by Berry Gordy
“Other than that, I liked ’em.” I laughed.
He laughed louder.
That’s how it all started between Smokey and me. Our relationship was simple. I wanted to teach, he wanted to learn. He started bringing me songs on a regular basis. I continued to turn them down just as regularly, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d come to me with something I’d really like.
That day arrived in January of 1958 when he found me in a Pearl Music office with Roquel. Smokey burst into the room bubbling with excitement.
“Berry,” he said, “man, I got to see you now. Can we go somewhere?”
For him to break into my meeting like that, I knew it was something. I had never seen him so excited.
Once out in the hallway Smokey started frantically looking for someplace to go.
“In there,” I said, pointing to an empty room nearby.
Rushing in, quickly closing the door behind us, he looked around to make sure we were alone, like a person who had stolen something.
Then he whispered, “I got it, man! I really got it this time!”
Staring at him suspiciously I nodded okay.
Then, closing his eyes, and in a slow, melodic tone, he started singing, “Walked all day ’til my feet were tired. I was low, I just couldn’t get hired.” In the quietness of that room his voice sounded clearer and purer than ever—almost like a prayer. “Saw a sign in a grocery store, help is slight and we need some more. I got a job! sha da da da, sha da da da da da da.”
Smokey was singing all the parts. Coming from that high tenorish voice to singing the low, low, bass on “I got a job,” then picking up the tempo to a heavy, faster rhythm, singing the group’s part, “sha da da da, sha da da da da da…” He had finally come through—an answer song to the #1 record in the country, the Silhouettes’ “Get A Job.”
“Stop, stop, I love it!” I shouted.
Stopping he said, “Wait, there’s a lot more.”
“Oh, I know that, but I love it now,” I said, “and I got to tell you now, because I may not love it when you get to the end.”
Beaming, he continued—and continued—and continued—for about ten minutes.
I was glad I had stopped him up front. “Well, I still love it,” I told him, “but it’s way too long, needs work but it’s definitely a hit.”
For the next couple of weeks I worked on the song with Smokey, editing it down to a little over three minutes. Making a deal with George Goldner to put it out on his End label, I hustled the group into Loucye’s basement where we rehearsed with local piano player Joe Hunter and his small band. We learned it so well that when we went into United Sound Studios to record it, Joe Syracuse, the engineer, had no trouble capturing the sound and feeling of the band and the group. We recorded two tunes that day—“Got A Job” and “My Mama Done Told Me,” one of the songs I had liked the first time I saw them in Nat’s office.
I suggested they change the name from the Matadors to something different since they had a girl in the group. They all placed names in a hat and Smokey’s choice—the Miracles—was pulled. To make things even more special for Smokey, their record was released on his eighteenth birthday, February 19, 1958.
PROTECTING MY LOVE
Singers were beginning to come to me and Roquel from everywhere, hoping to find the same kind of hits we had given Jackie. The young singer I used to make some of my demo tapes for Jackie Wilson was a kid named Eddie Holland. He introduced me to his younger brother, Brian. The Holland brothers were both talented, good-looking guys. Eddie’s tenor voice was so powerful and clear, I felt he could be a solo star on his own. His look-alike brother had the same type of voice, but mellower. With his feel for music and sensitivity in the studio, Brian had great instincts for producing and quickly became a protégé of mine. I recognized in him the same kind of potential I saw in Smokey.
Roquel and I were putting together a stable of artists to do our songs. Brian was in one of our groups called the Satintones. Robert Bateman, another future writer/producer, was also a member. The Five Stars and the Voicemasters were other groups I worked with. Among these groups and single artists, some of the individual names at varying times included Walter Gaines, Henry Dixon, Crathman Spencer, Ty Hunter, Lamont Dozier, David Ruffin and Melvin Franklin—names that would later be part of the Originals, Holland-Dozier-Holland and the Temptations. In addition to the groups, I had been working with Singin’ Sammy Ward, a phenomenal talent who could really belt the Blues, and Mable John, the sister of Blues singer Little Willie John. Mable not only had a big voice but a big heart. She hung with us a lot, often driving me around when I didn’t have a car of my own.
Whenever I could scrape the money together, I’d book studio time at United Sound. I always had to work fast. One particular night Smokey, Singin’ Sammy Ward and Mable were all there with material to record. For weeks I’d promised my brother Robert I’d record a song he’d written called “Everyone Was There,” a catchy tune with clever lyrics that incorporated titles and lyrics from the biggest Pop songs of the day.
I told him that if time allowed I would have one of the artists cut his song. At the end of the session we had about twenty minutes left. Nobody wanted to cut his “white-sounding” song. I told him he had twenty minutes to do what he wanted. In a panic he got the band together, got behind the mike and sang his heart out:
I thought those “Yakkety Yak’ing” “Western Movies”
made a “Hard-headed Woman” out of you—hoo—hoo.
You—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo
Elvis was “Secretly” on the scene.
His “Hound Dog” thought “Bony Maronie” was queen.
Everyone was there, everyone but you.
Oh “Lonesome me,” then I met The
Pretty “Peggy Sue”—hoo—hoo
Sue—Hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo.
As always, Robert proved himself to be a “natural” in the studio, as he was at anything he undertook. Just walking down the street one day he noticed a place where they were having a bridge contest, walked in, sat down, and won first place—and a brand-new car. I never even knew he could play bridge. Later, as more and more of us got into playing golf, Robert was so good he had to play below his ability in order to find someone to play with.
We got a deal to release “Everyone Was There” on Carlton Records. Robert chose Bob Kayli as his stage name. The record was a smash. Then the company sent him out to promote it through live performances. He rehearsed and rehearsed before leaving, and I thought he was pretty good. But after he performed in two or three cities, the record dropped off in those cities only.
“Bobby,” I told him, “you’ve got to work on your act. You must be dying out there.”
“No,” he said, “my act is great.”
A week later when he appeared on the big Dick Clark Saturday night TV show, I got a chance to check him out for myself. And Bobby was right—he was great. But after the broadcast the record died altogether. The problem then became clear: people were shocked. This white-sounding record did not go with his black face. Bob Kayli was history.
When that happened I realized this was not just about good or bad records, this was about race.
In the music business there had long been the distinction between black and white music, the assumption being that R&B was black and Pop was white. But with Rock ’n’ Roll and the explosion of Elvis those clear distinctions began to get fuzzy. Elvis was a white artist who sang black music. What was it? (a) R&B, (b) Country, (c) Pop, (d) Rock ’n’ Roll or (e) none of the above.
If you picked C you were right, that is, if the record sold a million copies. “Pop” means popular and if that ain’t, I don’t know what is. I never gave a damn what else it was called.
When I started writing another song for Jackie, I decided to do something different. Convinced he could do anything, I created a story about a guy crying, begging a lost love to come back. I started with “My eyes are crying lonely tea
rdrops…” I liked it but not exactly. Too common. I changed “My eyes are crying…” to “My heart is crying…” I liked it.
Jackie’s producer, Dick Jacobs, a respected New York arranger, heard the demo and sent for me. He wanted to be sure to capture that same feeling. I was being called to New York to help Dick Jacobs—wow!
A few days later I was in the Big Apple, New York City! It was my first trip there. I remember lying in my hotel room bed thinking how wonderful it was to be a songwriter.
The next morning I found myself standing in the middle of this huge, modern studio with Dick and all the musicians. The give-and-take between Dick and me was wonderful. Together, we worked out the tempo to his great calypso-type arrangement without losing the feel and drama. Everybody in sync: the horns, the strings, the flutes, the bells. And a harp. All this music over the speakers surrounding me felt like I was in a concert hall. Hearing the background voices on “Shoo-be-do-bop, bop, bop…” and then the sound of Jackie’s powerful voice clean as a whistle made it sound like a finished record right there in the studio.
I knew that was the way great records should be made and I became a fanatic about getting that kind of sound quality—an experience that would come back to haunt me.
Though Jackie went on to get more hits on several of our songs, “Lonely Teardrops” was the biggest. But despite the success of these songs, Roquel, Gwen and I had little to show for it financially. They paid us all right. But only for the A side of the record, our song, the song that people heard on the radio and asked for in the stores. By the time we split our money three ways we had trouble surviving. We noticed on the other side of the record, the B side, our tunes were never used. Instead, Nat would use songs written by others—usually his aunt—who would get a free ride, making the same amount of money we did.
We agreed that Roquel, the businessman, would be the one to talk to Nat about us getting the B side on some of the records. But Nat was elusive. Roquel could never seem to pin him down.
One day when Nat and I were alone in the office it just jumped out of me.
Nat was shocked. “You want the B side, is that what you’re saying to me?”
“Well, uh, yeah.”
“Or… or what?” he said in a taunting way.
“Or we can’t write for Jackie anymore,” I heard myself blurt out.
“Jackie is a star. You need him—he doesn’t need you,” Nat said, dismissing me completely.
A dilemma. On the one hand, Jackie was the star; I did need him. But, then again, I felt he needed our songs, too. I had sometimes felt like Cyrano de Bergerac, knowing that my words and feelings had gone into the love songs that Jackie sang to seduce all those women who wouldn’t give me a second thought.
I turned around at his door before leaving.
“I just want you to know, we really won’t be writing for Jackie anymore,” I said.
“That’s up to you,” Nat said as I left to tell Jackie about it, hoping he might be able to alter the situation.
His bottom line, he told me, was although he loved me and my songs, he couldn’t go against his manager.
And so, after five consecutive hits we and Jackie parted ways.
Gwen and Roquel were not at all happy about the results of my meeting with Nat, but in a matter of days they had rebounded, buzzing over Gwen’s idea that we should start a record company of our own. She even had a name—Anna Records—after our sister.
Another dilemma. I loved Gwen and didn’t want to turn her down. But partnership in a business? No way. I had learned a lesson back in the record store with George. My only problem was telling them. Each day, with my not saying anything, it got worse. They had now made a deal with Chess to distribute Anna Records nationally. They were getting happier and happier that we’d be in business together for ourselves. At the same time I kept implying that I didn’t want to be in business with anybody. Gwen knew I was reluctant but felt she could make me feel more comfortable.
“Berry, we want you to be president,” she said one day, trying to tie up loose ends to their well-thought-out plans.
Unable to look directly at her, my eyes on the floor, I said, “President? Oh, wow, that’s really wonderful but… you see, I’m… I just want to write and think and kind of be by myself and try… I have some other ideas and thoughts and I want to perfect my writing…” I was stumbling like mad, trying to find the right words—anything other than, “I don’t want partners.”
After a period of silence and disbelief Roquel spoke. “This is a chance of a lifetime. Chess is going to distribute our records. We can only win with this situation. Our own record company. Don’t you understand? It’s great!”
Finally, the only thing I could think to say was the truth; “I really would be happier just being by myself. I wouldn’t be happy with partners.” Thinking the deal they made with Chess might have hinged on my being part of it, I promised that I would help in any way I could—including writing and producing for them. And I told them they could let Chess know that.
“Baby,” Gwen said, “we understand. You’ve got to do what makes you happy.”
“Thanks.”
We had taken separate paths and for the first time I was really, really on my own and really, really happy.
Like many artists who’d been referred to me, two sisters came to audition one day at Loucye’s, hoping to get a shot at recording. Raynoma Liles, an exciting, light-skinned, fast-talking ninety-eight-pounder, and her younger sister, Alice, were a nice-looking duo. Sensing their singing hadn’t knocked me out, Raynoma was quick to shift my attention to her other qualities. She told me she could arrange and write sheet music.
“Oh,” she added, “and I have perfect pitch.”
“Perfect pitch! You got perfect pitch?”
“Oh, of course,” she said.
I had never met anyone with perfect pitch before. I knew a lot of people with relative pitch. I was one of them. Relative pitch is when you hear a note on a piano, tuning fork or whatever. And you can, using that note as a base, identify other notes. Perfect pitch, however, is when you don’t have to hear anything for reference and you can pick the note right out of the air.
I immediately started banging a lot of notes on the piano to throw off any sound references she might have had. Walking to the other side of the room I said, “Uh, Raynoma, would you sing me a C please?”
“High or low?” she asked.
That tickled me. “High will be fine, thank you.”
She put her hand on her forehead, closed her eyes, bit her lip, all the while slightly bobbing her head as if counting intervals or something. Everything was silent. The pain of anticipation on Alice’s face added to the tension. Ray—as I called her from that day on—then came out with a soft, but shrill very high-pitched sound.
I slowly walked back over to the piano looking at their faces. Alice was nervous, Ray confident. I stabbed a high C with my finger. Amazing. Both sounds were exactly the same. “Incredible! That’s incredible.”
Now I had a problem. I didn’t like their singing voices well enough to record, but I liked them. I particularly liked Ray’s attitude and energy. When I told them I couldn’t record them “at this time,” Ray said she understood and asked if they could visit our rehearsals sometime. I said okay.
The very next day Ray was back at Loucye’s, bouncing around, helping me in every way she could. She figured out what I needed and got it for me, even before I asked. Soon she was writing out little lead sheets, chord arrangements and helping with background singing. She made life easier for me. I liked it, and before long I was used to it.
I later had Ray put together a backup vocal group using some of our singers who were around. When it came to a name, since I loved contractions, I decided to call them the Rayber Voices—standing for Ray and Berry. The singers were Ray, Brian Holland, Robert Bateman, Sonny Sanders and, later, Gwendolyn Murray.
Once Anna Records got going, Gwen and Roquel rented the space downstairs
that used to be my record store, and I moved my operation back over to Gwen’s.
By this time I had fallen into the role of an artists’ manager. It really began with the release of “Got A Job.” Though it didn’t chart high nationally, within a few weeks it had become one of the hottest records in Detroit and everyone was asking for the Miracles. They became local stars overnight. Preparing for that first live appearance we began rehearsing like crazy.
Their first show was at the Gold Coast Theater on 12th Street, where most of the top local acts played. Some were killer performers like Andre Williams, Gino Parks, Johnnie Mae Mathews, and Nolan Strong and the Diablos. Andre had had a big local hit called “Bacon Fat” and was the headliner that week.
Figuring we now had the hottest new record in town, and rehearsing as hard as we had, I knew the Miracles would jump on that show and tear it up.
It’s funny how wrong you can be. They got killed. Or better stated, they killed themselves. They couldn’t even get on or off the stage without bumping and stumbling over each other, let alone know what to say and do between songs. After the show it was major depression time for all of us.
I told them as long as they had hit records people would come to see them anyway. And if I kept throwing them on stage they would have to get better eventually. I took my management role seriously, taking them everywhere to perform. It didn’t matter to me how much money we made, I knew the more they worked the more they would learn.
One night at a small, dingy club in Pontiac, Michigan, the Miracles were up on top of the bar lip-synching along with their record, “Got A Job,” when suddenly a brawl broke out. All around us bottles were crashing and chairs flying. They were trapped. I ran to the end of the bar, motioning them toward some narrow steps. We made a mad dash for Smokey’s car.
There was a lot of nervous talking as we drove off. Sitting in the front with Smokey and Claudette I heard voices in the back say, “Why were we booked into a joint like that anyway? We could have been killed. It’s not worth it.”
“Besides,” another said, “we ain’t got no uniforms, and we supposed to be stars. Isn’t that what a manager is for?”