To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  Working fast up the slow-moving line, getting ahead of myself, I had time to rush back to my station and write down the numbers that corresponded with my new ideas. How wonderful—getting paid for a real job and composing songs at the same time!

  On top of that I hustled every way I could to make extra money: working overtime, Saturdays and Sundays, and joining a poker club, playing every weekend at a different person’s home.

  The poker club was fun, but not too profitable. It didn’t take me long to see that the house made the most money by getting a cut out of each pot. The house, that’s what I wanted to be. At first they said no, I was too new. But they eventually agreed to let me have it at my house every fifth week. Playing poker, sometimes I’d win, sometimes I’d lose. But when it was at my house, I’d always make money.

  Things went well for a few months. But after one such party, two numbers guys showed up at my house with a lot of cash, wanting me to play some blackjack. With the main party over and still a few people hanging out, I thought I’d give it a try. They played their game real good, first losing badly to me and all the while acting drunk and silly, like they were having fun doing it. Then the rhythm changed. By the time the sun came up they had won not only the money I’d made earlier, but also my savings. Nobody could be that lucky!

  I suspected something. But what? The cards we were playing with were mine… or were they? If the cards were marked they had switched decks on me and would have to switch them back before leaving. I took three cards out of the deck we were playing with.

  They finally left, taking three thousand of my hard-earned dollars with them. Meanwhile, I took the three cards into my bathroom and sat under the light, staring at the diamond patterns on the back, examining every one. After a while my eyes started playing tricks on me, but I kept staring and comparing. Finally I saw that the thickness of some of the diamond patterns was different on the sides. I had found it! The cards were marked after all. Those crooks had ripped me off.

  Unable to contain my anger I went to my brother George’s house, looking for a gun to go find them and take my money back. I was more furious than I had ever been in my whole life. But George’s street wisdom forced me to cool down.

  “First,” he said, “anything that happened in your house is your fault. You’re responsible for making sure no one’s bringing in marked cards. Secondly, if you handle it your way two things can happen. You kill them; they kill you. And if you kill them you go to jail.”

  Never one to ignore clear logic and common sense, I knew I had to find a smarter way. I decided to try to outhustle the hustlers—that is, if they ever came back.

  The next time the poker party was held at my house, I made my usual profit but kept looking at the front door, hoping the next knock would be theirs. Eventually it was.

  There they were hoping to again reap the benefits of the house spoils, the same two guys, acting silly and high like before. They had come again to play blackjack. They were great actors. But not great enough.

  After a few hands of them playing crazy and winning, I played out my scene.

  “You guys are so damn lucky. I don’t understand it,” I said, squinting my eyes and staring at the cards. “Something must be wrong with these cards.”

  The two pickup men laughed nervously.

  “If you think the cards are marked,” one said, “why don’t you just cover ’em up.”

  “Okay, I will.” After dealing them their cards I covered the top of the deck. Now I could see what was coming and they couldn’t.

  I eventually won all my money back, plus another three thousand. They had baited me with other people’s money. I had beaten them at their own game. This time, they did not leave happy.

  I put a down payment on a two-story house at 414 Melbourne, which had two kitchenette apartments upstairs that I rented out for $15 a week. With that extra $120 a month, less my monthly house note payment of $80, I was living rent free and making a $40 profit.

  I had been at the factory now for about two years, hustling like mad and still writing my songs. I was happy until one day, sitting around during the lunch break, I heard one of the older guys bragging that he had only three more years before retirement. Another said he had about eight years. A third guy was not as happy. He said he had twelve before he could really start living.

  Then it hit me. I had thirty-three years left before I could live. What?!

  I was on a treadmill, moving fast, but not really going anywhere. It was time to get off. I had money saved and a backlog of song ideas. It was now time to pursue my dream.

  The news I was quitting my job at Lincoln-Mercury to write songs was not greeted with a retirement party by Thelma or my in-laws.

  In retrospect, I can see how difficult it must have been to be married to me, a creative person. I was a dreamer, my wife was a worrier. I probably made her that way, always coming home with new thoughts, new ideas, new moods.

  Soon after quitting my job, I bought me a silk suit and got my hair processed, losing any resemblance to a factory worker. People seemed to like me more. But to Thelma and her parents I was back to being a bum. And maybe I was—but I was a happy one.

  THE SCENE

  Timing, in more ways than one, was about to work in my favor. In early 1957 music was literally everywhere—people were singing on street corners, in barber shops, nightclubs, the churches, the movies, on the radio, everywhere. Now that music was my business, I wanted to be a part of all of it.

  During the day I worked on my songs, and at night I made the scene, hanging out with people who worked in and around music, listening and learning.

  All the beautiful people came to life at night—the sharpest-dressed black and white people I had ever seen—jewelry flashing, beautiful furs—something else. When Sugar Ray Robinson or Billy Eckstine came to town, they became part of the scene. John R Street was jumping with clubs like Sonny Wilson’s Garfield Lounge, the Chester-field Lounge and, nearby, the Frolic Show Bar.

  But where you’d usually find me was down the street on the corner of John R and Canfield at the most popular of all, the Flame Show Bar. The top club acts performed on a stage built right into the bar. One night it might be Dinah Washington, on another Sarah Vaughan or Billie Holiday. They were my favorites.

  Dinah had her own style. Shoutin’ the Blues, she’d walk the bar, shakin’ her behind, working it from end to end, (both the bar and her behind). During her lifetime, she had about eight husbands, and would sing about all of them. She was the original spokeswoman for women who had anything against men. Then she could switch to a standard like “What A Diff’rence A Day Makes.” Great.

  Sarah’s voice was an incredible instrument. From the low lows to the highest highs her voice quality was strong and pure.

  And then there was Billie Holiday, Lady Day. My fascination with her was total. She sang from her soul, about her troubled life, coming from a place of both pain and purity.

  One of the great things about the Flame was that my sister Gwen owned the photo concession there. Anna worked for her. The two of them were camera girls, taking pictures of the clientele, while Robert and George worked in the darkroom.

  Gwen and Anna—beautiful, glamorous, with business in their blood and love in their hearts—turned heads when they came through the room. Everyone adored them and seemed pleased to meet me, their brother, the songwriter.

  The night Gwen introduced me to Al Green was a big one for me. Besides owning the club, he managed a few singers—Johnnie Ray, LaVern Baker and a guy he had just signed by the name of Jackie Wilson.

  Al told me he also owned a music publishing company and was always looking for new material and told me to stop by his office with some of my songs.

  The following day I rushed over to Pearl Music Company, a four-office suite on Alexandrine Street. The only person there was a slender, youngish black guy with a thin mustache on a kind face. His name was Roquel Billy Davis. When he told me how good my songs were, my hopes lift
ed, then sank just as quickly when he said he wasn’t the publisher, but just a writer like me.

  We spent hours talking about the music business. I was impressed by his knowledge of it. Even though he hadn’t gotten any big hits, he told me he had songs recorded by some good artists and had connections with people like the Chess brothers, who owned Chess Records in Chicago. He suggested we write together.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “my sister Gwen’s helped me on some songs and I intend to give her a piece of them.”

  “That’s no problem,” he said. “I write with others, too, so however many writers there are we’ll split it that many ways.”

  Why not? I liked him and he liked me. He also liked my sister Gwen and before long, they were going together.

  Roquel and I made a solid writing team. I was the active go-getter, the extrovert. He was more passive and had a patient way about him. I’d watch how business and creative people seemed to feel comfortable dealing with him.

  We were writing for all of Al Green’s artists, especially Jackie Wilson. Just hearing them try the songs out was exciting. It was my first experience of having professionals interpret my song ideas. The winds were blowing my way.

  But by late spring, those same winds brought on the rain. It was on such a drizzly day that I found myself entangled in a major argument with Thelma over Hazel Joy.

  Puddin’ was now almost four years old. This day I wanted to take her to my friend Cecil Alleyne’s house. Thelma said no, the baby had a cold and I could not take her outside in this wet weather. Made sense. I didn’t like it but I understood.

  A few minutes later Thelma’s mother called and I heard Thelma agree to let her come pick up my little girl.

  I called out to Thelma while she was still talking on the phone, “If I’m not good enough to take her out, nobody is.”

  Glancing at me she just continued talking. After hanging up the phone she starting getting the baby dressed to go out.

  “That baby ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I shouted. “It’s wet outside, remember.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, then looked away.

  When Thelma’s mother arrived I was very strong. I repeated to her that the baby had a cold and couldn’t go out. My mother-in-law shot a puzzled look over to Thelma, who waved back a pay-no-attention-to-him gesture.

  Still cool, I just waited, more determined than ever. For whatever reason, I knew this time I had to prevail. Maybe it was being called a bum one too many times.

  I watched as they got Puddin’ all dressed up in her cute furry little coat, boots and pretty little white mittens. There was no question about what I had to do. Grabbing the baby’s wrist, I looked at Thelma and said, “I told you she’s not going nowhere.”

  A tug-of-war erupted in full force among us—me, my mother-in-law, my wife—and the baby, who by this time was crying her lungs out. I stared both women directly in the eye. They knew for the first time I was determined to win decisively. But then my pride and joy did something I would never forget. She reared her head back, crying and snarling at me as if I were the worst villain in the world.

  My best little friend in the world had turned against me. I was not prepared for this. She was pulling and twisting her arm away from me as hard as her little muscles would let her. Relaxing my hold on her, I was devastated as her soft little hand slipped from my grasp.

  Leaving the room I walked down a narrow hallway and into a small broom closet, closing the door behind me. I have no idea why, but I stood in the little dark area for about an hour. I thought about my life, I thought about my kids, I thought about my future. I was lost.

  For the next couple of days I tried to zero in on where and who I was. Could I make this marriage work? Did I want to? Thelma seemed much nicer, as if she was sorry for what had happened, which made me feel better. I was just beginning to feel more hopeful about things when the doorbell rang.

  “Are you Berry Gordy?” the man on my doorstep asked.

  When I told him I was, he handed me an official-looking letter and left. The last time I had gotten such a letter I had been drafted. This time I was being divorced.

  I never mentioned that letter to Thelma. I did very little talking that day, but a lot of thinking. As reality sank in there was a subconscious sense of relief, while consciously I was back to what I was feeling in that dark little closet. Except now it was worse—I knew I had to leave my home and family. But was this really my home?

  I had heard once that “home” is a place where when you have to go there they have to take you in. So I grabbed some things and headed for home—Gwen’s house. It was that same flat she’d once shared with Anna, across the hall from where Mother and Pop still lived in the family building on St. Antoine and Farnsworth.

  When I arrived at Gwen’s I was a wreck. I felt I had lost my kids forever. I told her that I was being divorced.

  “So what!” she said. “That’s not the worst thing in the world.”

  “But my kids,” I told her. “What about my kids?”

  “What about them?” she said. “You will always be the only father they will ever have. And they will always love you the same as we do.”

  It’s funny how tears come at the strangest moments. I couldn’t hold them back. I hugged her quickly so she couldn’t see me crying. The emotions I felt that night are still hard to explain. All I know is at that moment I loved Gwen more than anything in the world.

  Still depressed and scared, but happy because I felt so loved, I sat down at her piano. The words came easily: “Someone to care, someone to share, lonely hours and moments of despair, to be loved, to be loved, oh what a feeling, to be loved.” I had written a song. I had written a beautiful love song.

  At that time I thought I was writing “To Be Loved” strictly about the love of my children. Later I realized that I was writing about more, a lot more, my family, my friends—anybody.

  And though I didn’t know it then, I had found the key to who I was and all that I ever wanted—to be loved.

  PART TWO

  I’LL TRY SOMETHING NEW

  I’LL TRY SOMETHING NEW

  I will build you a castle with a tower so high

  it reaches the moon.

  I’ll gather melodies from birdies that fly

  and compose you a tune.

  Give you lovin’ warm as Mama’s oven

  and if that don’t do,

  Then I’ll try somethin’ new.

  I will take you away with me as far as I can

  to Venus or Mars.

  There we will walk with your hand in my hand

  you’ll be Queen of the stars.

  And every day we can play on the Milky Way

  and if that don’t do,

  Then I’ll try somethin’ new.

  I will bring you a flower

  from the floor of the sea to wear in your hair.

  I’ll do anything and everything to keep you happy girl

  to show you that I care.

  I’ll pretend I’m jealous of all the fellows

  and if that don’t do,

  Then I’ll try somethin’ new.

  I’ll take the stars and count them and move a mountain

  and if that don’t do,

  Then I’ll try somethin’ new.

  © 1961 Jobete Music Co., Inc.

  WILLIAM “SMOKEY” ROBINSON, JR.

  MONDAY, MAY 23, 1988—11:15 A.M., MOTOWN INDUSTRIES, LOS ANGELES

  EDNA BURST INTO MY OFFICE. “What’s wrong with you,” she shouted, “banging on that damn piano, disturbing everybody? We’re trying to get some work done here.”

  I stopped.

  “I’ve been buzzing you for the last ten minutes. I need answers,” she said. “Plus your piano playing ain’t that good.”

  I didn’t laugh.

  “C’mon boss, you’re the one who’s always pumping everybody else up. We can’t have you bein’ down.”

  She was right. The last thing anyone needed was
to see me discouraged. “All right, what d’ya want?”

  She told me I had a phone call from the head of my negotiating team, Harold Noveck, Motown’s tax attorney. Harold and his brother, Sidney, a CPA, had watched over me and my money like careful parents for more than twenty-five years.

  I listened as Harold updated me on the talks he and Lee Young, Jr., head of our legal division, had had earlier that day with Irving Azoff, the head of MCA’s record division. The negotiations were not going well. Their offer was too low—only slightly better than before—and still too many unresolved points. But before, I had reserve cash. This time I didn’t.

  MCA was still my first choice because they were already distributing us and knew the value of our catalogue. But they also knew we were in trouble. I had long admired their operation and for years had been a friend of their chairman, Lew Wasserman. But that didn’t matter. This was business and I understood that. Sid Sheinberg, also a friend and second only to Wasserman in the MCA hierarchy, had put the fear of God into their lawyers and accountants. If they paid me one penny more than they had to, he’d have their heads.

  Azoff, who had been responsible for getting our distribution there in the first place, was frustrated. He seemed to want to make a deal as badly as we did, but said his hands were tied.

  The interest from Europe and Japan had been much greater than in this country, but when they reviewed our financial statements their offers were not only unacceptable but insulting. They were estimating the value of Motown based on its current income, while its true value reached far beyond what could ever be interpreted from a profit-and-loss statement. My task was to somehow make everyone understand the real value of the company—the worldwide recognition of the Motown name, the valuable artists’ contracts and the vast catalogue of master recordings.

  I was aware, however, that anything is only worth what somebody else is willing to pay for it. That bothered me.