by Berry Gordy
Barney: “We’re talking big bucks. They might sell ten million.”
Me: “Brian Epstein would never not use a great song just to save a half cent. No way. I’m holding out.”
And I did—until about two minutes to twelve. I had lost the game of chicken. I rushed a wire off to England agreeing to their demand of the one-and-a-half-cent rate.
Everybody was jubilant that I had given in, including me—until about two o’clock that same day when we got the news. Capitol Records had the albums in stock at their distributors and were, at that very moment, sending them out to radio stations and stores. The Beatles’ new album with our three songs on it, had already been recorded, mixed, mastered, pressed and shipped.
!?#@!!?
Then again, I’d probably make that same decision today. I have learned you should never outnegotiate yourself. A part of something is always better than all of nothing.
Another lesson I learned around this time came when the Supremes’ third single from their Where Did Our Love Go album, “Come See About Me,” was on its way to #1. We were in San Francisco where they were to appear at a distributors’ convention. I got a call at my hotel from a record store owner who wanted the Supremes to come by his shop to sign a few autographs. He told me how much he had been promoting their records and that he was a big fan of mine.
Not wanting to be rude and tell him flat out no, I said that because of our tight schedule, I didn’t think the girls could do it.
He asked me if I would just think about it.
I told him I would but I was sure they couldn’t make it.
The next day I heard ads on the air heavily promoting the Supremes’ appearance at his record store.
I jumped on the phone to the guy. “What the hell are you doing? I didn’t tell you they’d be there.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but you didn’t say they wouldn’t.”
“What I said was I didn’t think so.”
“I know, but you said you’d think about it and you never called back. I’ve got five thousand fans out here waiting and if the Supremes don’t show up, there’s gonna be a riot.”
“That’s your problem,” I said. “We are definitely not gonna be there.”
“Well, then, I’m definitely gonna sue you,” he said. “And the girls.”
I slammed the phone down, knowing it was all my fault. I should have been clearer. I got the girls together and went to his store. I translated this lesson into another saying for myself that I called Three Ds, and not Four: Be Direct, Decisive, Deliberate, but not Dumb.
For the past two years the Motortown Revue had been so popular when we took it on the road we decided to bring it home and stage what would become an annual Christmas Show at Detroit’s Fox Theatre, downtown. The first one started on Christmas Day, 1964, and ended in a gala New Year’s Eve performance. This sold-out engagement with four shows a day was a chance for the local kids to see their hometown heroes in action. As usual, the lineup could change from show to show, depending on the audience reaction. It didn’t matter who had hits or how popular you were—you had to be great on that stage. Driving the audience crazy was the only thing that counted. And you could never take your spot for granted. That was something the Supremes found out.
When the engagement opened, they were third from the prestigious closing spot, followed by Marvin Gaye and finally the Miracles—the stars of the show. Two days after the show opened, the Supremes had to fly off to New York where they made their debut on The Ed Sullivan Show. This was television’s biggest entertainment hour. Viewed by millions—Sunday nights, eight o’clock—live. They sang “Come See About Me,” their third consecutive #1 hit. Though they had won over Ed Sullivan and won the hearts of the whole country, when they got back home to do the show they had lost their spot to Stevie Wonder. He had become wildly popular with the audience.
By this time Smokey had become a master showman and the Miracles were so respected by the rest of the artists that no one ever complained about them closing the show. Their hits got great reaction, but what usually brought the house down was Smokey’s closing number, “Mickey’s Monkey.”
Smokey would start lowering his body, bringing the song down with him as he’d tell the band “a little bit softer now, a little bit softer now”—until he was lying on the floor, whispering into the mike in the sexiest voice. His snapping fingers echoed through the theater as the audience sat hushed and spellbound. Then Smokey would begin rising slowly as he told the band “a little bit louder now, a little bit louder now.” By the time he got to full volume with the other Miracles doing the monkey, the crowd was on their feet dancing right along with them.
A couple nights after the Supremes returned from the Sullivan show, Smokey came to me complaining about Diana. He said people were accusing him of stealing the Supremes’ act, so he sat in the audience that day to find out what they were talking about. He was shocked to see Diana fall to her knees, singing “a little bit softer now.”
“And,” he said, “the crowd loved it. It’s ridiculous. She’s doing my whole bit. You gotta stop her.”
“Smoke,” I said, “the Supremes lost their spot and Diana’s just trying to get it back.”
“And mine, too.”
That tickled me.
“But Smokey, you’re the star. You’ll just have to come up with something else. There’s no way I’m gonna stop her.”
“I know,” he chuckled. “I didn’t think you would. And then too, as fine as she is, I wouldn’t stop her either.”
I guess I loved her before I even knew it.
She was the inspiration for a song I’d written, “Try It Baby.” As usual, my idea for this song had come from real life.
I imagined a girl like her with a guy like me who was building and guiding her career. I envisioned this guy investing all of his time and effort in this girl, while at the same time falling in love with her. What if she got so big, so popular, so caught up in fame and fortune that she no longer had time for him? I felt the Blues coming over me. I headed for the piano. I played and sang and played and sang.
Finally, I had a song:
Now you’re moving on up, pretty baby
You’re leaving me behind
Ev’rybody seems to love you,
You’re doing just fine, fine, fine.
But take away your good looks and all your fancy clothes
Why don’t you just try it baby, try it baby, try it baby, try it baby
You’ll see that nobody loves you but me
Now you tell me that you’re so busy, pretty baby
You ain’t got much time
Oh how well I remember
When all of your time was mine, mine, mine
Well move on back, ’cross the tracks where you came from
Why don’t you just try it baby, try it baby, try it baby and
You’ll see that nobody loves you but me
I really want to hold you pretty baby
In my arms again
But I can’t get close to you
For all your loving friends, friends, friends
But take your name from the bright lights
And tell them that you’re all through
Why don’t you just try it baby, try it baby, try it baby, and
You’ll see that nobody loves you but me…
I recorded it on Marvin Gaye, the artist I thought could express my feelings best. He did not let me down. Benny on drums, Jamerson on bass, Earl Van Dyke, piano, and the Temptations’ phenomenal background vocals helped make it a hit.
I never told Diana she was the inspiration for that song. I found myself falling for her more and more, but I stayed cool, incredibly cool.
Meanwhile in the media, the Supremes were everywhere. The black press had gotten behind the girls early on. John H. Johnson’s Jet and Ebony magazines were the first to give them covers. Jet’s managing editor, Bob Johnson, took a special interest in all our acts. Then, the white magazines like Look and Ti
me started jumping on the girls full force. It was a Supremes invasion.
I loved the way the Supremes could do standards and Broadway songs like “Make Someone Happy,” “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You” and “Put On A Happy Face” in pure, three-part harmony without a band, a piano or anything. Snapping their fingers, enjoying themselves, they were incredible. I don’t think they ever thought seriously about singing standards and show tunes, but I did. Even though our experience had taught us with Marvin on his standards albums that the public wanted only Top 40 hits from Motown artists, I knew those standards were the key to taking our people to the next level of show business—top nightclubs around the country. And I knew the Supremes could lead the way.
It was common knowledge that in order to be booked into the major clubs and showrooms, you first had to make it at the Copacabana in New York. Once you did, the other clubs would then book you. A #1 record meant nothing to the Copa, which was home to superstar entertainers like Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis, Jr. You had to be a seasoned act with years of experience or the Copa was not interested.
My idea was that if I could get the Supremes to do a standard on national TV, millions of people would become believers like me. But every time I tried to get a TV producer to let them do one, they were not interested. Valuable TV time on old standards? No way. “Just their hits is all we want. Just the hits.”
Finally, Gary Smith, the producer of Hullabaloo, agreed to let the Supremes do “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You” for a show they would be taping after we came back from Europe. After so many tries, I had finally come through. For the first time, millions of people would see them doing something that they were not known for, totally different from their hits. What a showcase for their other talents. Many shows might have done it had I pursued long enough, but it was Gary Smith who did. This opportunity was critical to me—a shot I couldn’t afford to blow. Not only because it could take the Supremes to the next level, and higher, but if done right it could break down other stereotypical barriers in the world of national TV. I had visions of Motown songs on Broadway. Motown songs in movies, clubs, everywhere. Would we be ready? You’re damn right we would.
The timing could not have been better as our first international Motortown Revue was about to kick off in London and proceed on a tour that would include performances and television bookings throughout Great Britain, Germany, Holland and France. Having earlier launched our international label, Tamla-Motown, the artists now would be getting international exposure, many for the first time. And it would give me the opportunity to work out the kinks with the Supremes on “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You.”
In addition to the Supremes, the Revue lineup included the Tempts, the Miracles, Martha and the Vandellas, Stevie Wonder, the Earl Van Dyke Sextet and musical arranger, conductor and trumpet player Gil Askey. A gifted musician and a natural entertainer, Gil was indispensable both on and off stage. He not only wrote the Supremes’ arrangements but was the glue that held their entire show together.
Besides a large entourage of chaperones, road managers and assistants, I also took along members of my family, my three oldest kids, Hazel, Berry and Terry, and Mother and Pop. They were happy to see me and my troops in action.
When we touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport, we were greeted by cheering fans holding banners that read, “Welcome to the U.K.” and “We Love Tamla-Motown!” Because we couldn’t get our records on the government stations, our earliest airplay had come from Radio Veronica and Radio Caroline, “pirate ships” anchored a few miles off the coasts of England and Holland. Now we were being heard on the BBC, Radio Free Europe and The Voice of America, even in countries behind the Iron Curtain. Many not only loved the artists but followed the writers and producers as well. I had heard how popular we were outside America, but this was my first chance to really experience it.
London was a whirlwind—promotions, engagements, and taping the Rediffusion TV special The Sound of Motown, hosted by Dusty Springfield.
One day Pop, the kids and I stopped at the Pinewood movie studios where we met the Beatles—Paul, John, Ringo and George.
While taking photographs together, I told them how thrilled I was with the way they did our three songs in their second album. They told me what Motown music had meant to them and how much they loved Smokey’s writing, James Jamerson’s bass playing and the big drum sound of Benny Benjamin.
“We love all your artists,” John said in his Liverpool accent, rattling off the names of most of the artists on our roster, including Marvin “Guy.”
My kids could barely speak, but Pop pulled two of the Beatles aside telling one of his stories about how hard work always pays off. I tried to rescue them by telling Pop we had to go, but they said they wanted to hear more.
Our second stop after London was Manchester, where we were doing two shows a night. Now was the time to start working on “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You.”
The theater where we were booked had about five hundred seats and I was disappointed that the first show played to a house that was only half full. Not wanting that to dim their spirits and wanting them to see how proud I was, I made a point of sitting right up in the front row.
I had seated Mother, Pop and the kids several rows back so I wouldn’t be distracted. I sat down, ready with my pad and pencil as the Earl Van Dyke band hit the stage.
This night everybody gave their all, and the response from the audience was great. But as usual I had notes critiquing every act on something.
The Supremes were great on their first two numbers. Then they went into “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You.” The crowd took a break. They didn’t recognize or understand the song, much less Gil Askey’s unique Jazz arrangement. The girls struggled to make it work. It didn’t, but I was delighted. I had a plan and I could now see it was gonna work. The Supremes closed with “Baby Love” to rousing applause.
After the show I dashed backstage to tell everybody how great they were and give them my notes. They all seemed in high spirits, happy that they’d gotten through the first show. That is, all except Diana.
She was seething, biting out her words in a low whisper, “Can I see you alone?”
“Of course.”
Once outside the dressing room she exploded. “I don’t know what you are trying to do but I’m not gonna let you ruin my career! They hate the song, and so do I. I’m not doing it anymore.”
I stood there, knowing how much she hated dying in front of any audience. She was a real star. But when she said she wasn’t doing it, I was shocked. She had never said anything like that to me before.
“Look,” I told her, “those are just a few people. I’m talking about TV and over forty million people. This song could open the door to everything we’ve wanted.”
“I don’t care. I’m not doing it. I’m not ruining my career for you or nobody.”
“Okay,” I said slowly and as calmly as I could, “let me explain what the situation is.”
Stony-faced, she just stood there.
“Those people will see you tonight and maybe never again. I’m talking about your whole career.”
“I’m not singing the song anymore. I’m just not gonna do it.”
“I tell you what,” I said, “just make up your mind who you want to satisfy. It’s either me or them. It’s your decision.” I turned and left.
As I walked to my seat my heart was sinking into my stomach. I had given her an ultimatum. And now I was locked into it. Insane! This might just be my last show with the Supremes!
Inside me there was a power struggle between the effect Diana had on me and my need to win. I knew if I backed down now I would never be able to direct the group properly in the future. Why did I have to give her an ultimatum? Maybe I overreacted.
In the past when lesser disagreements had faced us, Diana had always come around. I was hoping.
I slumped into the seat, waiting for the
second show to begin.
When the Supremes finally came out with their usual opening number, I was a knotted ball of tension. When they came to the part of the show where they were supposed to do “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You” they skipped it. My heart sank to my knees.
I began to think of my life without the Supremes. What would I do? Retract the ultimatum? No, never. Leave the tour and go back to Detroit? Concentrate on someone else? Quit the business? Nothing made any sense.
Each time the Supremes came to a new song I was praying for a miracle. But nothing. When it got near the end, knowing that Gil and she prearranged which songs they would do, so that he could prepare the music beforehand, I gave up. My heart lay busted on the floor. I was numb.
Then I heard the band playing the next intro. Was I dreaming? Was it wishful thinking? Yes, it was the intro to “You’re Nobody.” And when she started to sing the words it almost brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to jump for joy. My heart was soaring. But my stomach—that took time to settle.
I had gambled once again and won, not only for myself but for the Supremes, who I wanted to be the biggest female singing group in the history of the world.
When I saw Diana after the show, I told her how happy I was she had done the song.
“What song?” She smiled. “I still don’t like it, but,” she paused, glancing at me, “I did it for you.” And then walked away.
WHAT A LITTLE MOONLIGHT CAN DO
After Manchester, the Supremes sang “You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You” at each performance, and as audiences began to like it more and more they gained confidence. Margaret and I had broken up several months earlier, and now, each time I thought about Manchester I realized how much Diana meant to me. I was madly in love. I think she knew it.
The tour ended in Paris. Diana and I were walking down the street when she said, “Black…”
Ever since that experience with Marvin, when I called him “boy” that day, I had been taking so-called negative words and using them in positive ways.