by Berry Gordy
But when I sent it to Washington to be registered, I found somebody had beaten me to it. By that time I had gotten so used to the name I wanted to at least keep the sound of it. So I dropped the last two letters of “Tammy” and added “la”—“Tamla.”
I rushed the 45s of “Come To Me” to the DJs at WJLB and WCHB, the two radio stations in town that played black music.
My history with WJLB went back many years before when they had played my Gordy Print Shop commercial. Their DJs—Bristol Bryant and Frantic Ernie Durham—began to play my record immediately.
Their competition, the newer WCHB in Inkster, Michigan, owned by Dr. and Mrs. Haley Bell, was one of the few black-owned stations in the country. Though only a daytime station with a small signal, it quickly became the #1 black programming station for the time it was on the air. Joltin’ Joe Howard, Long Lean Larry Dean and Larry Dixon, the DJs there, all started wailing on “Come To Me.”
In just a few days I had cut a record, pressed it and got it on the air. “Come To Me” was a hit and people were calling and telling me so. But I had no time to revel in any glory. Now I was a man on the move just like Jackie was that day at Loucye’s when I told him about “Reet Petite” being such a hit.
I had to quickly figure out what to do next. I had no money. I had originally figured since it only cost ten cents to press a record and it sold for almost a dollar in the stores, this was definitely the business for me. But I hadn’t thought about the fact that the distributor only paid the record company (me) about thirty cents for the record, sold it to the stores for about sixty cents, who then sold it to the public for close to a dollar.
Then I got a call from Frantic Ernie Durham telling me United Artists wanted to buy the master and distribute it nationally. I hopped a plane to New York and made a deal, signing Marv to a long-term contract, with me producing the masters for them.
Because of the many soundtracks they had released from their films, United Artists was known as an album company. But when “Come To Me” took off nationally, they had their first big single hit. No longer considered just a hit songwriter, I was a hit producer as well.
Now, when I went to their headquarters in New York, I was greeted by smiling faces who buzzed me into the inner offices before I could close the lobby door behind me.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gordy.” “How are you, Mr. Gordy?” “Can I get you something, Mr. Gordy?” “Right this way, Mr. Gordy.” I was king.
I loved the way the executives rushed me to the different departments to show me how well the record was doing in all parts of the country.
Soon I signed a second artist to UA, Eddie Holland, after writing and producing a song on him called “Merry-Go-Round.” Now I had two acts on United Artists. I was on a roll.
Writing songs came easy to me, but in the case of Marv Johnson’s second record for UA, “I’m Coming Home,” maybe a little too easy. It didn’t sell. Eddie’s sales on “Merry-Go-Round” were also less than expected. But I wasn’t worried. I knew I’d make up for them later.
Earlier, when Ray suggested I move my operation from Gwen’s to her place, it seemed like a good idea. She had a three-year-old son and a three-room apartment on Blaine Street. It would be quiet, I could work around the clock. It would be strictly business—a platonic relationship.
I accepted.
There was one bed.
The first night we slept on opposite ends—with a lot of clothes on and a big space in the middle. As time went on that space got smaller and smaller. Soon it had vanished and so had our clothes.
With Ray at my side, helping me however she could, my operation continued to grow. Before long we needed more space and moved to a larger apartment on Gladstone Street. One day Smokey hurried in.
“I know you’re really gonna like this one,” he said, handing me a lyric sheet that read: “She’s not a bad girl, because she made me see how love could be, but she’s a bad girl because she wants to be free. She’s not a bad girl to look at, finer than fine. Said she was mine, but she’s a bad girl because it was only a line.”
The minute he started singing it, I knew what I was hearing was in a class by itself. So simple, so clear, so pure, yet so clever. All I could think about was how happy I was that I had met this young genius.
Then, while singing the bridge, he stopped. “I’m having trouble with this part. I need your help.”
Before when Smokey had come to me with songs, though I enjoyed working with him, it was still work. Now, all of a sudden, I felt honored.
Jumping on the piano bench I helped him with some chords and ideas in keeping with the simplicity and integrity of what he had written before. I was crazy about the melody of “Bad Girl,” but I loved the lyrics and the concept even more. That was the first time I could feel his true brilliance as a poetic storyteller.
“What a great song we wrote,” Smokey said.
“We wrote? You wrote. I just helped. It’s your song.”
“Oh no. We wrote it together,” Smokey insisted.
Less than a week later I managed to get “Bad Girl” recorded at United Sound by working a special deal with Joe Syracuse. Not only the main engineer, he was also the owner’s son and was able to let us record there in the middle of the night, when nobody else was using the studio. That gave me a chance to cut several songs at a lesser rate.
The record came out so great I decided to use it to launch another label. The Tamla name was commercial enough but had been more of a gimmick. Now I wanted something that meant more to me, something that would capture the feeling of my roots—my hometown.
Because of its thriving car industry, Detroit had long been known as the “Motor City.” In tribute to what I had always felt was the down-home quality of warm, soulful country-hearted people I grew up around, I used “town” in place of “city.” A contraction of “Motor Town” gave me the perfect name—Motown. I would later use that name to incorporate my company.
Now I had two labels. My original plan was to put out all the solo artists on the Tamla label and the groups on the new Motown label. Each label would have its own image and identity—solo artists versus groups. But this plan, like some others, turned out not to be practical.
After making test pressings of “Bad Girl,” I found—once again—I could not afford to put it out myself. Too much money had gone into cutting songs and making the masters. My second attempt at going national had failed.
I took what little cash I had, bought a plane ticket, grabbed my best masters, and headed off to New York on what turned out to be a very fateful trip.
My sister Anna, always supportive, had driven me to the airport, but just as I was walking up the steps to board the plane, I heard my name. Turning around I saw her frantically running toward me, waving a newspaper.
“Wait a minute,” she yelled, “don’t get on that plane! Today and next Monday, bad days for Sagittarians to travel.”
She’s got to be kidding.
Here I am, about to go on possibly the most important trip of my life and she has to come to me with something like this. But what if she’s right?
I knew if I didn’t go I would be dead anyway. So I smiled and waved her good-bye.
That flight was probably not much rougher than any other but every bump had me in constant panic, much more than usual. When we finally landed I was a wreck and decided that day that touching down in that airplane was the second best feeling I’d ever had.
My first stop in New York, naturally, was to be United Artists.
Walking down Seventh Avenue near the UA building, I ran into some people from Detroit. I didn’t even know them that well, but being alone in a strange town made anyone from home your instant friend. Before I knew it, I had invited them up to the company with me.
“Listen,” I said, knowing how impressed they would be, “the executives at UA would be real hurt if they found out I was in town and hadn’t given them first crack at my hot new product.”
Most people i
n Detroit had heard that no matter how big you are, you hadn’t really made it until you were big in New York. Well, I was big, and I couldn’t wait to see their faces when they saw how big.
Once upstairs in the UA outer offices, however, there was no buzzing me in, no “Mr. Gordy this, Mr. Gordy that.”
This must be a new receptionist who doesn’t know who I am. Motioning for the others to have a seat in the lobby, I moved to her quickly. “I’m Berry Gordy, the producer for Marv Johnson.”
No reaction.
“I produced ‘Come To Me’ and I’m—”
Before I could say anything more, I heard this nasal voice coming at me with “Could you spell that last name please?”
The knot in my stomach told me I was in trouble. “Gordy, G-O-R-D-Y,” I said, glancing back at my friends sitting on the couch trying hard to act oblivious. I leaned forward to the young lady and whispered, “You’re gonna be in real trouble if you don’t call the Sales Department right now and let them know I’m here.”
We locked eyes for a moment or so before she decided to make the call. While talking to someone, I saw her expression go from fear and concern to confidence and arrogance as she put the phone down. “I’m sorry, sir, they’re all busy now. You’ll just have to be patient. Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Gorney?”
I felt the full impact of the expression “you’re only as good as your last hit.” My friends and I headed for the elevator.
During the long ride down I knew I had learned something that would shape the way I would handle fame forever. Never again would I allow myself to get psyched out by the impostor of success.
Trudging up and down the streets of the big city—this time alone—I went everywhere, including the Brill Building, the place where most of the independent music companies had offices. I talked to anyone who would listen to my soon-to-be-smashes, asking cash up front. No takers.
One of my last meetings was with Sam Clark, head of ABC Paramount Records.
“Nah,” commented Sam, after listening to “Bad Girl,” “yours is not quite there but let me play you a real smash coming out next week.” He then played “Personality” by Lloyd Price.
“I really like it,” I said, trying to smile, “but mine is a hit, too. Don’t sound like that one, but still it’s a hit!”
He wished me luck.
Frustrated with that town, I jumped on a plane to Chicago—right in the middle of an electrical storm. Once in the air, it hit me. This is Monday—the other day I wasn’t supposed to fly. That plane was jumping, bumping and turning sideways.
Loud crackling noises illuminating the sky with sharp, thin flashes of light were jarring the life out of the plane—and me. I was sure the astrologer was right this time. I’d finally pressed my luck too far.
Well, miraculously, we finally landed safely. This time touchdown jumped easily to the number one spot of the greatest feelings I had ever had.
Not only that, but Leonard and Phil Chess of Chess Records in Chicago took all six of my masters, including “Bad Girl.” Not necessarily because they loved them so much but because they didn’t want anybody else to have them. Of course, I didn’t tell them that I had been turned down by everybody else.
A short while later, according to our contract, UA released my third record on Marv—“You Got What It Takes.” It was one of the songs that Roquel had originated, with Gwen and me as co-writers. And again, the message of “You only have to be yourself for me to love you” came through loud and clear: “You don’t drive a big fine car and you don’t look like a movie star. And on your money we won’t get far, but baby, you got what it takes.”
I had produced Marv’s biggest hit and, once again, I was king and in great favor. Phones jumped off the hook. I was invited everywhere. But unless I really had to go, I stayed in Detroit—taking care of business. My business.
Meanwhile, with a hit on “Bad Girl,” the Miracles were getting hotter than ever. Everybody wanted to book them, but Smokey wanted the Apollo—and he got it. It was Smokey’s dream to play where all his idols had played. But in his case, it was “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.”
I sent the group off to New York and stayed home where I needed to be, waiting anxiously to hear how the Miracles were doing. My first hint came when Frank Schiffman, the owner of the Apollo, called wanting his money back.
Smokey later filled in the gory details. First he told us they wouldn’t have even made it through rehearsal had it not been for Ray Charles. Those basic little chord sheets we always used were a joke to the house band, who refused to play them. They had expected full arrangements.
Just as the management of the Apollo was about to cancel them, Ray stepped in. “Well, you know, they’re just kids starting out. Let’s give ’em a little help.” In no time, Ray learned the songs from Smokey by ear and told the musicians how to play them.
In spite of Ray Charles’s help their performance wasn’t much better than their chord sheets; they were still bumping into each other. The audience laughed a lot, especially when Smokey tried to save the show by dancing.
Gwen and Anna were quick to tell me, as they often did, that this kind of thing wouldn’t happen if we had an artist development department. But I gave them my usual response: “I don’t give a damn about none of that stuff. All I care about is getting hit records.”
My relationship with Ray continued to grow on many levels. I saw in her the ultimate mother, a quality she had illustrated with her son, Cliff, and continued to show with our son, Kerry, who was born on June 25, 1959.
The divorce from my first wife was just now becoming final. I, not unlike the up-and-coming stars, was also enjoying the female attention I was getting. Although Ray seemed to understand, she didn’t hesitate to bring up the topic of marriage every now and then. I was in no rush.
The thing I was thinking about most was the fact that the Gladstone Street apartment had become too crowded. I had sent everyone out looking for a larger place, but it was Ray who found the one I liked, a two-story house at 2648 West Grand Boulevard with a big picture window in the front and a photography studio in the back. Perfect for my growing operation. I put a down payment on it and we moved in.
A couple of weeks later, George Kelly, the local club owner who had earlier hired Roquel and me to work with his singer, Frances Burnett, came by to check things out. The two of us stood out on the sidewalk, looking back at the building.
“What are you going to call it?” he asked. This was something I’d been thinking hard about, wanting to come up with the perfect name. Standing there looking at that unique picture window, I came up with it.
“Hitsville,” I proclaimed.
He laughed. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m serious. That’s the only name I can think of that expresses what I want it to be—a hip name for a factory where hits are going to be built. That’s it, Hitsville.”
Mother had always asked me if I wanted to be a big fish in a little pond or a little fish in a big pond. I didn’t know. But it so happened that the very nature of what I had been doing locked me into the big fish, little pond concept. Over the past few years, my pond had grown—from Gwen’s house, to Loucye’s, to Ray’s, to Gladstone and now Hitsville.
Thanks to my brief training in electronics school, where I had gone on the GI Bill, I was able to set up a two-track recorder that I bought from Bristol Bryant. Mother was right again—“Whatever you learn is never wasted.” And again, my family was right there with me, pitching in. While I set up the microphones and strung wires to assemble my first mixing board, Pop and my brother George handled the plastering, sealing of cracks and installation of soundproofing material.
The house needed a major top-to-bottom scrubbing and repainting, and many of the artists and creative people I was working with came to help.
In no time at all that house at 2648 West Grand Boulevard took on a whole new life. From a photo studio, the garage was turned into a recording studio,
the first floor became the lobby and the control room. Between the basement and first and second floors we had to cram everything in, including living quarters for me, Ray, Kerry, and Cliff.
Down in the studio, finishing up our work, surrounded by all this activity there was Pop, finding an opportunity to give me advice: “Well, just remember, son, a smart man profits from his mistakes.”
Now that I was my own boss I could add my own variations to my father’s philosophies. “But a wise man,” I said, “also profits from the mistakes of others.” I told him if I had to make all my own mistakes I would not live long enough to do half the things I wanted to do in my lifetime.
Pop chuckled just as Ray came buzzing in with her arms full of a heavy velvet material. “Will this kind of stuff do?” she asked.
“It definitely will,” I told her.
Only that morning I mentioned that I needed something we could use for soundproofing and here she was—with pieces of theater curtains. A real busybody who never sat still, Ray had this wonderful ability to not only get things done but to also be right there ready to go when I needed anything.
The white lady who had sold me the house came around a few times making repairs—fixing little things, painting, trying to keep it up. She had gotten it back twice before in foreclosures. And with no credit rating and no visible means of support, and her seeing young black kids running in and out and making all that noise, she was certain it would soon be hers again.
I don’t think she realized that we were there to stay until one day she came by and saw the place looking better than ever. And above the big picture window, stretching from door to door, were big beautiful letters spelling out “HITSVILLE USA.”