by Berry Gordy
“Yeah?” I answered, looking back at a little brown-skinned girl with broad features and big eyes, running toward me.
“Mr. Gordy,” she said, trying to catch her breath, “I’ve been trying to get to you all night. I got a song. It’s great, it’s great, it’s really good. Can I have an appointment with you?”
I was walking fast, she faster. “I have no time for a meeting,” I said.
Glued to my coat tail, she seemed to be lock-stepping in sync with all my moves. “Oh, please, Mr. Gordy…”
“Can you sing it?” I yelled, bobbing and weaving through openings in the crowd.
“Oh yeah—really good, I can sing it good.”
“Well then sing it,” I said.
“Sing it?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, right now.”
She jumped right into the song with vigor and desperation:
You know you took my heart
and you broke it apart.
Why did love baby have to ever start?
You know you took my love, threw it away.
You’re gonna want my love someday.
Well, bye, bye, baby.
Over all the noise, confusion and everything, I loved that raspy, soulful sound. I slowed. All of a sudden I did have time.
“What’s your name?”
“Mary… Mary Wells.”
“Okay Mary, meet me at the studio tomorrow.”
“But how will I get in?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get in.”
When I met with her the next day, she said she had written the song for Jackie Wilson, but when I told her she was the only perfect person to sing it, it seemed her wildest dream had come true.
I knew how Mary felt because my own dream for a hit factory was quickly taking form, a concept that had been shaped by principles I had learned on the Lincoln-Mercury assembly line. At the plant the cars started out as just a frame, pulled along on conveyor belts until they emerged at the end of the line—brand spanking new cars rolling off the line. I wanted the same concept for my company, only with artists and songs and records. I wanted a place where a kid off the street could walk in one door an unknown and come out another a recording artist—a star.
But I knew, unlike cars, each person was unique, with his or her own talents, dreams and ambitions.
I had never seen anything like what I had in mind and had no formal business training, so I had to figure out my own methods for building such a company.
I broke down my whole operation into three functions: Create, Make, Sell. I felt any business had to do that. Create something, Make something and then Sell it. Using this phrase as a slogan kept my thinking in focus.
The Create phase—writing, producing and recording—was really starting to come together as the Hitsville talent pool expanded on a regular basis.
The Make phase—manufacturing, pressing of the records—was the process that Loucye oversaw. It now required a growing support staff to deal with inventories, the plants, deliveries to distribution points and the billing to the distributors.
We were doing fine with the Create and Make phase but the Sell phase—placing records with distributors, getting airplay, marketing and advertising—was the area I needed to develop. Since our Sales Department at the time consisted of one guy—me—I knew I needed more help, somebody who could get to the broader market.
I knew a little about getting white airplay from having made friends with a local DJ named Tom Clay. When I had Marv Johnson’s record on UA, “You Got What It Takes,” he was at the #1 Pop station in town, WJBK. I was told I could never get the top Pop DJs in town to play records by local black artists.
Not so. Tom liked me and my record. Not only did he play it, but he introduced me to Barney Ales, telling me he would be a great local distributor. Barney knew the business and was aggressive. When I let him distribute both my labels, Tamla and Motown, I never suspected he would go on to become a major contributor to the success of the company.
In July of 1960 he was handling the Miracles’ “Way Over There,” still going strong on Tamla, and Mary Wells’s “Bye Bye Baby,” just out on Motown. Barney was getting airplay on both records throughout the whole state, but when “Bye Bye Baby” didn’t take off in sales quite as fast as the Miracles had, I figured it wasn’t getting enough promotion.
“You got two records with the same distributor,” somebody told me. “They only have so many people to work both records. What you should do is split the lines. Take one of your labels and give it to another distributor. You’ll have many more people working each record.”
That sounded smart to me.
I moved the Motown line from Barney to one of his competitors. All of a sudden I wasn’t hearing “Bye Bye Baby” on the radio at all.
I got the new distributor on the phone. “We’re doing the best we can,” came his weak reply.
Barney had the Motown line back the next day. I again started hearing Mary on the air.
Later, I asked Barney if he had anything to do with the slowdown.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “All I did was call the DJs to let them know if they wanted to do something for me, they might want to play my new Shirelles record on Scepter. And oh yeah, I did tell them that Mary Wells was no longer my record.”
It was then I decided maybe this guy should be on my team as more than just my distributor.
I invited Barney to hang out at Hitsville more and we became even better friends. He’d usually wind up in the back playing cards or Ping-Pong. Like the rest of us, he was a fierce competitor. He hated to lose.
Pheasant hunting wasn’t exactly a regular activity in the neighborhood where I grew up, but Barney convinced me to try it.
It began on a nerve-wracking note. I had never been around that many people, that many white people… out in the woods… with guns. The shotgun Barney gave me was so heavy that when I fired it, it was like being kicked in the shoulder by a mule. I hated the hunting but there was something fun about being around Barney. What I learned most from that trip was why Barney was such a great salesman. It wasn’t so much what he did, but the way he did it—warm, personal and familylike. If he could get me to enjoy hunting pheasants, I wondered what he could do with disc jockeys, program directors and distributors.
I began to think of ways to woo this master salesman to my company. What I didn’t know was he wanted to be there, too. That’s why he took me on that hunting trip in the first place.
Around that time, the fall of 1960, Smokey, who was always running in excited to see me about something, found me in the studio at the piano working on something of my own. This time he wanted help on a song he was writing called “Shop Around.” As he sang the lyrics I forgot about whatever I was writing and told him what he was singing was going to be the Miracles’ next big hit.
“Oh no, no, it’s not for me,” he argued. “I don’t feel it for myself.”
“What, are you crazy? You don’t feel it?”
“Nope. I don’t.”
That was the first time I realized that artists don’t necessarily always know what is best for them.
We argued back and forth as I helped him work on it. When it was finished he was still adamant that it was not for him.
“Maybe you’re right, Smoke,” I said, “but can you just do me a favor and try it? Try it for me?”
He stopped. “For you?”
“For me.”
“Okay.”
That was a lucky day for both of us.
Up until then Smokey and I had written everything together. But on each song I was doing less and less. Finally, on this record, I quietly took my name off the label so when it was released he would realize he had come into his own as a songwriter. He didn’t need me or anybody else.
But when Smokey found out what I had done he was furious. And without telling me, he made Loucye’s label copy people put it back on. When the record came out, I was the one surpri
sed.
“Why,” I asked him, “that don’t make no sense. You come to me with a song that’s almost finished. I give you a few ideas and you give me half the credit. Ridiculous. Giving input is my job. I do it with everybody.”
Smokey argued that I may have been the key to the song’s success and deserved a piece. I told him I didn’t care what he thought and that unless I personally felt I deserved it, there was no way my name was going on any label copy from then on.
And in any event, every time I heard “Shop Around” on the radio I got sick. Too slow. Not enough life. I was mad at myself for ever letting it be released.
Finally, after four or five days I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to recut it.
I thought back to how disastrous my recutting “Way Over There” had been. But to let that mistake keep me from doing what I now thought was right would be an even bigger mistake.
I called Smokey.
“Man, we’ve got to cut the song again.”
“Who is this?”
“Me, Berry. We got to do it again, man.”
“Do what?”
“I just told you, the song, ‘Shop Around.’”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“You busy or somethin’?”
“Naw, man, I was just sittin’ here waiting for your call.”
“Every time I hear it it drives me crazy,” I said. “It’s too slow, and you’ve got to get everybody to the studio right away.”
“And you’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, Smoke, I wish I was.”
An hour or so later he had the musicians and the other Miracles at the studio. The piano player didn’t show up, so I played it myself. We recut the new version with more life and a faster beat.
Within a few months, the new “Shop Around” had gone to #2 on the Pop charts. Our first million seller!
But I was still not totally satisfied. I felt #1 and #2 were miles apart. I believed that if I had been able to put together a strong in-house Sales Department sooner, that record might have gone to #1.
Near the end of 1960 Barney Ales accepted my offer to come head up our Sales Department. Create, Make and Sell would now be in full force.
After the success of “Shop Around” I needed to be in about ten places at once. I might have Mary Wells at the Warfield Theater, Barrett Strong at the Royal Blue nightclub, Marv Johnson at the Armory in Flint, Michigan, and the Miracles off to Philadelphia to appear on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. And now that the artists’ own Cycles of Success were kicking in, it brought on a whole new set of responsibilities for me.
They looked to me for advice not only from a creative standpoint, but a business and personal one as well. For me to not get too sidetracked by all the various problems developing around me, I created an artist management company, naming it International Talent Management Inc. The purpose of ITMI—as we called it—was to act as personal manager to the artists. They did everything from getting them gigs, providing career guidance and negotiating with booking agents to making sure they paid their taxes—something I would continue to stress over the years.
My sister Esther—part mother hen and part general—was the perfect person to run it.
Hitsville was jumping. It was December of 1960 and we were having our first annual Christmas party. Everybody was there. In the control room, where I was laughing it up with Mickey Stevenson and Smokey, Gwen found me.
“Berry, you’ve got to hear this guy,” she said. “He’s great.”
Over the years my sisters were always promoting somebody.
“Not now,” I said to Gwen, “not tonight. This is our Christmas party.”
“But he’s good, I’m tellin’ you,” she said, pointing through the thick glass window that separated the control room from the studio.
Looking out, I saw this rather boyish, slim, handsome guy. Sitting at the piano, gracefully stroking the keys in an almost melancholy fashion, he appeared to be deep in thought.
“That’s Marvin Gaye,” she said. “He’s been singing with Harvey and the Moonglows, but wants to go solo.”
“Why don’t you put him on your label?”
“He wants to be with you.”
There was something real special about the image this guy projected that made me want to hear what he was playing. I wandered into the studio, sitting down next to him on the piano bench.
He knew who I was, but he was cool. Real cool. He kept on playing without looking in my direction.
Over the party noise I could hear the soft, jazzy melodies he was weaving. There was a warmth and a sadness in the music that made me feel good.
“Berry Gordy,” he said softly, “how you doin’, man?”
“Fine. I heard that you’re a really good singer.”
“I’m okay.”
“Well, how about doing something for me?”
“What do you want me to do?” he said, never lifting his eyes from the keys.
“I don’t know, whatever you want,” I said, expecting a bluesy kind of song more in the style of the Moonglows.
Instead, he continued playing those soft, jazzy chords and began to sing a warm, jazzy rendition of a standard, “Mr. Sandman.”
His voice was pure, mellow, soulful and honest. I loved it, and now it was my turn to be cool. I knew right then that I wanted to work with this man. Not knowing what kind of person he was, my instincts told me not to get too excited. But at the same time I wanted to be honest with him.
“Not bad,” I said. “I like that. I really do.”
Although he quietly said, “Thank you,” I could feel his excitement. Something about him was different—deep, intense.
A lot of things go through my mind when I first meet an artist. I don’t always know what it is I love, but I can feel it. I’ve never been one to show my emotions by jumping up and down. But at that moment I wanted to. I told Marvin that he had something real special.
“You really think so?” he said.
“Definitely.”
“What? What do you think it is?” he said.
I wanted to tell him something but I wasn’t sure myself. It tickled me that here I was, the king of the party, and he had me on the defensive in our very first meeting.
“I can’t talk about it now,” I said, “but maybe I’ll tell you later.”
I’d meet artists in so many different ways. About six months before, I had been passing through the lobby when Robert Bateman was auditioning four girls singing an a cappella version of the Drifters’ “There Goes My Baby.” The whiny voice of the girl singing lead caught my attention. She was on the skinny side with great big eyes and a lot of self-confidence.
Just as they were finishing the song I stopped.
“Would you sing that again?” I asked, motioning to the lead singer with my hand.
“Okay,” she smiled, in a bashful way.
As I turned away I heard her whisper to the others, “That’s Berry Gordy.”
The four of them—Diane Ross, Mary Wilson, Florence Ballard and Betty McGlown—started the song again. This time they seemed to be singing for dear life.
When they finished they could see I was highly impressed and wanted to know right away if I was going to sign them to a recording contract.
“What about school?” I asked.
The lead singer spoke up. “We’re all seniors,” she said.
I told them how important it was to finish high school and that I wasn’t going to do anything that might interfere with that. “Come back and see me after you’ve graduated,” I told them.
Despite their disappointment, almost every day after school they showed up at Hitsville. The girls were making friends with producers, trying to get gigs singing background for other artists.
Their determination paid off. In January of 1961 they were signed to Motown. They became a trio after Barbara Martin (who had replaced Betty McGlown) left.
Before then they had been singing under the name of t
he Primettes, a sister group to the Primes, who would later become the Temptations. When I told them I thought they needed a new name, they all came up with suggestions, but Florence had the name I liked best: the Supremes.
They were the sweethearts of Hitsville. Mary was probably the most popular with the guys. Flo was sarcastic from the start; her dry humor kept us laughing all the time. Diane had an innocent manner that let her get away with most anything.
Long before she was a star, there was a drive in her that could not be denied. Nor could her appeal—which she used to full advantage. I soon realized her name needed more sparkle. “Diane” seemed a little passive for what I saw in her. Diana. That was a star’s name.
All three girls had qualities so unique I’d often think: “If they could make us feel the way we do, what could they do to the world at large?” My belief in them sustained my hopes during three years of flop after flop.
I might have seen Otis Williams, Melvin Franklin and Elbridge “Al” Bryant when they were with the Distants or Paul Williams and Eddie Kendricks in the Primes. But what I remember is seeing them together for the first time as the Temptations when they were auditioning for Mickey Stevenson at Hitsville. I loved their sound and told Mickey to sign them immediately. I loved the old raw songs they had, like “Oh, Mother Of Mine,” which became their first record. Those songs didn’t become big hits, but boy—did I love ’em.
The Tempts epitomized tall, dark and handsome, standing over six feet, each a distinctive personality. With Paul’s emotionally charged, heart-stopping baritone, Melvin’s warm, deep, rich bass, Otis’s smooth, textured vocal blend, Eddie’s lilting falsetto and the powerful, versatile tenor of David Ruffin, who replaced Al Bryant, they created some of the greatest sounds. Later they would also be known for their incredible showmanship, fancy footwork and dazzling wardrobe.
Each had his own job to do in the group. Otis let it be known right from the start that he was the leader and businessman. They looked to Paul Williams to create those soulful moves and routines, while Eddie Kendricks was the guy responsible for the look, the phenomenal uniforms.