To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  I stormed out of my office, hurried down the stairs and out into the street, not knowing where I was going. The last glimpse I got of Marvin I saw he had a look of understanding. He told me the next day he did understand.

  I realized later it wasn’t so bad I had lost my cool. I spent so much of the time smoothing other people’s tempers in calm, logical ways that when I flipped out it was like shock therapy to Marvin—and probably to me, too.

  I was deeply saddened by the death of John Kennedy. I believed him to be an honest man and a good man. I believed him to be a great President who had embraced and created hope for black people in a way that had not been felt in modern times. A feeling of loss and shock hung over everything in those months of late 1963 and early ’64.

  Then in March, came a joyful personal event when Margaret Norton and I had a son. I named him Kennedy William Gordy, in honor of President Kennedy and William “Smokey” Robinson.

  BYE BYE BABY

  Hit fever was catching the spring of 1964. What we were hearing in those Friday morning meetings was so exciting, it was often standing room only in my office. One of the greatest songs to really explode off that turntable was an acetate of the first production we heard on the Four Tops. They had finally come back and signed a contract—two years later.

  They said the reason they hadn’t come back sooner was not because of the wording in the contracts but because they weren’t sure a little black company like ours would be able to stay in business. They felt more confident when they saw so many of our artists getting hits and I felt great when they did come back. The instant I heard “Baby I Need Your Loving,” with rhythm, horns and finger snaps, three Tops wailing away on the intro, and Levi going right for our hearts, I knew it was a winner and my mind was buzzing with possibilities for their future before the song was even over. HDH had done it again. The Four Tops were on their way.

  But the most talk was centering around Mary Wells, our biggest hitmaker, who had been going strong ever since “Bye Bye Baby.” It had been Smokey with his poetic genius teamed with her unique talent that started a romp through the charts that grew stronger with each release, culminating with the record Smokey had boasted would go to #1 Pop—“My Guy”—which it did in May of ’64. He was sorry he hadn’t bet.

  While the company was wild with celebration, I was badgering Smokey. “What do you have to follow this up with?” I had asked him the minute I heard it was going to be #1.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Working on it? The record’s going to be #1 next week and you don’t even have a follow-up!”

  Smokey would always spend long hours trying to come up with something totally new and different. I told him it was hard for anybody to continue topping themselves. And there was nothing wrong with coming out with a record somewhat similar to the previous one so the people that bought the first one would get a feeling of familiarity. A similar kind of theme would take it further, faster, in a shorter amount of time—and make it a little easier to write.

  Smokey didn’t agree. He refused to make any attempt in any way to copy himself. He hated jumping on any bandwagons, not even his own. But due to a sudden turn of events, Smokey would not have to worry about the next Mary Wells record, so our discussions about it would turn out to be academic.

  Later in the year, however, he did write a tune with a similar title—but different gender: “My Girl” for the Temptations. But to my amazement, it was brilliantly different in almost every other way. He went from—

  Nothing you could say

  could tear me away from My Guy.

  Nothing you could do

  ’cause I’m stuck like glue to My Guy…

  to—

  I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day.

  When it’s cold outside

  I’ve got the month of May.

  I guess you say

  What can make me feel this way?

  My girl…

  My relationship with Mary had always been great. She worked directly with her producers and writers, but if she needed me Mary knew I was always accessible.

  Mary was hot. All the producers wanted to record anything on her—they didn’t give a damn what it was. Whether it was an A side, B side or just a tune in one of her albums, they knew they would make money.

  But all of a sudden no one was able to get in touch with her. Finally, reluctantly, Mickey told me about the problem.

  “I just don’t know what’s going on over there. I think this Herman Griffin cat is putting a lot of shit in her head. BG, I think you need to check her out.”

  That was the last thing I wanted to hear. Of all people to be having trouble with at this time it had to be my biggest star, the person responsible for selling the most records. When Mickey told me how long this had been going on, I hit the ceiling.

  “Why in the hell didn’t somebody tell me about this before it got out of control?”

  “BG, with all your problems you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with this kind of shit.”

  “I got to concern myself with it if you can’t handle it. Who’s going to handle it if I don’t?”

  “I can handle it all right, but I know how much she respects and looks up to you so I figured you could probably deal with it better.”

  “Okay, man, okay.”

  As soon as I got Mary on the phone, I noticed a difference in her voice. When I told her I wanted to meet with her she agreed, but added she could not leave the house. I told her I’d be over.

  “Have a seat,” Mary said when I arrived. Her strangely cool attitude was obvious as she led me into her living room. Saying little else, she left the room. The fact that she kept me waiting for half an hour was confirmation that things had already changed between us.

  When she finally returned I said casually, “So, uh, Mary, what’s happening?”

  In her raspy yet sugary voice, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just here trying to do some things.” She seemed tense.

  I asked her why she hadn’t been to the studio lately. She told me she hadn’t been feeling well. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me “nothing much.”

  “Well, Mary, it seems there’s some kind of problem. Don’t you think we should talk about it?”

  Silence.

  “I mean, if you’re unhappy about something, just let me know what it is so I can do something about it.”

  Silence. She looked as though she almost felt sorry for me. Another bad sign.

  I just sat awkwardly, trying to find something funny to say or hoping she might say something light and amusing to prove my thoughts wrong and brighten the mood. I must admit at this point, I probably would have laughed at anything she said.

  “Mr. Gordy, I think you should talk to my lawyer.”

  I didn’t laugh. I did smile, however, probably out of some natural instinct as a poker player.

  “Lawyer? What do you mean, lawyer?”

  “Well, I have a lawyer from New York. I think you should talk to him. His name is Lewis Harris and he’ll be over to the office tomorrow.”

  That was definitely not good news. Still smiling, I said good-bye, telling her I’d be happy to meet with her lawyer. I lied.

  When I got into my office the next morning there was another surprise. On my desk was a letter from Ray’s attorney in New York, informing me that the Mexican divorce we had gotten two years before was not valid and I was still married.

  Before I could even finish reading the letter, Rebecca buzzed me, telling me that Mary’s attorney was here to see me.

  He came into my office and got right to the point. He told me Mary had been twenty-one for a few months now and was disaffirming all her contracts with Motown. When I wanted to know why, he said she could get a better deal from another company.

  “What else?” I asked him.

  “That’s about it,” he said.

  “There’s much more value here than meets the eye,” I told him, “and money is only part of it. Let m
e show you the whole picture.”

  First, I took him to the writers’ and producers’ rooms, then to the studio, the management operation, and the Promotion and Sales Departments. He said he was most impressed.

  “But wait, there’s more,” I told him.

  I then took him to Artist Development. This was one time I could really appreciate the importance of Gwen’s and Anna’s contributions.

  Even before the tour was over Mr. Harris was full of praise.

  “Mr. Gordy,” he said, “I have never seen a company that does this much for any artist.” He was convinced there was no place in the world for Mary but Motown, and assured me that he was going to tell her “just that.”

  He called me the next day and told me he had been fired. And then went on to give me a piece of advice.

  “Mr. Gordy,” he said, “you’d be better off spending half of the time doing what you do for the artists and the other half telling them what you’re doing. Believe me, they’ll never understand if you don’t.”

  That was good advice. But I knew if I spent only half my time doing for them, they would only go half as far. And I would be only half as successful.

  Mary then hired a Detroit lawyer, Herbert Eiges, and the legal battle began.

  While this was going on, I got a call from Barney in New York with more bad news—bootlegging. Bootlegging, unauthorized duplication and sale of records, had become a real cancer for the record industry. Every time a cache of bootlegged records was found, Motown’s were heavily among them.

  This time, Barney told me, they were all Motown, and the bootleggers had been caught. “Guess who?” he said. He then told me it was not only somebody I knew, but the same somebody who was running my Jobete office in New York, my I-thought-we-were-divorced ex-wife, Ray.

  This had to be a joke. Knowing that Barney and Ray had never gotten along that well, I laughed and waited for the punch line. There was none.

  Ray called me from jail that same day.

  She told me she needed money and thought bootlegging our records was the only way she could get it fast. I was furious but she was the mother of my son and had been too important in my life for me to press charges.

  We redissolved our marriage and, once again, parted amicably. So amicably that after she later married Eddie Singleton I loaned them money to start their own record label in Washington, D.C. When that didn’t work out, she came back to work at Motown in 1968. Ray would leave and return to Motown on and off throughout the years until the mid-eighties. As far as I was concerned, whether we were married or not, we would always care for each other.

  Then in 1990 Ray wrote a book.

  This was not the first book written that cast a negative light on me or Motown. Over the years there have been many books with inaccuracies and rumors printed as “facts.” I generally ignored them, but with Ray’s book it was different. It bothered me that she rehashed some inaccuracies but the accusation that most confounded me was her claim that I had removed her name from the original loan agreement I had received from my family. Not only did it not happen but it couldn’t have since only family members were eligible to borrow money from Ber-Berry.

  She had often told me that she felt her contributions to Motown had never been publicly acknowledged. When books came out they usually gave me all the credit for Motown’s success. That was unfortunate, not only for her but for many of the other great unsung heroes who helped make Motown what it is today.

  “But Ray,” I said, when we were finally on speaking terms, “I haven’t written my book yet.”

  Ray, like many others, was not able to make the long trip with me. But that in no way diminishes her incredible contribution to Motown. And because Ray knows how I’ve always felt about this, we have managed to overcome our differences. She did in fact later retract her statements at some public speaking engagements, after apologizing to me personally.

  Today, we are closer than ever.

  After many months of negotiation, Mary Wells’s departure was finalized.

  Because she had continued to work with us for a few months after her twenty-first birthday, it was hard for her and her people to prove she had disaffirmed her recording contract at the age of majority. In addition to whatever 20th Century-Fox Records offered her, they agreed to pay us a percentage of her record royalties for the three years remaining on her contract with us.

  Over the next eighteen years, Mary would do more than twenty-six records at five different record companies—but it was Motown with whom she would forever be associated.

  Mary had helped to write an exciting chapter in our history and would always be special to me for that. But at the time I was hurt. I had lost the female star I wanted so much to have.

  Before the verdict had come in that she was gone for good, a significant article appeared in Billboard magazine. Dated July 18, 1964, it was from an interview with Barney:

  Ales stated that Berry Gordy, Jr., president of Motown was “surprised and hurt” when he learned that Miss Wells was “apparently receptive” to offers. Ales noted that Miss Wells has had the benefit of an intensive three year promotional and sales campaign by the organization, all of which is reflected in her present status as an artist. Ales, stating that he is aware that many offers are proffered to an artist who has had a top record, added that he would like to alert the industry to a group of young ladies called the Supremes, “who will have the next No. I record in the U.S.”….

  Barney was a salesman, a marketing man. And luckily—a prophet.

  PART THREE

  I HEAR A SYMPHONY

  I HEAR A SYMPHONY

  You’ve given me a true love

  And everyday I thank you love,

  For a feeling that’s so new, so inviting, so exciting.

  Whenever you are near, I Hear A Symphony

  A tender melody—pulling me closer, closer to your arms.

  Then suddenly, your lips are touching mine.

  A feeling so divine, ’til I leave the past behind.

  I’m lost in a world made for you and me.

  Whenever you are near, I Hear A Symphony

  Play sweet and tenderly—

  Every time your lips meet mine my baby,

  Baby, baby, I feel a joy within

  Don’t let this feeling end,

  Let it go on and on and on now baby.

  Baby, baby those tears that fill my eyes

  I cry not for myself

  But for those who’ve never felt the joy we’ve felt.

  Whenever you are near, I Hear A Symphony

  Each time you speak to me—

  I hear a tender rhapsody of love.

  Baby, baby as you stand up holding me,

  Whispering how much you care,

  A thousand violins fill the air now.

  Baby, baby don’t let this moment end,

  Keep standing close to me.

  So close to me, baby, baby, I Hear A Symphony.

  © 1965 Jobete Music Co., Inc.

  EDDIE HOLLAND, LAMONT DOZIER, AND BRIAN HOLLAND

  TUESDAY, MAY 24, 1988—1:30 P.M., LOS ANGELES

  “Brother is it true?” Danny Bakewell, head of the Brotherhood Crusade, a community action group headquartered in South Central L.A., asked as the two of us sat down at my house. He was referring to a rumor that I was refusing to sell my company to black people.

  Rumors like this were no stranger to me. They had been plaguing me for almost thirty years. Building an interracial organization at the time I started Motown was a natural for misconceptions. A black-owned organization with white employees—trying to capture the general market?

  Everyone told me it couldn’t be done, but I had remembered back in 1947 when Jackie Robinson broke the baseball color barrier and became the first black to play in the major leagues. His team, the Brooklyn Dodgers, went on to win the pennant that year. Aside from being proud of the way he carried himself in the face of intense bigotry, it made me see that any team that had the guts to hir
e the best person for the job, no matter what their color, could win. I wanted to win.

  That was my idea when I hired Barney Ales, an Italian, to promote records by black artists to the white Pop stations. I knew for anyone to want to buy my records they first had to hear them.

  When Danny asked me if what he’d heard was true, I was so relieved that he was simply “asking” rather than “telling” or “attacking,” I hugged him.

  I could sense his surprise at my emotional display. Letting him go, I laughed and told him, “No, Danny, it’s not true.”

  He told me he had a black buyer, and asked if I’d meet with him.

  “Of course.”

  A meeting was set up for a few days later. Aside from my staff, also scheduled to attend were California Speaker of the Assembly Willie Brown and Assemblywoman Maxine Waters, both of whom had expressed concern about the situation.

  Except for Willie Brown, who was stuck on a flight somewhere, everyone showed up.

  Within minutes of clearing up the misconception, everyone could see that the potential buyer present—Dick Griffey, who owned Solar Records—was in no position to buy Motown.

  As much as we might have liked it to be otherwise, everybody quickly realized that only a big corporation with global distribution would be able to buy Motown, preserve its legacy, and position it properly to move into the twenty-first century. After that meeting I never heard anything more about it.

  In the meantime, while MCA and I were close to a deal, there were many important conditions I still had to fight for. Money was a big one, but even more important were assurances I needed in trying to preserve Motown’s black heritage.

  While all this was going on Diana called. Just hearing her voice always made me feel good, no matter what she had to say. Having left the company several years before, she urged me not to sell. She said she was ready to come back to Motown. When I heard that I wanted to shout out, “Too late, you fool. I’m almost broke!” But as mad as I was at her that day, what she said, and the way she said it, made me think for a moment of not selling.