To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  Off in the distance I saw a sign moving toward me at breakneck speed: Toledo 15 miles.

  “This is your life and you only have one. You better be true to yourself.” As we got to the edge of the city limits one of the voices drowning out all the others kept repeating: “I’m not getting married, I’m not getting married, I’m not getting married.”

  Finally I said, in what I thought was a quiet mumble amidst the chatter around me, “I’m not getting married,” only to hear it resound through that car as if it had been blared through an amplifier.

  Silence! Everybody seemed frozen. I was shocked as well, but happy I had broken the ice. Now I could talk about it. “I really don’t think I should get married,” I tried to explain. “I just don’t think it’s right. I only knew about this a week ago and it just doesn’t feel right to me, and I think it’s better I say it now. I know I should have said it before but… I wasn’t too sure. I had no time to think. I mean…”

  I waited for a response from somebody. Nothing. In a low voice I said, “Robert, you might as well turn the car around. I’m not getting married. Not right now. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Caught in the middle, Robert acted like he didn’t hear me and continued driving. I was about to tell him a little louder when Ray spoke up.

  “Robert, turn the car around,” she said. He quickly made a U-turn at the outskirts of Toledo and we headed back.

  Relieved, I tried to explain more, but it didn’t seem to matter to anyone. We were all quiet for the rest of the trip.

  Once back at Hitsville Ray was her old self again—cheerful, bouncing around and really nice to me. After three days of having time to think about it, that next morning I walked behind her in the bathroom as she was brushing her teeth and whispered, “Will you marry me?”

  We were off again to Toledo. This time Robert Bateman drove us alone. When we returned we got back to doing what we loved most—work.

  WAY OVER THERE

  My biggest challenge was coming up with the right record to take us into the national picture. In the summer of ’60 I had it. Smokey brought it to me.

  “Way Over There” had great feeling, great melody and great lyrics. Smokey sang it as if his life depended on it, with passion and inspiration:

  I’ve got a lover way over there on the mountain side

  And I know that’s where I should be…

  They tell me that the river’s too deep and it’s much too wide,

  Boy you can’t get over to the other side…

  “Way Over There” will always be a special song. For the guy in the song Smokey was singing about, it was where his lover was, but for me “way over there” was where my dreams were—for Motown, for happiness, for success. And with my first national release I felt I was moving closer to all of them.

  Loucye started right away on the distribution, getting a master DJ list from Gwen and the names of all the Chess distributors. She organized everything for our first big shipping, recruiting anyone she could find—including me. We gathered around a long table to package the disc jockey copies in an assembly-line style. One person took the records out of the box, another put each one between two pieces of cardboard, sliding it into an envelope, and another sealed it with a sponge.

  I was so confident about this record that I decided to advertise in Cash Box magazine like the big boys seemed to do so successfully. I wanted to do it “right.” I wanted to say “Watch out world, here I come!”

  Since we didn’t have an advertising executive, I designed the ad myself based on an idea I remembered from an old Western movie ad. It started with “From Out of the West Comes…” and as it read down from the top, each line spread out wider and wider, forming a pyramid. It gave me feelings of action and excitement.

  Here’s the ad that ran in the July 23, 1960, issue of Cash Box:

  When Esther saw it she said, “Don’t you think that sounds a little arrogant?”

  “Who’s gonna know I wrote it?” I said.

  With distribution and advertising in place, everything was riding on getting airplay. Thanks to Cleveland’s Ken Hawkins and Cincinnati’s Jockey Jack Gibson, “Way Over There” started happening fast in those cities, spreading through much of the Midwest.

  I was told if I wanted the East Coast, the man I had to get was Georgie Woods at WDAS, the kingpin in Philadelphia.

  Though I didn’t know a thing about promotion, I was off to Philadelphia. I knew of the heavyweight promo guys from the other record companies, like Bunky Sheppard from Vee Jay, Granville “Granny” White from Columbia, Joe Medlin and Larry Maxwell from Atlantic, and Dave Clark from Duke-Peacock. I didn’t know how they got their records played but I did know they were unconventional characters who had spent years perfecting their art, using every trick they knew to promote their records.

  How to get mine played was what I was worried about as I walked into station WDAS in Philly and first saw Georgie. Handsome, smooth, suave, with a large commanding voice and the size to match, he was holding court while playing records on the air.

  Smiling, minding my manners, I waited patiently, hoping for a chance to be seen, heard, talked to, or even maybe think of something clever to say. But then I remembered something I heard as a kid. “It’s better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” I waited.

  Finally alone, I had outstayed everybody. Still paying no attention to me, Georgie kept doing his thing, talking fast, sexy and cool. I could see why they called him the king. When one of his assistants walked into the room the king said to her, “I want a hot dog.”

  “Hot dog? I’ll get it,” I volunteered, rushing out. I returned quickly to continue my wait.

  At last he looked in my direction: “Whatcha got there?”

  I jumped up. “Oh, I got a really great record here, ‘Way Over—’”

  “Give it here,” he said, taking it from me. He turned back around in his chair, placed my record on a turntable, put his earphones on and touched down with the needle. Seconds later he pulled it back off the record, saying nothing.

  My heart dropped.

  As he started fading down the on-air record he said over the open mike: “Here is a brand-new record, a brand-new group, a brand-new smash… ‘Way Over There’ by the Miracles. It’s hot, folks!”

  And it was. Philadelphia ordered one thousand records about two days later.

  But each time I heard the record, I thought how much better it could be if it only had strings on it. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and found myself assembling the troops and flying to Universal Studio in Chicago. I wanted that big New York sound and, in my mind, there was no way I could get that in our little Hitsville studio, which produced a thin, somewhat distorted sound with a heavy bottom. On the flight over, I told everybody how the Chicago Symphony was going to play the strings on the new version and how the new record was going to be so much better, cleaner, fuller.

  The Miracles were terrific—becoming inspired at hearing the difference in the sound quality. The session was by no means an easy one. But, at last, we got a great take. On the playback, I was convinced that we’d laid down the most beautiful strings I had ever heard. This new version sounded identical to the old one, except bigger and better.

  Ecstatic about the great sound, we then switched the records and started shipping the one with the strings. A huge ordeal. We got the DJs to change from the old one to the new one. They loved it, too. In fact everybody loved it, that is except the public. I had lost the magic. We never sold more than the original sixty thousand copies.

  The first version had an honesty and raw soul, the second was a copy. It was then I began to better appreciate the sound produced by our own little studio.

  Even though my idea to recut hadn’t turned out so well, “Way Over There” was a real victory. After many tries, I had finally done it. I had gone national. Motown had now entered the music scene.

  BLACK RADIO

  Black radio was everything to pe
ople like me.

  The Sutherland Hotel in Chicago was the site of my first-ever convention, the annual meeting of the black disc jockeys, NARA—the National Association of Radio Announcers. In my new role as independent record company owner, this was a big deal to me. It was the first time I could put faces with some of the reputations I’d heard so much about. It was the first time I heard manufacturers and disc jockeys referred to as “partners.” And—it was the first time I met Ewart Abner.

  Seeing so many important DJs under one roof was incredible. Everybody was partying like a dog—day and night. I wanted to be a part of it all, but only a few guys remembered me from my Jackie Wilson days and my writing and producing for Marv Johnson. So I had to be cool. Even though I was national with my own label, I was still just a little guy amongst these big independent companies who were wining and dining the DJs like mad.

  Downstairs at the bar, I spotted Jockey Jack Gibson holding court with some other biggies—master rhymers and rappers like Eddie O’Jay from Cleveland, whose deep baritone voice sent people rushing to record stores. Next to him was the smooth-talking Tommy Smalls, known as Dr. Jive, a killer with the women, and the jockey you needed if you wanted New York.

  Jockey Jack knew me because of Jackie and waved me over, introduced me to some of the guys and then jumped back into his conversation. With an intellectual, champagne-drinking style, Jockey Jack was one of the first really hip-talkin’ DJs. He was an original rapper, in the days when rapping was how we talked to women to make them like us.

  The convention was great fun for me until a meeting on the last night, when things got serious.

  After a short opening announcement, one DJ after another walked up to the podium expressing their discontent as they addressed the ills of the industry. I sat and listened as they said: “We play your records, we make you rich, and we have nothing to show for it.” And they told us that we should come up with ways to help them make more money.

  Rushing to their support, representatives of the other record companies got up and presented all sorts of ideas, from giving them free records they could sell at their record hops to paying them as advisers.

  Meanwhile I’m sitting there thinking, “What can I do? What am I supposed to say?” I knew I had to go up and say something in support of the people who were my life’s blood. But what? How could I compete with those other companies?

  Then, while I was sitting there dreading the inevitable, Ewart Abner, a distinguished-looking light-skinned black man, the president of Vee Jay Records, walked up to the podium. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve listened to all your suggestions and think we need to just stop for a second. We’re going in the wrong direction.”

  Everything got real quiet. I was fearful for the man and didn’t even know him.

  After pausing for a second he said, “For you to ask us to do more than we are already doing is not the answer.” The majors were not at this convention, he reminded them. “Most didn’t even bother to have their representatives here. Yet you play their records. Sure we want to help and we have helped and we will continue to help. But we should not be your primary source of income. That you should get from the station you work for. You are the stars. You are the power. You are the forces in your communities that get that station high ratings and big money from their advertisers. It’s because of your artistry and talent that they become number one. Negotiate a better deal with them. And remember, if your station won’t pay you, their competitors will!”

  Abner had electrified the audience with passion, conviction and guts. He said what I would have liked to have said. I knew I would always respect that man. He got a standing ovation, which ended the meeting.

  Growing up with my ear plastered to our old Grundig, I was no stranger to the power of the disc jockey. These guys didn’t just spin the records, they provided entertainment—jiving, preaching, teaching, each with his own style. They took us along the road of the incredible changes that were going on in music.

  The Detroit area jocks at WCHB and WJLB were the first I got to know. WCHB was the home of Joltin’ Joe Howard, this jolly big cat—always moving fast—his energy contagious. Also on this station were the Larrys—Dean and Dixon. Each was hot—Long Lean Larry Dean with his very cool delivery and deep voice, Larry Dixon using a bedroom, melodic style, introducing sex appeal with his every word.

  Meanwhile, across town at WJLB, was one of the hottest guys around—Frantic Ernie Durham. Talking fifty miles a minute, creating a fever pitch of excitement, he wasn’t called Frantic for nothing. But being frantic didn’t keep him from being an excellent businessman—a smart self-promoter. He would hold the record hops at local clubs, showcasing artists and their new hits, meeting his listeners in person, promoting his radio show.

  When heavy hitters like Georgie Woods in Philly thought a record was a hit, they would call powerful jocks in other cities. Georgie was a mover, not only of records but of the community as well. Another real activist was a top New York DJ, Hal Jackson, the nicest guy around, who worked especially well with the kids. He was always trying to help somebody. New York also had Jack Walker. Jack didn’t seem to be a killer like some of the power DJs, but you didn’t have to be to have the listeners love you.

  In Baltimore Maurice “Hot Rod” Hulbert would burn up the air-waves with his supercharged raps and rhymes. Jocko Henderson in Philly hooked his audiences with phrases so witty they became part of the local slang.

  In black radio women DJs were already part of the scene. Mary Dee in Pittsburgh, Dizzy Lizzy in Houston, Chattie Hattie in Charlotte, and Martha Jean “The Queen,” first in Memphis, then in Detroit. Every one of these women were important DJs with good time slots and they all played my records.

  To drive their stations to #1, DJs fought hard to get the hit records before anyone else.

  Individually, each was a character, a promoter and a star who would go to any extreme to capture listeners.

  Once, a guy who always treated me special, my friend the smooth-talking E. Rodney Jones, disappeared from a new station he was working at in Chicago, WVON, owned by the Chess brothers. Each day speculation grew that he had been kidnapped and possibly murdered. The other stations began carrying updates on their news programs. It seemed the whole town was worried sick about E. Rodney Jones. When he showed up a few weeks later everyone was thrilled, especially the Chess brothers. I never found out where he was and neither did anyone else to my knowledge. If it was a publicity stunt it worked because the station immediately jumped to #1.

  They came up with any gimmick possible. John Bandy, known as Lord Fauntleroy, out of Washington, D.C., perfected an aristocratic British accent, while in Pittsburgh a monocled Sir Walter Raleigh spoke in a working-class dialect. I don’t know if either of them had ever been to England.

  Then, there was the Magnificent Montague. Once you heard his outrageous oratory, you couldn’t forget it or him. “I want you to put your hand on the radio and I’ll touch your heart. I will give you a feeling of love that others could never give you. I am the true lover, your truest friend and wherever you go I will be with you. Wherever you are within the sound of my voice, if you want to feel what I am saying, just touch the radio, touch the radio, touch the radio. Feel the heat I’m sending to your soul. Burn, baby, burn!”

  He was known to play a song fifteen times in a row. Crazy! Irate fans would call the station, protesting vigorously. The owners, fearing a loss of listeners, demanded he stop.

  He’d snap at them: “You fools. Why do you think I’m number one? As long as they’re complaining, they’re listening to our station.”

  I, as a manufacturer, was not too happy myself. That is, until my record was the one he played fifteen times. This habit, as well as others, got him fired from many stations. But usually not before he became #1.

  When he’d get fired, he’d call his friends for help. I seemed to be at the top of that list. It was easy for him to get help from me because I knew wherever he went he’d become #1
before he’d be fired again.

  When he lost a job at WVON in Chicago he called. I sent him money for his cross-country move to Los Angeles. Sometime later, I was shocked to find that other manufacturers had paid for that same move.

  When I confronted him with this revelation, he just looked at me. “My dear man,” he proudly smiled, “you wouldn’t expect me to deprive anyone of the pleasure of helping the Magnificent One, would you?”

  I always get a good feeling when I think back to how they, the jocks in black radio, many of whom I never met, took so much pride in helping me, a young black cat out of Detroit. My appreciation to this day has never diminished.

  7

  SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

  1960–1964

  STREET BUSINESS

  Detroit’s hottest nightclub, the 20 Grand, was packed. People were jammed into every corner of this unique entertainment complex, which had two separate showrooms on one level and a bowling alley downstairs.

  The Miracles were getting ready to perform in the main room. Way on the other side of the building, I had just finished directing Marv Johnson at a record hop put on by DJ Frantic Ernie Durham from WJLB, who had been wailing all week on Marv’s latest record, “I Love The Way You Love.”

  These appearances were great promotion for us and a source of revenue for the DJs. They would play the hell out of the record on the air and in return the artist would appear at the DJs’ hops to sing over their records.

  Lip-synching was an art to us. Our artists had to do it perfectly, and they knew it. I was always right there watching for mistakes. Marv was a smash that night. He didn’t even miss a breath.

  I was thrilled with the crowd’s reaction but I had to get out of there fast to get to the other side of the building before the Miracles hit the stage. I wanted to check the sound before they went on and I was already late. Pushing my way through the crowd of noisy, excited people, with Robert Bateman and Ray leading the way, I heard this little voice: “Mr. Gordy, Mr. Gordy.”