saying to Mother, “the two younger boys are at Wayne State. One’s majoring in electronics. The other premed. Oh, and you know my oldest son, he’s got his own manufacturing company. Yes, indeedy Bertha, they’re doing so well.”
It was time for me to leave the house. But I had to go through the dining room. Not good.
I, a twenty-year-old, was quietly making my way out, when I heard this same voice directed my way, “And what do you do, young man?”
I stopped. “I write songs!”
“I know,” he said, “but what do you do?”
What could I say? How dare he dismiss my songwriting! This was just as much a profession as doctor or lawyer and it could make thousands of people happy.
“Uh, that’s it. I write songs.”
He looked at Mother. As happy as she had been at my doing that commercial, she hadn’t exactly planned on that being my life’s work. She was a scholar, an educator, a Daughter Ruler of the Elks Club, and the recipient of the Eleanor Roosevelt Mother of the Day Award. She smiled. I was proud of what I was doing; but I did feel a little sorry for Mother. These were her friends. And I knew parents had peer pressure, too.
I left the house that day knowing more than ever I had something to prove.
From all those people that I’d been listening to, I’d been hearing the theme of a common fear that they wouldn’t be loved if they exposed who they really were. This was something I thought a lot about. My belief was if someone didn’t love you for yourself, but for who you were trying to be, the relationship wouldn’t last too long anyway. But if you’re just you, you’ll eventually be loved by the right person.
So “You Are You” was how I titled my next song. I wrote about individuality—being yourself—the magic inside:
You are you—
That’s all that matters to me.
You are you—
And only you can be the one I love and yearn for,
the one that my heart burns for.
Yes, you are you—
And that makes you best of all…
After I finished it, I saw an ad in a magazine where for twenty-five dollars you could send off a coupon with a recording of a song and get sheet music written. I jumped on it right away.
A few weeks later I received this beautiful piece of sheet music—my first complete song all professionally written. I was legit.
Thinking of general audiences even then, I had written this song with Doris Day in mind. She was America’s girl next door. I knew when she heard it she would feel about it the same as I did and would die to record it.
Excited, I sent it off with a little note saying, “Dear Doris, here’s a song I’ve written for you.” I addressed it to: “Doris Day, Hollywood, California.” Return address: “Berry Gordy Jr., 5139 St. Antoine, Detroit, Michigan.” I was on top of the world with anticipation. I waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally! After about three months a letter came, but it was not from Doris Day. It started with “Greetings” and ended with “Please report to Fort Custer.” I had been drafted.
4
FACING THE REAL WORLD
1951–1957
PRIVATE GORDY
The Korean War. Not only was this a total disruption to my focus and goals, it was something I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to go. I purposely answered all the questions wrong on the IQ test at the induction center but they passed me anyway. (On an up note it was one of the few tests I had passed in recent years.)
From June through September of 1951 I was stationed at Camp Chaffee, Arkansas, for basic training. Wanting to make the best of a bad situation, I tried to get into Special Services, a branch of the army that entertained the troops. I heard they had it made. I was an entertainer—a comedian since grade school. But when I applied they told me I didn’t have enough experience. Determined to show them I was good, I did whatever job they gave me in the most entertaining way I could think of, hoping to get discovered.
When I was assigned to call out the marching drills for our platoon, I would sing out those commands and create all sorts of new cadence calls. As flag bearer of our platoon I’d be clutching that pole, holding my head and that flag up high—strutting like mad. I also became something of a boot camp star at company boxing matches, knocking out all my opponents.
Nothing worked. I did, however, pick up my high school diploma through the GED test. I hadn’t realized how proud I’d feel, being a high school graduate.
Shortly after, I was selected for leadership school right on the base where I learned a lot about discipline and organization. Boy, were they strict. We had to make our beds so tight that if you dropped a quarter on the sheets, it had to bounce back up. We had to be extremely clean to pass the dirt patrols that would all too often surprise us.
My high ratings in passing these inspections gained me a lot of respect. I was outstanding. Proud.
Then one night it happened. I awoke in mortified shock to find that after all these years, my childhood problem had not disappeared. I had wet the bed!
This school was like West Point. We were the cream of the crop—and I had wet the bed. It was a replay of my days with Pop when I had to think fast. Balling up my sheets tightly, I hustled into the fast-moving line at the laundry, tossing my bedding t
o one of the guys behind the counter. As I moved on down, from the corner of my eye, I saw that same guy looking up the line to see who had turned in the smelly sheets. But sheets were coming at him so fast he had to let it go.
What a relief! I could never let that happen again and made sure it didn’t. I never drank any liquids later than 4:00 P.M.
I liked leadership school but how to get out of going to Korea and back home to my music was the only thing on my mind. I knew some other guys were getting out but I couldn’t find out how.
By the time I did, I was already on a troop ship in the middle of the Pacific. That’s where I heard some of the saddest news of my life.
Out on the deck, I was listening to some of my buddies talking about two guys who had both gotten out with no trouble.
I jumped in. “How, how’d they do it? Murder? Sabotage? Insanity?”
“No,” one of them said. “They wet the bed.”
!?#!@?!
The minute I arrived in Korea, I was impressed by its people, especially the children—amazing little baby salesmen who greeted us on the docks hawking gold watches, rings, radios, everything.
After that, all I can remember is riding in trucks further and further into the jungle and further away from home and hope. I was frightened numb. So numb I started trying to think positive.
“What a wonderful experience,” I told myself, trying to appreciate things around me: a new environment, new country, new language, new people, new culture. Didn’t work. Well, maybe a little, but my fear and longing to be back on American soil were greater than ever.
I was assigned to the Third Division. Once we got settled in at our camp near Panmunjom, I slowly got used to the routine, mainly because of the warm connection I had with the Korean people who worked on the base. Most of them looked like fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds—not too much older than those baby salesmen. They mostly worked as kitchen help and could barely speak our language. Many GIs treated them like they were ignorant children, pushing them around and making fun of them.
We all learned some great cuss words and phrases in Korean. But watching the faces of the locals I could see that while they might laugh with us, they didn’t like it. Some seemed hurt.
It dawned on me that the same Koreans being kicked around in our mess halls during the day could easily be sniping at us at night. Who could tell the difference? We were fighting alongside the South against the North. But the North and the South were the same people.
I was interested in how they felt, what they thought. So I learned the language, starting with simple verbs like come, go, like, especially like—I like you.
The Koreans were so happy I was trying to learn their language the right way, to communicate with them, not insult them. Not able to pronounce Berry, they called me something that came out sounding like Bad-du-die. Before long I was even being used as an interpreter, straightening out little problems.
This added to my ongoing fascination with communication. At home there were language barriers, too, known as semantics. Words can mean different things to different people. Wherever I was, I was always more concerned with what people meant rather than what they said or what words they used. In Korea, for my own self-preservation, this was vital.
The nights were most fearful. Especially guard duty. Walking through the jungle alone for three hours, hoping not to see anything move and knowing you’re a sitting duck, was no fun. I hated the times I had to pull it.
Other nights, when I wasn’t on guard duty, listening to my little battery-operated radio, weren’t as bad. Most of the music I heard was Korean or other foreign stuff I couldn’t understand. But once in a while they would play something in English. The only American song I can remember hearing became my favorite—“Mom and Dad’s Waltz,” a country song by Lefty Frizzell. Yeah—Lefty Frizzell. So what! I was scared and lonely and this simple music spoke to my homesick heart.
I had been assigned to the Third Division artillery unit, stationed behind the front-line infantry battalion as backup. From time to time soldiers from our unit were transferred to those units at the front line. That was the last place any of us wanted to be.
An opening was announced for a chaplain’s assistant to play the organ and drive his jeep. This was a job everybody wanted. It was not exactly Special Services but definitely the next best thing.
I was not the first person in line, but lucky for me I still knew my chords and one-finger stuff and was familiar with some of the hymns from church. My ear did the rest. I got the job.
What was my job? Driving the chaplain to the front lines to give services to the troops fighting there.
!?#!@?!
Horrified as I was, as soon as the chaplain and I arrived at our destination, bombs going off around us, I’d jump out of the jeep, open a suitcase that became an instant organ and start to play. I knew the quicker we got started the quicker we could get out of there.
Driving back we’d usually pass foot soldiers moving toward the front line. I will never forget the terrified look on those young faces walking into the unknown while I was driving away.
As crazy as these times were, there was always an unbelievably warm response and appreciation we’d get from those men. While I know we affected them, they probably affected me more, because after seeing what they went through day after day, I was not fearful for myself anymore.
GETTING THE BLUES TOO LATE
In 1953 I happily returned home. I wanted to go into business on my own doing something I loved, and I decided to open up a Jazz record store. To me, Jazz was the only pure art form. No matter how complex the rhythms and the melodies, I loved it just because it was Jazz. All the hip young people were into it, and I was sure the people in my neighborhood would love it as much as I did.
My plan was to open the store with my buddy, Billy Davis. Inducted into the army on the very same day, the two of us had run into each other overseas and had talked about investing our severance pay in a business when we got out.
But once we were discharged and had gotten home, he claimed his severance pay never arrived. Seeing him every day, dressed “sharper than a dog,” I became suspicious. He finally confessed he loved clothes more than he loved being in business with me.
Even though Pop was somewhat disappointed that I didn’t want to take over his plastering business, he borrowed money from the church credit union and loaned it to me. My brother George invested some of his own money, becoming a partner. Before we even opened our doors my new partner and I had a major disagreement.
Because three-dimension was the technology of the times, I wanted to call our store the 3D Record Mart with the subtitle, The House That Jams Built.
George agreed with me on the first part but had different ideas for the subtitle. “No, it should be House of Jazz,” he insisted.
I didn’t dislike House of Jazz, but I wanted something hipper, more catchy. Since the greatest records were called “jams” and the best musicians were always somewhere “jammin’,” I wanted that name bad.
George said no. He loved House of Jazz.
I reminded him he came into business with me. The store was my idea, and most of the money was mine. “So I should run the business.”
“Well, you can run it but all I’m saying is I want House of Jazz,” he said, not budging.
At wits’ end, I went to Pop, hoping he would help persuade George to my way of thinking. Instead, he gave me words of wisdom I would always remember: “Whenever they pay they have a say.”
We called our shop the 3D Record Mart—House of Jazz.
I could see right then partnership was not for me but still I was determined to have the best record store in town.
We created a heavy Jazz atmosphere that you could feel the moment you walked in. Using the album covers, we decorated the walls with the hottest Jazz musicians of the time. Constantly playing was the cool Jazz of Miles Davis, the fluid chords of George Shearing, the dexterity and sensitivity of Oscar Peterson, the commerc
ial groove of Erroll Garner, or the Bird—Charlie Parker—just blowing like mad, as only he could. I felt great.
That is, until my very first customer came in, a short heavyset guy who appeared to be a factory worker.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you have any records by Muddy Waters?”
“Muddy who?”
“Waters.”
“Never heard of him.”
“John Lee Hooker? Jimmy Reed? B.B. King?”
“I’m sorry,” I told him, “we don’t sell that stuff here.”
When he asked why, I explained, “Jazz is complex. Jazz is as different as each musician playing it. Those Blues records pretty much all say the same thing—‘I love my baby, but my baby don’t love me.’” He looked at me like I was crazy and left.
I knew I had to educate my customers about the beauty of Jazz—right away. I would quickly launch into why Charlie Parker was the most brilliant genius of all time and how Miles Davis’s horn could soothe you to death. But these people were hardheaded. They wanted what they wanted. And they wanted the Blues. I told them to try Hastings. They did.
Meanwhile, the Jazz lovers were few and far between. Most days it was only me hanging out with my sidekick Billy Davis, trying to look cool. Even though he hadn’t invested with me he hung around, still convinced I was going someplace.
It dawned on me, one day, that I was losing the store. I started realizing this was a business, not a school, and in trying to educate my customers about great Jazz, we were going broke. I remembered what Pop had tried to get me to understand years before: “The customer is always right.” It was time to change my ways. It was time to get the Blues.
Once word got out that we were stocking them, there was a significant pickup in business. During this period Blues artists had come into their heyday, especially in my neighborhood. I started paying more attention to the records, studying them. I began to enjoy and appreciate many of the artists. Among them was Louis Jordan. His music was a departure from the normal lowdown Blues, cleverly mixing lyrics with wit while usually varying from the normal chord structures.