To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  “Memo? Man, fuck memo! Just do it. You’ in charge, ain’t ya?”

  I called Rebecca and told her to make arrangements for the ridiculous little character.

  Those few days turned into twenty-one years. Billy, somehow, knew about the finer things in life and was determined to show me what they were. He immediately became my valet and when buying my suits, ties, shoes or whatever kept us both “sharper than a dog.”

  Billy had such a positive attitude about life. He had a unique style for lifting people’s spirits, helping them, telling them what they needed to hear, whether good or bad, and they loved it. His enjoyment of things was contagious. He really loved to see the artists perform and they all wanted him to come to their shows, especially Diana. Always with a large group, Billy and his friends would sit right up front, cheering the artists on. His snaps and claps were so loud and had such personality they’d get everyone going.

  Billy loved to have fun. A party never felt like it was really a party until Billy got there. When we walked into a room of strangers in a group I was usually overlooked. He was exactly what many thought Berry Gordy would be.

  Billy became a part of my traveling entourage with the Supremes and shared most of my adventures. An important link between me and those he befriended on my behalf—family, friends, business associates, celebrities, politicians, royalty, heads of state—Billy became a Motown institution.

  To many he was as much a star as Diana, Mary and Flo. Whenever I’d meet people, no matter where they came from, no matter how removed from the entertainment business—once even an ambassador from Uganda—they’d often surprise me with, “How’s Billy?”

  The fall of 1966 brought the Supremes’ most hectic schedule ever. We joked there were times when we’d have to check the itinerary to know what continent we were on. One day, touring Japan, we’d have a private audience with a future prime minister, entertaining him with an a capella three-part harmony rendition of “Put On A Happy Face.” Another day we’d be doing a sound check at the Flamingo Hotel, nervously preparing for our Vegas debut. Then off again—Europe, the Far East and finally home.

  We were swept up in the most glamorous lifestyle imaginable, but the bottom line was still hard, very hard, work. The girls seldom got a chance to socialize. That was something Mary Wilson brought to my attention in a hotel lobby one night in London.

  “Flo and me,” she said, “we like to have fun at night. Don’t make us go to bed just because you’re jealous of Diana meeting somebody else.”

  I laughed. “That’s got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  “She’s the one who needs to save her voice and get sleep, not us. She leads. All we do is ‘doobee-doobee-doo.’” Mary looked squarely in my eyes. She had always been direct, smart and calculating, but I had always managed to stay a step ahead. This time she had put me on the defensive and she knew it.

  Though we were discreet, it was common knowledge that Diana and I were going together.

  She said it again. “If you’re jealous of her that’s your problem, but don’t make us suffer.”

  “That has to be the dumbest thing I ever heard,” I stupidly repeated. I stared her down for a moment but, feeling uncomfortable, I smiled. “Mary, you’d say anything to get out at night.”

  She smiled knowingly.

  “Let me think about it,” I said as I left her standing there all dressed up in that hotel lobby, waiting for me to give her the green light.

  I went to Diana’s room, resigned to let them all go out, and told her about Mary’s comments.

  It amused her that I might be jealous. “Black,” she said, “I have no desire to go out anywhere. I need all the sleep I can get. I’ve gotta protect my voice.” Her instincts were incredible.

  I told Mary they were free to go out, but still within reasonable restrictions.

  I never knew whether Diana really wanted to go out or not. But the fact that she was willing to make sacrifices thrilled me. Jealousy or whatever it was, I had found another reason to go 110 percent for her—she was going 110 percent for herself.

  Diana’s happiness or sadness always affected me. And that was not just one-sided. Twice she threw me a surprise birthday party. Probably the greatest surprise I ever gave her reads like a little vignette that I’ll call “Just for a Smile.”

  The story began at the El San Juan Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where the Supremes were performing. I was thinking about what I could do to thrill her.

  Over the past many months, Diana had been talking nonstop about how desperately she missed her nine-year-old brother, Chico. Wherever we were, he was always on her mind. Boston, Philadelphia, Europe, anywhere. “Black,” she said at every opportunity, “you know, I really miss Chico.”

  So many times, spotting a kid on the street, pointing, she’d remark, “That boy sure looks like Chico, don’t you think?”

  Suddenly, sitting in the El San Juan Hotel, a perfect idea came to me. For the next two days I made all the arrangements, enlisting everybody else in the entourage to play a part in this major operation. Just anticipating Diana’s reaction, I was filled with joy.

  Finally everything was ready.

  Diana and I were sitting in the grand, spacious, tropically decorated hotel lobby. Overhead fans whirled. Palm trees and other greenery surrounded the many clusters of chairs and sofas. Hotel guests milled about.

  Two sofas away sat the real Chico Ross with his back to us. My plan had worked perfectly up to this point.

  As Diana glanced around the lobby her eyes focused on the back of his head.

  “Here I go again,” she said. “See that kid right there? Boy, I’m telling you, he really looks just like Chico.”

  “You’re right. There you go again.”

  “I just don’t know anymore, but I swear the back of his head is identical to Chico’s.”

  “Whose head?”

  Diana pointed. “That boy. That boy right there.”

  I looked where she was pointing. “Now that you mention it, he kinda does.”

  As if to wake herself up, she blinked her eyes a couple of times, shaking her head.

  “Why don’t we see what he looks like from the front?” I suggested.

  Diana got up from the seat and walked around to his front side. I stood off to the side and saw THE MOST MARVELOUS DOUBLE TAKE OF THE CENTURY. Diana, not believing her eyes, blinked several times. Chico played it to the hilt, dragging out his recognition of her. Finally he cracked a smile.

  “Chico?” Diana asked tentatively.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  Diana gasped in disbelief, jumped up and down, grabbed Chico, hugged and kissed him all over his face. She was crying. We all were.

  After the Supremes’ big smash at the Copa, nightclubs all around the country had not only opened up for them but for other Motown acts as well. Esther and her ITMI staff did an incredible job assigning managers to the various artists. They took great pride in moving very fast toward any booking opportunity that would benefit our acts. There was action all the time. Martha Reeves and the Vandellas had a sensational run at the Copa, where the Temptations had also been a hit. The Four Tops were standing room only at the Latin Casino and Stevie was getting standing ovations at the Eden Roc.

  Every artist had their own notion of how to reach the top. Marvin Gaye was one who always wanted to prove he could do things his way. Knowing how much that meant to him I always tried to give him some space.

  We made a deal for Marvin to play a week at Bimbo’s, San Francisco’s most prominent nightclub. Marvin was in Heaven. This was his dream. I reminded him not to get carried away by this fancy nightclub but to play to his audience, the people who would come from miles around to see him, especially the women. That was one of the few times he agreed with me completely.

  Marvin was a sex symbol from the start. That gave me the idea to encourage the writers to create “You” type songs where he could sing directly to the women.
“YOU’re a wonderful one…” “YOU are my pride and joy.” “How sweet it is to be loved by YOU.” “Little darlin’ I need YOU…” He even recorded a song just called “You.”

  Marvin’s secret, he said, was that he sang every song to his wife, Anna, in tribute to the love they shared. Other women seemed to feel he was singing only to them.

  When I offered to help him prepare for Bimbo’s he said no. He had a great plan and would rather work it out himself.

  Jumping into heavy rehearsals with the Artist Development crew—Harvey Fuqua, the show coordinator, Maurice King, band leader and vocal coach, and Cholly Atkins, choreographer—he convinced me he really meant business.

  Well, the night finally came and Bimbo’s was jammed. Settling proudly into my seat, I became a fan myself, getting caught up in the anticipation.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice boomed from off stage, “the man who brought you ‘Stubborn Kind Of Fellow’ and ‘Hitch Hike’…”

  Applause.

  “The man you’ve all been waiting for is here, baby…”

  Cheers, whistles and more applause!

  “The man who brought you ‘How Sweet It Is’ and ‘I’ll Be Doggone’…”

  Louder!

  “‘Wonderful One’ and ‘Ain’t That Peculiar,’ baby…”

  A deafening roar.

  “Bimbo’s is proud to present your ‘Pride And Joy.’ Maaarvin Gaye!!!”

  Insanity.

  The stage was black as the band struck the downbeat to a Broadway-type intro. With one pin light spilling down to show Marvin dressed in a tuxedo, top hat and cane, swooning females were letting out strange, high-pitched sounds as he stood there posing.

  Finally the band built to a crescendo and bang! The band stopped. Quiet! Marvin, snapping his fingers, started singing in a slow calm voice:

  “Me… and my shadow… strolling down the avenue.”

  What?! I thought I was dreaming. Hoped I was dreaming. But as he continued through the whole first verse I knew I wasn’t. He then made a sharp turn, tipped his hat, flipped his cane and tapped it on the floor.

  He was Fred Astaire! Where was “Pride And Joy”? Where was “Wonderful One”? Where was Marvin Gaye?

  For his next number he slid right into “Blue Moon.” There was Fred Astaire again. The crowd was becoming more and more subdued, but continued with polite applause.

  After four or five numbers like that, finally he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, there comes a time in everybody’s life when they have to do things like make a living. I’ve put together a little medley of some of my hit songs I hope you like.”

  His fans came back to life with screaming applause.

  He then proceeded to do almost every one of his hits in a medley that took no more than five minutes. Sitting there in a state of shock, my anger swelled as I watched my top male star apologizing for singing some of the greatest songs of the time.

  When he finished the medley he sighed, “Now that that’s over let’s get into some real music,” and went into “The Shadow Of Your Smile.”

  I was numb for the rest of the show, every now and then getting mad at the audience, who were probably as disappointed as I was but still applauding whatever he did.

  I kicked myself for letting Marvin talk me out of seeing any rehearsals.

  “BG, I just want to see you there opening night. This is going to knock you out,” he had told me. Well, it did.

  Knowing he never could have pulled it off without Harvey, Cholly and Maurice, the minute the show was over I dashed backstage to attack them. I don’t know what was funnier that night—the dumbfounded look on my face watching the show or the three of them knocking into each other like bowling pins trying to get out of my way.

  Marvin smiled when he saw me being pushed and pulled through the crowded doorway into his dressing room, which was blocked by a crowd of admirers. He was so excited that I had seen his show he stopped the man who was toweling off the sweat from his bare upper body to hug me. “Whatcha think, BG?”

  “Marvin,” I said, “what the hell were you doing out there?”

  “You didn’t like it?” he said with an expression that told me he thought he had done the greatest show of his life. I could see how much it meant to him to surprise me in what he thought was a wonderful way. Everybody in the dressing room knew it hadn’t worked, but they weren’t about to tell him. And, after realizing how hurt he’d be, neither was I.

  “Oh, I liked it all right, but don’t you think you should’ve given your hits a little more respect? I mean, most of those people came to hear them.”

  Marvin’s entourage of yes men seemed paralyzed. Marvin was puzzled. He had only been hearing how great everything was. Now no one was talking.

  I was still seething inside, but this was not the time for me to go crazy. Marvin was very sensitive and knew me well, and I could see he was beginning to feel something.

  “I must admit, though, you really did look phenomenal in that top hat and cane. Where did you learn those steps?”

  “Cholly put me through hell. Did you like ’em?”

  “Oh yeah. I liked them,” I said. “You were really good, but I just think you could have balanced out the show with a few more of your hit songs.”

  “I think BG’s got a point,” Harvey said. “We probably should change the show for the weekend and do more hits.”

  “You think so?” Marvin said.

  They all chimed in, “Yeah,” hoping they could get off the hook with me.

  They never did. I still remind them of that today.

  Marvin was full of surprises. Once he called me in the middle of the night. “BG, I’ve got this incredible idea for a new career.”

  “For who?”

  “Me.”

  I held my breath. “What is it, Marvin?”

  He paused for a moment and then came out with it. “Boxing. I want to be a boxer!”

  Once before it was football. He actually tried out for the Detroit Lions and came back telling me how depressed he was when they told him he was too old. One great thing about Marvin was, even in his pain he could always find something to laugh about.

  “BG, I guess I roar better than I rush,” he chuckled.

  Marvin had a wonderful sense of humor. His jokes were not always funny but the way he told them always made me laugh.

  One day at the Rancho Park Golf Course in L.A. Marvin and I sat waiting at the seventh tee in a golf cart.

  “BG, did I ever tell you the story about the proper English woman, M’lady, and her butler?”

  “Only about a hundred times but I’d love to hear it again. Nobody can tell it like you,” I said.

  “Well,” he began, in what he thought was an aristocratic English accent, “this woman comes home one night, tells her butler to follow her and she goes directly to her bedroom. Then, she says, ‘James, take off me dress.’ James says, ‘Me-Lye-dy!’ ‘That’s all right, James, just take it off.’ He does. Then the woman says, ‘James, take off me stockings,’ and he says, ‘But me-Lye-dy!’ She insists, so he does. ‘Now James, take off me brassiere.’ ‘Oh, but me-Lyyye-dy!’ and she says, ‘Take it off, I say.’ And he takes it off.”

  The people behind us drove up in their golf cart, irritated that we were still there talking rather than playing. I jumped out of the cart and grabbed my driver. Taking a swing, I hit the ball about two hundred yards, much further than I would have if I’d stood there and taken a hundred practice swings, like I usually did. Marvin got out and hit his ball fast, too, but he wasn’t so lucky, hooking it into the trees.

  “Shit, BG,” he said, “You know I don’t like being rushed.” We jumped into our cart, riding first to Marvin’s ball. He got out, walked to his ball, took a couple of practice swings and started laughing. Came back over to me sitting in the cart.

  “‘Now, James,’” he said, “‘take off me panties.’”

  “What are you doing? Come on, Marvin, we’re already ho
lding people up.”

  “Oh no way, BG, you gotta hear this punch line.” His voice got even more dramatic with the butler’s response: “‘But me Lyyye-dy.’ ‘Come on, James, take them off, I say.’” Then Marvin looked at me sternly, shaking his finger, delivering his punch line: “‘And James, don’t you ever, ever wear me clothes again.’”

  Marvin got a bigger kick out of it than I did, but I must admit I laughed hard, not so much at the joke but at the way he told it.

  There was another person in the company who we called our resident practical joker. His name was Stevie Wonder.

  I was heading to the studio one day when I heard somebody say: “I like that suit, Mr. Gordy.”

  I looked around and saw a young Stevie Wonder smiling at me.

  “And that’s a great tie. Green, isn’t it? Where’d you get it?”

  I figured it was one of his pranks. Somebody had tipped him off about what I was wearing, so I decided to fool him.

  “I’m not wearing a tie,” I responded. “I took it off just before I came into the studio.”

  “Well, if you are wearing a tie, can I have it?”

  “Okay, Stevie, who told you?”

  “What? Am I blind?”

  Stevie was delightful. His wit, I was told, was inherited from his mother, Lula. I always had a special fondness for her. She had helped shape Stevie’s perspective on life by not allowing him or his five siblings to focus on his blindness. Ted Hull, the private tutor we hired to tour with him, though legally blind, was another very positive influence.

  Stevie’s sensitivity, intelligence and the way he compensated with his other senses impressed everyone. There were even some things he did that a lot of us envied—like when he was being introduced to someone. With his highly developed sense of touch, it was normal for Stevie when meeting anybody to reach out and feel their face or shoulders. After that, he would automatically recognize the person. Sometimes when it was an attractive girl, reaching for her face, his hands would “accidentally” find their way to the breast area.

  Embarrassed, Stevie would quickly apologize to the girl for his “mistake.” Then he’d smile in our direction as if to say, “Eat your heart out, fellas.”