by Berry Gordy
My big fear was not only Motown going down the drain but taking Jobete, our valuable music publishing arm, with it.
When the question came up about Jobete being part of the package, I was so anxious to sell I made it known that I would consider it. The offers then increased, to around the $40 million range. I was insulted. Jobete by itself was worth much more than that. I wasn’t used to this. I had always been a buyer, not a seller. This was new to me.
“Berry,” Harold had told me, “they’re not even coming close to the price we want.”
“Well, then, raise it,” I said.
“What?”
“And not only that, take Jobete out of the deal altogether. Now, I want more money for less assets. The ceiling has now become the floor.”
I knew that was a big gamble but if others were not going to put a real value on my companies, I was.
When we’re young we take major risks. We’re fearless. And that’s okay because we have little or nothing to lose. Now, the clock was ticking, and it was attached to a time bomb. I had gambled since childhood but nothing like this. All of a sudden everything I had worked for was at stake. I was playing the biggest poker hand of my life. I kept promising myself that if I made it through this, it would be the last big hand I’d ever play.
When I ended my phone call with Harold, Edna reminded me I had a meeting that next morning with Danny Bakewell, a black leader from South Central L.A. I had agreed to the meeting, not knowing exactly what he had in mind. But I knew it was something to do with the sale. That’s all I needed now—somebody else to come along and try to pressure me not to sell.
Daniel Skouras, VP and head of operations, joined Edna and me in the office. He had not been involved with the negotiations, but was well aware of what was going on, especially with the traumas of running the company. At the time he was a permanent house guest of mine. He told me how amazed he was at my being so cool with everything that was going on. I told him I wasn’t as cool as he thought, but that was part of the game—fooling myself into believing I couldn’t lose.
When I was younger it never occurred to me that I could lose. Now I kept wondering—what if I did? What would happen to all the people who depended on me?
Going to sleep that night was tough. I kept thinking about when I was younger. I thought about 1957.
5
THE SONGWRITING YEARS
1957–1959
JACKIE WILSON
I was surprised by the white man I saw through the double glass windows standing in the middle of the studio floor, directing the band. Eyes closed, he was gesturing to the musicians to slow the tempo while finding a real groove. He was good. A white man with that much rhythm? I was impressed. His name was George Goldner.
Roquel had gotten a tip that George was in town doing a session at United Sound Studios. He was the colorful owner of Gone and End Records out of New York, one of the many small independent record companies that sprang up in the early fifties.
The independent scene had been developing for over a decade. Early on some of the major record companies had established special labels on which they recorded black music, then called Race records—colored Blues singers expressing their own personal attitudes and feelings. Later it was the young Doo-Woppers on street corners—reflecting a changing culture. The majors paid little attention. But street-smart businessmen recognized the commercial potential of these new sounds, and independent labels came into being, opening doors for people like me.
“I heard you were a good writer,” was the first thing George Goldner said when Roquel introduced us in the lobby of the studio.
“I am,” I said, smiling.
After looking over a couple of my songs, he told me, “Not bad.” He then asked what I thought made a great record.
“Many things,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Well, first of all, the song should be honest and have a good concept. The performance is important but the song’s got to be sayin’ something.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Probably the first thing people relate to is the melody, which includes hooks—phrases of repetition,” I went on. “If that hook is infectious it’s usually a hit. If it’s monotonous, usually not.”
George nodded slowly. He was impressed. “Got any money?”
“What’s that?”
He pulled out a hundred dollar bill and gave it to me.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s like a down payment in case we ever do any business together.” Then he left.
Wow! My ideas had translated into quick cash, ideas I felt I had a limitless supply of. I left that day in high spirits. It was more than just the hundred dollars. Here was a perfect stranger who saw value in my creative ideas.
While we were waiting for Al Green’s artists to record some of our songs we intensified our writing efforts—developing material for other artists we were beginning to meet.
We were even “writers for hire.” George Kelly, a local businessman, paid us fifty dollars a day to work with Frances Burnett, a singer he was managing. We also sought out new young artists to teach songs to. Among them were Erma Franklin, whose younger sister Aretha at the time was singing Gospel, and a teenage Freda Payne, who I hoped would become my first big female star.
Besides our in at Pearl Music Company and some local labels, other companies were becoming aware of us. LaVern Baker at Atlantic Records was hot with a record called “Jim Dandy.” We wrote an answer to it that she recorded, “Jim Dandy Got Married.” She also recorded our “It’s So Fine.” Both did okay, nothing great. But the song we wrote for Etta James on Chess Records called “All I Could Do Was Cry” was a hit and went to the top of the R&B charts. More artists and local groups were beginning to seek us out, looking for songs.
Though I would go on to have many exciting times in my life, the release of our first record on Jackie Wilson ranks among the top. Jackie took “Reet Petite,” a so-so song, and turned it into a classic.
By then I had moved in with my sister Loucye and our cousin Evelyn Turk on Hague Street. That had been a great opportunity for me because since they worked during the day, I had the whole house to myself.
This particular day when I heard Joltin’ Joe Howard from WCHB say, “And now folks, the hottest new record in the land—‘Reet Petite’ by Jackie Wilson,” I was thrilled.
Turning the volume up as loud as I could, I danced around the room. Passing the TV set, I turned on American Bandstand.
Shock! There it was again! Jackie’s big booming voice blasting for millions all over the country, and all those white kids dancing up a storm to my song. It was playing on local radio and national TV at the same time. At the same time!
“Reet Petite” was a smash, not just in Detroit but all over the country—Wow!
The excitement gave me a headache. My dream had come true. I was a hit songwriter. My troubles were over forever. I’d be rich! All the girls I ever wanted would now want me!
Then a feeling of anger started coming over me. All those people who said I’d “never be nothing” would now have to eat their words. Getting madder by the minute I started thinking how I was going to get even with everybody who had ever doubted me or treated me bad.
Wait a minute! What are you doing? You’d just better be happy and thankful for your own good fortune and not try to get back at anybody. After all, you’re a star now and you better act like one.
I had given myself some good advice. I must admit though, that moment of anger felt pretty good.
I hadn’t yet named it as such, but my Cycle of Success had just begun. Through the years, I would come to recognize and probe this most powerful pattern. When someone—anyone—becomes a star, his or her life goes through multiple changes brought on by fame, fortune and power.
Very few can survive this vicious Cycle. People treat you differently. You treat people differently. You have newfound friends, newfound relatives, newfound business deals, n
ewfound everything. You’re expected to pay for things you’ve never had to pay for before—bills, commissions, taxes. Taxes by far are the most dangerous. The government doesn’t care what you have, they only care what you made.
Since others treat you like a king you expect more respect from your family and close friends. But those who really know and love you see you as the same person you were—and are. Herein lies an insidious trap, avoidable only by knowing that your accomplishments are only your accomplishments—they’re not you. Only you are you.
The Cycle has many aspects. When you feel like a star, you act and spend like one, racking up bills you can’t afford.
In my case I had to keep up a front—that of a hot and happening songwriter. I had no clue how much money I was going to make, I just felt with a big hit I’d automatically be rich. Whenever I went out to bars or clubs, others would expect me to pick up the tab. I did.
The Cycle has some good sides, too. I was so inspired that the sky became not the limit but just the first goal. That same day I called Jackie, burning with desire to show him our ballad, a slower song that meant the world to me, “To Be Loved.”
With his own Cycle of Success having begun some time ago, Jackie was hard to get to. By now, Al Green had died and his assistant, Nat Tarnopol, had taken over Jackie’s management. And even he had a hard time finding Jackie.
Though it took Jackie about three days to return my call, I counted myself lucky that he was willing to carve out some time for me. Not very much, but some. I was still in the clouds about “Reet Petite” when I opened my front door a couple days later and there he was with his pretty-boy face and pretty-boy hair, a doo with an upswept pompadour in front, and a tight-fitting tailored suit. He walked in giving me a hug, but I could see he wanted to get right down to business.
“‘Reet Petite’ is a smash everywhere,” I shouted.
“I know,” he said, “people love it. What cha got?”
Since he was already a star the song’s success wasn’t as big a deal to him as it was to me. Jackie really liked me but he just wanted to hear the new song and get out. He always made up his mind fast. Too fast for me. He had hastily rejected some of our other songs almost before we got started, so I had to nail him quickly.
I jumped into it, playing my usual simple chords on the piano, but singing with great soul and conviction. Even in my squeaky voice, it was easy to hear the deep passion I had for this song, singing for all I was worth hoping he wouldn’t stop me before the first hook. He didn’t. I made it through the whole first verse. Great. But just as I was getting ready to start the second he said, “Okay, Okay, hold it! That’s enough.”
I hated it when he did that. One of my greatest performances—thwarted. Never opening my eyes, I stopped, frustrated.
“Gimme that paper,” he said, grabbing the lyric sheet off the piano. “I got it, I got it!” Circling his pointed finger at me, “Play, play,” he said.
My emotions jumped from the square root of one to a hundred to the tenth power. Jackie had fallen in love with the song. And I fell in love with his dynamic golden voice all over again the minute he sang the first few words: “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 never heard him do a ballad before. His voice was strong and deep and sincere. It was as if he had written it for himself. He brought up the entire range of emotions I had felt the night I wrote it. My tears came again and everything.
Jackie Wilson was the epitome of natural greatness. Unfortunately for some he set the standard I would be looking for in artists forever. I heard him sing many, many times and never a bad note. A bad song maybe, but never a bad note. Watching this man perform “To Be Loved” was always a thrill.
One night I had gone with him to Flint, Michigan, where he was appearing at the Armory. I had never seen anything like that in my life. Crowds pushing and shoving to get into the sold-out house. I had heard Jackie was known as Mr. Excitement. When he hit the stage I could see why. It was like a lightning bolt. Strutting and dancing with his coat slung over his shoulder singing “Reet Petite,” spinning and turning, he jumped off one level of the stage to another, landing in a perfect split. I was worried like many others that he had to have hurt something. But without stopping he squeezed his legs together and propelled himself up into a standing position just in time to do another twirl, drop to his knees and finish the song.
Jackie had worked himself and the audience into a frenzy. He was sexy and knew it. I could tell by the way he winked his eye at the front-seated women right on beat. I had never seen women throw panties on stage before.
He was Mr. Excitement! Even at the end of the show, his energy was still flowing like electricity, body pouring with sweat, his shirt hanging open—and me helping him off stage as women were trying to jump all over him.
Fantastic! If only I could be Jackie, just for a night.
I thought about that more than once. Then, another night the strangest thing happened to me when one of the many girls who always seemed to be waiting for him asked me, “Berry, why can’t Jackie be more like you?”
“What?!? What do you mean like me?”
“You’re so patient, understanding and easy to talk to. Jackie’s not.”
“Oh really. You think so? Maybe you’d like to go out with me?”
Of course she said no.
Another time I was at a show of Jackie’s and found myself seated next to the sweetest girl I’d seen in a long time. She had no eyes for me, but I kept doing everything I could to get her attention. After a while, she softened—just enough to tell me she was not “that kind of girl.”
The more I persisted, the more she resisted. “At least give me your phone number.”
“I don’t give my number out to nobody unless I know them really well.”
We were having so much fun together watching the show before Jackie came on, I tried to kiss her.
“Oh, no,” she said, “it wouldn’t be proper.”
“Not even on the cheek?”
“Not even on the cheek.”
I was impressed. She wasn’t just a good girl, she was the perfect girl. Marriage was not out of the question.
Needing to see Jackie before he went on stage I had to leave quickly. She agreed to meet me at that same spot right after the show.
I returned breathlessly once the show was over and—nothing. Couldn’t find her anywhere. Giving up, I headed back to the dressing room where, as usual, I saw a crowd of women around Jackie. And, as usual there was one in the middle, clutching him for dear life, her tongue down his throat, her skirt pulled up around her waist. There she was in all her glory—my ex-future wife.
SMOKEY
As important as my association was with Jackie Wilson, an even greater one began in late ’57. I was in Nat Tarnopol’s office working on some lyrics when a group calling themselves the Matadors—four young guys and a pretty teenage girl in a military uniform—came in to audition for him. I watched from an obscure corner while the group, singing their hearts out, tried hard to impress Nat with their little dance steps. I could see they had something, but Nat didn’t think so. He stopped them midway through their third song, and sent them off with the advice that they should sing more like the Platters.
I related to that lead singer. Disappointment was hanging on him like his oversized pants. As they left the office and started down the hallway, I followed—as cool but as fast as I could, almost catching up with the lead singer, a light-skinned teenager with greenish eyes and boyish charm.
“Hey, I liked you guys a lot!” I called out.
They all stopped. “You did?” the lead singer said, looking at me doubtfully.
“Oh yeah, I thought you all were really good.”
Thanking me, they introduced themselves as Ronnie White, Pete Moore, Bobby Rogers and Bobby’s cousin Claudette.
“I’m William Robinson,” the lead singer said,
“but they call me Smokey. Who are you?”
“My name is Berry Gordy.”
“Berry Gordy! You write for Jackie Wilson. You wrote ‘To Be Loved’ and ‘Reet Petite.’”
“I know.” Delighted he knew me, I asked him who had written their songs.
“I did.”
“Got any more?”
“Right here,” he said, showing me a school notebook full of song lyrics written in pencil.
“Follow me,” I said, walking into a small room. They did. When I told Smokey to sing the song he liked best, he started singing the first song in the book. Reading along, I stopped him about halfway.
“These lyrics,” I said, “what do they mean?”
“The song is about a boy and girl in love,” Smokey explained.
“Yes, but so what? Everybody’s in love. What’s different about your song? And you’re rambling all over the place.” I told him to sing the next song he liked best. He turned the page and enthusiastically started singing the second song. This made me nervous. I noticed he had about a hundred songs in that notebook and at the rate we were going I’d be there for days.
He reminded me of me—so excited and passionate about his music.
The second song, too, had a lot wrong with it—and I told him so. Again, with the third. But instead of being upset, he got more excited with each criticism, asking me if I had time for another—and another—and another. His enthusiasm after each rejection really impressed me. Anybody who could take that much criticism and keep coming back for more had to be either crazy or one of the most special people I’d ever meet.
We finally got through his whole notebook and I had turned down every single song. But at the end I assured him that he had a wonderful talent for expressing his feelings with poetic, catchy lyrics. As for the songs, I told him that some had clever concepts but missed the point; others had good hooks, but no real story. And when there were good stories, they weren’t unique enough.