by Berry Gordy
MONEY
My privacy began to disappear as more people became drawn to what I was doing. Besides aspiring artists, writers and producers who had started hanging around, others who had business skills were also looking for ways to get involved.
Upstairs, in a bedroom-turned-bookkeeping-office, my sister Esther ran a tight ship handling the money matters, helped by her husband, George Edwards, a Michigan state representative and an accountant.
In another upstairs office my sister Loucye, who left her government job with the Army Reserves, set up her area. It wasn’t much then, but would soon be what was loosely called the Manufacturing Department. She would handle everything from the pressing plants, shipping, billing and collections, to sales, graphics and liner notes for the album covers. A real dynamo!
Downstairs Ray had her own office area. Because of her knowledge of music and lead sheets, I put her in charge of the publishing operation, where she got tremendous help from her brother, Mike Ossman, and Janie Bradford, our first receptionist.
Janie Bradford was something else. While she was hardworking and capable, she never lost her demented sense of fun. One July day in ’59 I was walking through the lobby on my way to the studio, studying a lyric sheet, when I felt someone pinching my butt.
One of her favorite things to do was sneak up behind me and do that. It never mattered to her who I was talking to at the time. As I’d jump and look around, there she’d be, smiling as if nothing happened. Then she’d whisper, “Just couldn’t help it. You’re sooo special.”
I sort of bought that special line until later I found out Brian, Smokey and a few others were “special,” too.
When she did it that day, I jumped a little but seeing who it was I kept walking. From my attitude, she could see I was in no mood for talking—or being pinched.
She caught up with me again. “Mr. Gordy,” I heard her say cheerfully, “I’m sorry but I couldn’t help it, you are just—”
“Unh, unh,” I said, cutting her off. “I’m trying to finish a song.”
Janie, a songwriter herself, was interested in any song I might be writing. “Oh yeah? That’s great! What’s it about?”
Magic words. I was always a sucker when someone really wanted to hear my new song ideas. It was a throwback to my youthful days when people saw me coming and would go the other way. “Well,” I began, “it’s a long story.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “I got plenty of time.”
“Okay. A couple days ago while walking down the street I decided to write a song. So I asked myself the same question I always do whenever I start a new song. What am I really feeling right now?” I told her I was having a mixed bag of emotions: anticipation, exhilaration, motivation. I was thinking about what most other hit songs were written about—love! “Yeah, love,” I said, “the most beautiful thing in the world.”
“You sho’ ain’t lying there, baby. That’s great,” she shouted.
“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t want to write about that. Everybody writes about love. I wanted to write about something different. But what? Then it popped into my head, the most obvious thing of all, the thing I needed most—money. And I’m almost finished. Got one more verse to go.”
“But won’t people think that’s all you care about?” Janie said.
“So what? Some will be shocked, some will think it’s cute, some will think it’s funny. I think I’ll make money. What do you think?”
“How’s it go?”
By this time we had reached the studio. Standing at the piano, I began to play some of the chords to my song, telling her how as a kid I’d heard people say, “The best things in life are free,” but knowing how much easier that was to say when you had money I sarcastically added, “But you can give them to the birds and bees, I need money…”
She laughed.
I loved the fact that she laughed so I rushed into the next verse singing the song as I played—“Money don’t get everything it’s true, but what it don’t get I can’t use, I need money.”
She laughed again.
Then I really got into it, singing the chorus—“Money, that’s what I want. Yeah, yeah, that’s what I want…”
Janie was ecstatic. Still laughing, she offhandedly threw in her own line—“Your love gives me such a thrill, but your love don’t pay my bills, gimme some money, baby.”
“Great! That’s great,” I said, continuing to jam on the chorus line. “I’m gonna use that.”
Barrett Strong, an artist I had started working with, who was writing a song in another room, ran into the studio and started jamming along with us. He slid next to me on the piano bench, playing away and joining me singing the chorus—uninvited. This was uncharacteristic of Barrett, who always seemed quiet, shy and a little in awe of me. But not this day. His voice was soulful and passionate. I didn’t have to think twice about who I could get to sing my song. Barrett was it.
Janie didn’t realize I was serious about using the line she had just blurted out spontaneously in a moment of fun. She was more convinced when she saw the songwriter’s contract. Thinking her verse was the best of all, I gave her fifty percent.
“Money (That’s What I Want)” was one of the first records cut at our own little studio. It was less like any record session I can remember. More like an in-house rehearsal—a party. One long party. It lasted a few days. We took take after take. Fun. I no longer had to worry about the cost of the studio. I owned it.
Being one of the earlier sessions, we recorded everything together, the singer, the band and the background voices. That gave it a raw, earthy feel.
Early into rehearsals I was in the middle of the room, jumping up and down, a directing fool, arranging as I went along. I had Barrett kick it off with that funky piano riff. And before I had a chance to point to anybody, I believe it was Brian Holland who jumped in, picking up the beat with a groovy tambourine.
Right before the first verse came in, I remember jerking my hands wide cutting off the piano and tambourine and pointing to the drummer, a guy by the name of Benny Benjamin. Wanting something different, I settled for a vision of Indians dancing around a teepee and had him do a heavy tom-tom beat.
By the time we got to some of those last takes, I had worked everybody into a frenzy—me gesturing wildly, Benny’s sticks flying, Barrett screaming, “The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees…” and the Rayber Voices jumping in on the chorus with “Money, that’s what I want.”
It felt good. It felt real good.
This time nothing was going to stop me from having a national release on my own label. “Money” became Tamla 54027. I purposely used a large number so people would not know how young my label was.
After I put the record out in Detroit, I sent it to the Washington-Baltimore and the Cleveland-Cincinnati areas. I had planned on spreading it from there. But orders came in so fast from Schwartz Brothers in Washington, D.C., and Cosnat distributors in Cleveland, there was no way I could afford to press enough records to send them around the rest of the country.
Gwen had a suggestion. Since Anna Records had national distribution through Chess, why not put “Money” on her label?
I liked the idea—a good opportunity to fulfill my promise to her and Roquel to help them in any way I could. A win-win situation I thought.
But by early 1960, I discovered that I had made more money from those three areas where I was working directly with the independent distributors than I did from the entire rest of the country. The distributors had to pay Chess, Chess had to pay Anna Records, and then Anna paid me. I was the furthest away from the money. By the time it trickled down, I got less from the whole country than I got from the three areas that were paying me directly.
On my next record I knew I had to go for it by myself—national all the way.
RATS, ROACHES, SOUL, GUTS AND LOVE
William “Mickey” Stevenson showed up at Hitsville for an audition one day with an official-looking briefcase and
a big, easy grin.
Sharply dressed, hip, fast-talking, Mickey was street, much more street than I was. I could see he was definitely an Eastside graduate while I was still sort of that Westside boy at heart. I liked him a lot. Then he sang a song. I liked him less.
“Your singing is okay,” I said, “but I just don’t need another singer right now. What I really need is an A&R director. Can you do that?”
“Do a bear shit in the woods?” he said.
I didn’t think he knew what an A&R man was—I wasn’t so sure myself—but I knew he could do it. All I knew was it stood for Artists and Repertoire and that every record company had one. And I could see Mickey was a guy with a kind of talent that I wanted. He was a throwback to my childhood—that numbers guy—that hustler—that kid who was the best at playing the Dozens, all rolled up into one. He had the job. Now he had to figure out what the job was.
It turned out that while A&R director might mean something different at other record companies, at ours it meant somebody in charge of all the creative activities of producing a record.
It was really with Mickey that I began something that was unique to my management style, building the structure around the person rather than fitting the person into the structure. People over structure would continue to dominate throughout the years.
Right at the start, he went on the lookout for great musicians, combing even the seediest of bars and hangouts. If they could play, Mickey would bring ’em in, putting together the greatest house band that anyone could ever want. They called themselves the Funk Brothers.
Probably the two musicians who were the key for me in this loosely organized group were Benny Benjamin on drums and James Jamerson on bass. The other two members that made up the core of the Funk Brothers were Earl Van Dyke (on piano) and Robert White (on guitar). Others included from time to time Joe Hunter (piano), Eddie Willis (guitar), Johnny Griffith (piano), Joe Messina and David Hamilton (guitar), drummers Uriel Jones and Richard “Pistol” Allen, and percussionists Eddie “Bongo” Brown, Jack Ashford, and Jack Brokensha. Our saxophonist/flute player extraordinaire was Thomas “Beans” Bowles—nicknamed “Beans” for being tall and thin like a stringbean. I had first spotted him at the Flame Show Bar, playing in Maurice King’s band, and used him on the “Come To Me” session. Maurice King also joined Motown, where he wore many hats.
Whenever a new player came into the group the sound would change slightly, based on his style.
Artists sang background on each other’s sessions, or played the tambourine or clapped their hands; any employee who could carry a tune or keep a beat was used.
Each person—whether directly in the creative process or behind the scenes—somehow affected the mix.
The love we felt for each other when we were playing is the most undisputed truth about our music. I sometimes referred to our sound as a combination of rats, roaches, soul, guts and love.
On my sessions we’d work from handwritten chord sheets. The “feel” was usually the first thing I’d go for. After locking in the drumbeat, I’d hum a line for each musician to start. Once we got going, we’d usually ad lib all over the place until we got the groove I wanted. Many of these guys came from a Jazz background. I understood their instincts to turn things around to their liking, but I also knew what I wanted to hear—commercially. So when they went too far, I’d stop them and stress, “We gotta get back to the funk—stay in that groove.” Then I’d make it as plain as possible: I would extend my arms a certain distance apart, saying, “I want to stay between here and there. Do whatever you want but stay in this range—in the pocket.” But between “here and there” they did all kinds of stuff—always pushing me to the limit and beyond. Especially Jamerson.
James Jamerson was a genius on the bass. He was an incredible improviser in the studio and someone I always wanted on my sessions. He’d get a simple chord sheet and build his own bass line so intricately it was hard to duplicate. Even he had trouble. That was great for the record, but when he stayed in Detroit and other musicians went out on the road to play the song live, they’d go crazy trying to play his lines. Some of the stuff he did on the bass, people are still trying to figure out today.
Another musician I had to have on all my sessions was Benny Benjamin. He was so good on the drums and had a feel no one could match. He had a distinctive knack for executing various rhythms all at the same time. He had a pulse, a steadiness that kept the tempo better than a metronome. Benny was my man.
Sometimes when Benny didn’t show, Mickey would have to find him, root him out of some dive or somebody’s house, and get him to the session, even propping him up if he wasn’t sober. But once Benny had those sticks in his hands, drunk or sober, he was the best.
At the beginning we did our sound engineering with the existing equipment—the little two-track I had bought from Bristol Bryant. Then I hired a young technical genius named Mike McLean. He slowly rebuilt our equipment, creating as he went along. Very worried about how “his” equipment was going to be used, he made all the producers and engineers take classes from him on how to operate it—including me.
I was never really happy with our studio sound. But as it turned out, its many limitations forced us to be innovative. For example, having no room in the studio for a vocal booth, we made one out of the hallway that led from the control room to the stairs that took you into the studio. Since there were no windows we couldn’t see the singer, so we communicated only over the microphones. But the end result was a good, clean vocal.
Our first echo chamber was the downstairs bathroom. We had to post a guard outside the door to make sure no one flushed the toilet while we were recording.
Later we also adapted an attic area as an echo chamber. That worked very well, except for an occasional car horn, rain, thunder or any other outside sounds that came in through the roof. Eventually we started recording the songs dry and adding echo afterward. Echoes gave the recording a bigger sound and made the voice sound fatter with a lingering feel to it. We bought a German electronic echo chamber, called an EMT, which we installed in the basement. That worked the best of all.
We put partitions around the different instruments to keep the horn sounds from bleeding into the bass, or the drums into the piano, and so on.
To get a clean, clear sound on the guitars, without any hum or feedback from the amps, we started feeding the guitars directly into the control room. (Several years later we brought in Armin Steiner from the West Coast to rebuild and modernize our studio.)
Long before there were electronic synthesizers, I was looking for new ways to create different sound effects. We would try anything to get a unique percussion sound: two blocks of wood slapped together, striking little mallets on glass ashtrays, shaking jars of dried peas—anything. I might see a producer dragging in big bike chains or getting a whole group of people stomping on the floor.
Never having forgotten that big orchestral sound from the Jackie Wilson “Lonely Teardrops” session, I tried to re-create it in our own studio, often bringing in string players from the Detroit Symphony. At first they had no idea what to make of me or how their music would fit into ours. But in time they became an integral part of the Motown family and our sound.
Another regular aspect of our early productions was the background voices of the Andantes—Judith Barrow, Louvain Demps, Jacqueline Hicks—another backup group.
Since many producers, myself included, lacked a lot of formal music education, when it came time to merge all these different elements, we sometimes looked for help from some of our arrangers. In the process, the talents of such people as Johnny Allen, Willie Shorter, Paul Riser and Hank Cosby would also leave a distinctive mark on our music.
Mixing was so important to me that it seemed I spent half my life at the mixing board. To get just the right sound, just the right blend, I would mix and mix and then remix. Smokey and I had a running joke over what a mix maniac I was.
Often the differences between the various mixes
were subtle; but those subtleties, I felt, could make or break a record.
Whether I was cutting a record, mixing it or listening to someone else’s, I was open to just about anything.
I may not have always known what I was looking for exactly, but when I found it I knew it. While open to a broad range of influences—Gospel, Pop, Rhythm & Blues, Jazz, Doo-Wop, Country—I always emphasized simple, clear communication.
And that’s exactly what I got one day as I was heading into the studio to record a follow-up record on Barrett Strong. Ray walked up behind me and in her regular, peppy, high-pitched enthusiastic way, she communicated to me very simply: “Oh, Berry, we’re getting married next week on Thursday.”
“Terrific, yeah sure,” I mumbled, knowing she could not be serious.
The next day Ray mentioned “it” again. We were walking into a small room where Brian Holland was banging away on an upright, when she whispered, “Don’t forget, next Thursday.”
That bothered me. After that the days shot by like rockets. “Don’t forget we’re getting married in three days.” “Two days, I just want to remind you.”
The next thing I knew Robert Bateman was driving us to Toledo, Ohio, around sixty miles from Detroit. We were crammed in the car with both sets of parents. Hers were smiling all over the place. Mother and Pop were happy, too. I felt more pressured than I could remember.
On the way Ray talked constantly, fast, keeping everyone excited, and trying to keep my mind off what she knew I was thinking. Going nonstop for eighteen, twenty hours a day for months, I hadn’t had time to stop and listen to my feelings.
Looking up I saw a sign: Toledo 30 miles. My heart was pounding, my stomach aching. I don’t want to go through with this, but I should have said something when we were fifty miles out.
I was quiet on the outside, but inside, voices were screaming at me: “Are you a man or a mouse? Speak now, or forever hold your peace! You’re on the move, why get tied down now? There’s always tomorrow.” And another voice: “She’s such a devoted woman. Marriage would mean so much to her. You have a son together—and you do love her.”