To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  Do you love me? (I can really move.)

  Do you love me? (I’m in the groove.)

  Now do you love me? (Do you love me?)

  Now that I can dance? …

  It took me about two hours to write it. But recording it was a little more complicated.

  The session to lay the track down was moving smoothly until I had a run-in with my stubborn, outspoken bass player, James Jamerson. As that session ground on, I had decided that Jamerson—with his jazzy licks and upbeats—had gone way past the boundaries I’d set. Though I had warned him several times, he continued to do it so brazenly that I had had more than enough.

  “Okay that’s it! Hold it,” I stormed furiously. “Stop the fuckin’ music.”

  Dead silence. It was almost too quiet for me. Everyone eyed me with respect, waiting for instruction. Everyone except Jamerson. Staring me straight in the eye, he had this fire-me-if-you-want-to smirk on his face. The last thing I wanted to do was take him off the session. But I really had no choice because if I let him get away with it, I’d have no control over anybody else.

  “Look man,” I said. “I’ve told you over and over again this ain’t no fuckin’ Jazz session. You’ve got to stay on the fuckin’ downbeat.”

  Jamerson said nothing, but gave a nod and a shrug, as if to say, “Okay, man, mess up your own session if you want to.”

  Everybody held their breath. They knew how much he loved to improvise and were waiting for the fireworks.

  We started again, my eyes glued on Jamerson. I knew I’d have to kick him out if he deviated from my directions. I held my own breath, hoping he wouldn’t. And he didn’t—not until I got relaxed and comfortable. Dropping my guard, I had turned my attention to Benny Benjamin on the drums; he was grooving like a dog. In that split second, Jamerson hit four or five Jazz upbeats in rapid succession. Reeling around, I turned to let him have it. But before I could say anything he had jumped back on the downbeat so brilliantly I could only smile.

  He glanced at me in impish defiance. He knew I loved what I’d just heard and everybody else knew it, too. They also knew he had gotten me.

  When the musicians left the studio I put my voice on the track, making a demo record. I was singing so passionately that when people heard my growling gutty sound they told me it was a smash and I should release it just like that. For a moment I had thoughts of doing it, but I knew it would be better on a group. My first choice was the Temptations, but the day I was ready to record voices on the song, they were nowhere to be found. That’s how the Contours got their shot. They were a local group that had been signed the previous year. Like so many artists, the members—Billy Gordon, Billy Hoggs, Joe Billingslea, Hubert Johnson, Sylvester Potts and Huey Davis—had been hanging around at the studio, hoping to get into something. Eager, boisterous guys, with dynamic, wild dance moves, they went crazy when I told them the Temptations couldn’t be found and I wanted to use them.

  My singing style was right up Billy Gordon’s alley. His screaming lead vocals sounded just like me—but stronger, better. The rest of the group added soulful, uninhibited background vocals.

  When the Motortown Revue buses pulled away from the curb that afternoon, the Contours were going strong and “Do You Love Me” was on its way to becoming our top song for 1962.

  This same year had been big for Mary Wells, thanks to Smokey, who gave her “The One Who Really Loves You,” “You Beat Me To The Punch” and “Two Lovers.”

  It hadn’t taken Mary long to become a star. On stage, her attitude commanded attention. She wore long, glamorous gowns and stylish, trendy wigs—from black bouffants to blond ponytails. It looked like Mary would be that big female star I had always wanted.

  Another attention-getter was Martha Reeves. She was Mickey Stevenson’s secretary and got her big break one day when Mary didn’t show up for a recording session. To satisfy union rules, Mickey had to make sure there was a body behind the microphone. Martha turned out to be that body. All that was required of her was to stand there and do nothing. But when that music started, she took her shot—surprising everybody with her powerful, soulful voice, wailing like there was no tomorrow.

  However, at the time the Revue was taking off, Martha and the newly formed Vandellas hadn’t yet had a real hit. That meant they had no name value and had to work that much harder out on the road.

  The Marvelettes, on the other hand, by now had developed a strong following. Though they had added two recent hits to their repertoire—“Playboy” and “Beechwood 4-5789”—it was “Please Mr. Postman,” their first major smash, that continued to keep them hot.

  Marvin Gaye, from the beginning, had been a challenge. After playing drums on “Please Mr. Postman” and some other early sessions, Marvin had gotten his big wish when we released an album of standards on him, The Soulful Moods of Marvin Gaye. It contained some beautiful, classy vocals, but it did not do well.

  Still, he was sure he was destined to be a crooner like Frank Sinatra. Whenever we approached him about doing the more commercial stuff, he stubbornly refused. Marvin was the most stubborn guy around—about everything. That’s exactly what Mickey and my brother George decided to write about. Marvin loved the idea so much, he even helped with the writing. Having turned from crooning to grooving, the aptly named song, “Stubborn Kind Of Fellow” catapulted him into hit status.

  Now a second single, “Hitch Hike”—written by Marvin, Mickey and Clarence Paul—was moving up the charts.

  Once Marvin got the taste of hit fever, it complicated things even more for him, because he never lost his belief that his true calling was as a Jazz balladeer.

  Even with most of the main acts out on the road, Hitsville was as crowded as ever. There were many new faces. By now I had my very first real secretary—Rebecca Nichols.

  Often working into the wee small hours with me, Rebecca seemed to fall easily into my work style without complaint. Today, after three decades, she can proudly claim title as the employee who has been with me the longest.

  Some of the people who joined us in those early years were very important to the growth of the company. Fay Hale became our Processing Department head, Frances Heard our tape librarian, and Ann Dozier, Lamont’s wife, came in as Loucye’s assistant. Ann and Lamont had come to us from Anna Records.

  From Harvey and Tri-Phi Records, owned by my sister Gwen and Harvey Fuqua, formerly of Harvey and the Moonglows, I inherited some of their roster: the Spinners, Jr. Walker and the All Stars, Shorty Long and writer/producer Johnny Bristol.

  I also later acquired Golden World and Ric-Tic Records owned by Eddie Wingate and Joanne Jackson. Joanne was one of the most beautiful girls to grow up on the Westside. (I had a big crush on her when I was around five or six, but she was about the same age, which made me mentally too young.) She and her company had become our biggest local competitor. Despite the rivalry of our companies, we were friends and when she decided to get into a different business, she sold her record and publishing companies to me.

  The Hitsville atmosphere lent itself to give-and-take. Employees and artists not only became involved in each other’s work, but in each other’s lives. Love affairs thrived and so did marriage. One of the first was Smokey and Claudette in ’59. Since that time my sister Anna married Marvin Gaye, Gwen married Harvey Fuqua, who became our first promotion man, and Loucye married a saxophone player, Ron Wakefield. Mary Wells married singer Herman Griffin; the Marvelettes’ Wanda Young married the Miracles’ Bobby Rogers; the Marvelettes’ Georgeanna Tillman married the Contours’ Billy Gordon; my niece Iris married producer Johnny Bristol; and Mickey Stevenson married singer Kim Weston.

  While others were getting married, Ray and I were about to be divorced.

  I knew she really cared about me and though ours had started as more of a working relationship, I had grown to really love her. She was a tender and loving person and always there for me.

  But there was something more I thought I wanted.

  Women had been
the inspiration of my life since childhood. They were what inspired me to do everything—create, make money, win. Now that I was winning, it was hard to turn down the opportunities with women I seemed to have been working for all my life. I didn’t.

  I guess I had always been in search of those elusive dream girls—the childhood fantasy that lingered. Well, I met one. Her name was Margaret Norton. I thought she was the most beautiful girl in Detroit. But soon I was caught in a paradox. The longer my affair with Margaret continued, the more I noticed how wonderful my own wife was.

  Ray knew that running the business and creative aspects of the company had me going around the clock most of the time and never minded.

  Not only had she not questioned my staying out but she came to me one day and said: “I never know when you’re coming home. It’s always at a different hour in the morning. I want you to be consistent. I’m going to give you a time to be in and I don’t want you to be one minute later.”

  An ultimatum? All of a sudden I felt very scared. I realized then even more how much she meant to me and that I never wanted to lose her.

  “What time?” I said.

  “Six.”

  “Come on. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m still at the office at six.”

  “A.M.”

  “Six o’clock in the morning?”

  “Sure. You seem to have a lot to do at night. And remember, not one minute later.”

  I took her up on that immediately and started coming in every morning around 5:55, just to allow myself enough leeway. Never later than 6:00 A.M.

  One night, very late at some party arguing with Margaret, I decided to go home. I had a great wife there and that’s where I should be. Was this a great woman or what! A 6:00 A.M. curfew. And I’m taking advantage of it and her. No more. Telling Margaret the relationship wasn’t good for either of us, I broke it off.

  I left the party about 1:00 and headed home. When I arrived at our little apartment on Lawton Street, where we had moved from upstairs at Hitsville, there was no Ray. Figuring she was still at the office, I got into bed, drifting quickly off to sleep. Four A.M. I woke up. Still no Ray. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. I called the studio. Not there. She had left around 11:00. Panic! I called two hospitals. No trace of her. That was good and bad news.

  By 5:00 my heart was pounding. Could she be cheating on me? No way. Just the thought of it made me sick. I went outside and sat in my car parked in front of the house, debating whether or not I should drive around and look for her.

  Five thirty. A car pulled up. It was Ray with her assistant, Sonny Sanders, at the wheel. She hopped out of the car and started into the house.

  “Kind of late, isn’t it?” I said, walking up behind her.

  “Oh,” Ray gasped, turning to me with a laugh. “You scared me.”

  “No shit.”

  When I asked where she had been, she explained: “Sonny, my nephew Dale and me were at the all-night movie theater.”

  “Oh?” I said as we both went into the house. “Why wasn’t Dale in the car?”

  “He was. He was asleep in the back,” she said.

  I was satisfied, but not completely. A few weeks later when I heard rumors she might be having an affair with a man in New York during her business trips there, I didn’t ignore them. I confronted her.

  Instead of denying anything, she refused to talk.

  With rain pouring down that night I sat on the edge of the bed and confessed my affair with Margaret, hoping to provoke her into the truth. It worked. She told me everything. She started by saying she had known about Margaret all along. And not only was the New York rumor true but there was no all-night movie that night; and no nephew in the back of the car.

  If she wanted to hurt me, she did. I left the house that night, walking and crying alone in the rain. Looking back I can see what a double standard I had and that I was the first to do wrong in the marriage. Ray only followed. But at the time I felt angry and abandoned. I had lost my devoted wife.

  In the next few weeks my life was in total disarray. But at the same time I could see the company was at a critical point in its existence and I had to give it my full attention.

  Both wanting the breakup to be quick and painless, we got a Mexican divorce by mail. Ray wanted to continue working for the company. She wanted to take Kerry, our son, and move to New York and open a Jobete office there. I said okay.

  A short while later, I started going with Jeana Jackson, an attractive, outgoing friend of mine from Connecticut. Our love affair resulted in the birth of a beautiful baby girl we named Sherry. Jeana and I had a wonderful, but short, relationship.

  Margaret kept coming in and out of my life. I couldn’t get her out of my system. Before long we resumed our volatile relationship.

  The Motortown Revue had been performing to sold-out houses at the Howard Theater in Washington, D.C., when I decided to show up for a surprise visit.

  Everybody was happy to see me, hoping I would move them back later in the show, closer to the finale, the featured star spot. The only way they could get me to do that was if they left the stage so hot with applause and noise that the next performer’s name couldn’t be heard.

  The show opened with the Supremes walking out to center stage, looking petrified. Without a hit, they were a little too refined to overcome the wild crowd, but that didn’t bother me. Watching how much heart and soul they put into it, I knew one good record would change all that.

  Then Martha Reeves and the Vandellas came out. They didn’t have a hit either—but they sure acted like they did. Martha was soul personified. Her movements were understated, but soulful and sexy. I loved the way she could stand there, cool, feet planted and body pulsating to the music as she and the Vandellas, Rosalind Ashford and Annette Beard, captivated the audience.

  The high-energy Contours were fearless as they jumped out on stage with splits, flips and wild gyrations to “Do You Love Me.”

  Marvin was a showstopper that night. Before he even opened his mouth the women in the audience went nuts. He left the stage so hot with his latest hit, “Stubborn Kind Of Fellow,” we could barely hear the Marvelettes’ name. It seemed that Marvin would definitely be moving back in the lineup.

  But when the Marvelettes walked up to the mikes and Gladys Horton screamed, “Wait!, oh yes, wait a minute Mr. Postman…” it was all over.

  I knew there would be no moving Marvin back now. The girls were sensational and the crowd let them know it.

  And then, the entrance of our leading lady, Mary Wells. You could see right away she was experienced. She preached the intro to “Bye Bye Baby” and got the audience involved—“We-ee-ll, you know I feel a-a-all right. You over here and you over there—Do you feel all right?”

  “Yeah!” the people screamed.

  “I can’t hear you. Do you feel all right?”

  “Yeeeaahhhhh!!”

  She went on from there doing all her hits, “The One Who Really Loves You,” “You Beat Me To The Punch” and “Two Lovers,” in classy fashion.

  The show culminated with the Miracles, our biggest stars, who had their routines down pat by now. Moving through hits like “You Can Depend On Me” and “Shop Around,” Smokey could really get the crowd going. He just stood there, and made love to the women. He could do that better than anybody. He fell to his knees and lay on the floor, singing up a storm. Closing with “You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me,” he threw off his jacket, clutching his arms to his chest, closing his eyes, and begging, “Hold me, hold me, hold me, hold meeeeee…” Smokey was king.

  I believed competition breeds champions and sitting there watching that show I could see our artists not only believed that, but were learning the true meaning of the phrase “survival of the fittest.”

  I joined up with Smokey to go out and grab a bite during their break before the next show. As soon as Smokey and I opened the backstage door, a mob of girls swarmed around and started fighting to get near him.

  “Smokey!�
�� “Oh, it’s him, it’s Smokey!” “We love you, Smokey!” “Over here, Smokey…!” “My leg, sign my leg, Smokey!” “No, mine!”

  As they crowded tighter and tighter around him, I was squeezed further and further into the back. I was swallowed up by a sea of female bodies pressing against me, elbows, shoulders, behinds, hips and waving hands. (It wasn’t the worst feeling in the world.)

  Looking back over his shoulder for me he hollered, “Wait a minute!” raising his arms and gesturing to quiet them down. Everything stopped. To the silent crowd of worshippers, Smokey pointed toward me, announcing, “That’s Berry Gordy back there, my manager. He’s responsible for all of us. The Miracles, Mary Wells, Marvin Gaye, all the stars in the show.”

  “Hi, Berry Jerry,” one girl said to me with a quick smile. But in the next instant out of her mouth came a monstrous scream as the pandemonium started all over again. She leaped forward, grabbing her leg, and shrieking, “Smokey, my leg! Smokey, mine, mine!! Sign my leg!!!!”

  We laughed about it over a late lunch. I told him how much pleasure I got just watching how popular he was.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Smokey, don’t ever worry about me,” I told him. “I’m a behind-the-scenes person. You’re the one out front and this is the way it’s supposed to be. But thanks anyway.”

  This was not the first time I had seen that kind of mania. I remembered something like this happening with Jackie Wilson. But it was the first time it had happened for one of my artists, someone I had developed. And what was really special for me was how sensitive Smokey was to me, knowing that I might like attention from girls, too.

  As the tour headed down South, I headed back to Detroit, riding high after seeing our success firsthand in Washington. I got back to work, caught up in the business at hand. Then came startling news. Shots had been fired at the Motortown Revue bus in Birmingham, Alabama. I was devastated. We were all aware of how tough the racial conditions could be—the motels, restaurants, filling stations and bathrooms where blacks were refused service. But my artists being shot at?