To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  That was the atmosphere at Hitsville. Always a new comedy. Always a new crisis. Always a behind-the-scenes soap opera unfolding. People were still hanging out on the front lawn—some trying to catch a glimpse of one of their favorite stars, others hoping to meet somebody to get them through the front door for an audition. They came from everywhere.

  Hal Davis, from our California office, had told me he was sending out a girl he wanted me to audition. Hal was hot, known in L.A. as “Mr. Motown.” Remembering he had sent Brenda Holloway, I was not about to ignore him.

  Chris Clark was an avid Motown fan. This opportunity meant everything to her.

  The story of her audition became something she and our receptionist, Juana Royster, loved to tell.

  Seeing Chris waiting nervously downstairs, Juana sent her up to my office saying, “Don’t worry. Mr. Gordy is a very nice man. Just be yourself.”

  While on the phone I looked up and saw a tall, earthy-looking girl with straight blond hair and blue eyes, casually dressed in sandals, coming into my office.

  I smiled and motioned for her to hand me her demo record and have a seat. Getting off the phone, I played the demo she had brought. I didn’t like the songs but I loved her voice. “How about doing something live,” I asked.

  “I hadn’t planned on that.”

  “I know. That’s why I want you to do it. For all I know you could’ve worked on that demo for two years.”

  “Do you have a piano?”

  “No, I’d like to see what you can do with no help.”

  She took a deep breath and started belting out a soulful rendition of Etta James’s “All I Could Do Was Cry”—a song co-written by me. Smart move.

  “Where’d you get so much soul?” I asked.

  “I spent years traveling on the road with Jazz musicians and I picked up a lot of things. Not the least of which was soul.”

  She had a kind of wit I found appealing. I also liked her voice and later found out she could write songs.

  When I told her we would sign her, she was so happy. Rushing downstairs, she was stopped by Juana, who asked, “So, how’d it go?”

  “Oh, I was so nervous at first,” Chris confided, “just sitting there waiting, with that big black ape staring right at me.”

  Shocked, Juana copped an attitude.

  “Oh no,” Chris said. “I mean, that ceramic ape sitting on his desk.”

  Juana was relieved. “Oh, that one.”

  Chris had to take her shot. “Oh, I definitely wasn’t talkin’ ’bout that other one.”

  They both laughed and so did the whole company when they heard the story.

  Over the years Chris and I became close. Very close. I loved her companionship and found with her a different kind of security, a mental security. Her mind was quicker than mine. Some people didn’t know what to make of Chris’s razor-sharp but extremely subtle wit or her rapid-fire jumps from one subject to the next.

  We wrote many songs together, including one I produced on her called “I Want To Go Back There Again.” It didn’t get too big, but it is a song that meant a lot to me. Even today, it’s something I love playing and singing whenever I sit down at the piano. She helped me with many creative projects for other artists. She would later be nominated for an Academy Award as a screen writer of Lady Sings the Blues.

  It was Chris, more than anyone else, who made me realize that there were many facets to a relationship. There were definitely different levels to the one she and I had. The mental and verbal side was always there; over time the physical developed—but was never the most important part of the relationship. Since Chris had been the first white woman I had been involved with, I learned a lot from my experience with her about how the world looks at mixed couples. Color was never an issue between us but we knew it was for many others, both black and white.

  The tasks of running the company had grown as explosively as the company itself. I was wearing more hats than I could count. One I did not have to wear was the day-to-day running of the A&R Department.

  Except for that problem with Mary Wells, Mickey kept everything running smoothly. I did, however, get a complaint now and then when he wanted a larger percentage of a song than he was entitled to.

  Mickey was a street cat, a wheeler-dealer, but I knew it was that same hustling quality that made him the superstar A&R man he was. He could match up any kind of team—writers, producers, artists—any combination.

  He himself many times came up with a key idea, word or phrase on somebody else’s production that helped make it a smash, A motivator, Mickey inspired greatness. He was tough but took care of his people. They loved him and so did I.

  But the time came when Mickey wanted to run his own show. That day he called to see me I could hear something was up in his voice. Heavy confidence was attached to his lower tones. But when he came into my office he was a little more humble, as he told me about a major offer he had received from MGM to set up and run a record division for them on the West Coast.

  “I think it’s a big shot for me, BG. What do you think?”

  What could I say? He was only asking my permission out of deep respect. I knew we’d miss him but I wished him luck.

  I would always remember Mickey Stevenson for his loyalty and dedication. He was one of the greatest creative forces during our formative years.

  When Mickey left I decided to put Eddie Holland in as the head of A&R. And when Billie Jean Brown took a year and a half leave of absence to go to Spain with her husband, I appointed Brian Holland to her position as head of Quality Control. Both moves further increased the power of HDH. Both were moves I would come to regret.

  With all the action in our A&R Department there was just as much growth and change over in our Sales Department.

  As the Motown Machine was becoming more and more finely tuned, I again decided to try something new—integrating our sales force. With the promotion aspect of sales this had never been a problem.

  Our in-house black promotion men were vital to our growth by getting airplay with the all-important black radio stations.

  Harvey Fuqua had been our first, followed by others like Sonny Woods, an old friend of mine who’d sung with the Midnighters, and Weldon McDougall III, who promoted records while accompanying artists on promo tours. We were fortunate when we were able to get two great veterans of the business, DJ Jockey Jack Gibson from Cincinnati and the legendary Larry Maxwell. Jack Gibson understood the mentality of the DJs better than anybody and Larry Maxwell, I felt, was absolutely the tops at promotion.

  But when selling records to the mainstream market I had learned long before that you had to deal with people’s prejudices.

  I had not forgotten the hurt I felt when my brother’s record, “Everyone Was There,” had died when the public realized that this white-sounding record was performed by a black artist.

  That was why we released some of our early albums without showing the artists’ faces on them. The Marvelettes’ album Please Mr. Postman had a picture of a mailbox on it; Bye Bye Baby by Mary Wells, a love letter. We put a cartoon of an ape on the cover of The Miracles’ Doin’ Mickey’s Monkey; and an Isley Brothers album had two white lovers at the beach on its cover.

  This practice became less necessary as our music’s popularity started overcoming the prejudices.

  But there were so many other color barriers to overcome. I remember one day sitting in Barney’s office in a sales meeting when I noticed I was the only black person in the room. My own company!

  After the meeting I talked to Barney and Phil. “How come there’s nothing but white folks in the Sales Department?”

  “You just now noticed?” Barney asked.

  I smiled. “I guess I never saw black and white, I only saw record sales.”

  Of course I knew the Sales Department was all white. Barney had built it with experienced people he knew in the business. They were a powerful team. With their know-how, they not only dealt successfully with the distributors but with on
e-stops and a new sector of the market known as rackjobbers—the guys who sold records in large quantities to supermarkets and drugstores.

  “You always told me you wanted a general market company, and that’s what we got here,” Barney said. “We want to sell our records across the board and when I put my team together, there were no black salesmen I knew out there that had ever done that or that could do it the way we needed done.”

  “Have you tried to find any?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Well I think you should. If black promotion men can get white stations to play a record, why can’t black salesmen get white distributors to buy them as well?”

  I could see Barney was surprised because he had never known me to challenge him on the basis of race. I felt a little strange myself.

  “Getting radio play is one thing, but selling records is another. The distributors are going to give you a lot more resistance than any DJ,” he said. “It would be really tough—especially in the South.”

  “That may be. But I think we’re so strong now we can change things. It’s time.”

  “He’s right,” Phil jumped in. “I think we can.” It was rare for any of Barney’s people to side with me—in front of him.

  But Barney was all for it. “Let’s get on it,” he told Phil.

  “But we can’t hire just any black guy,” Phil said. “He’s got to be real special, strong.”

  They were lucky. They found Miller London. He was shortish and thinnish, with a pleasant face and a great smile that he used a lot. My first impression was that he might be too fragile. I was wrong.

  Soon he was joined by other black sales and promotion men—Chuck Young, Eddie Gilreath, Ralph Thompson and Skip Miller.

  Phil enjoyed telling about one of the first incidents when he sent Miller London on a trip to the South.

  As soon as Miller arrived for his first appointment at one of our major Southern distributors, Phil got a hysterical call.

  “Phil,” the distributor screamed, “you sent a nigger down here to sell white Pop accounts? Are you fuckin’ nuts?”

  “How much money do you make a year off Motown?” Phil responded.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Quite a bit I guess.”

  “Well, if you want to keep making that ‘quite a bit,’ you better get used to looking in that nigger’s face.”

  Miller had been waiting in an outer office. As soon as the distributor got off the phone he rushed out smiling: “Miller, nice to see you, come on in, my friend.”

  Miller was in. But it took about a year of insults, threats and narrow escapes before he could breathe easily.

  Mother loved coming to the company. One of her favorite places was the Sales Department.

  The salesmen all loved her and developed a little routine for the times she’d bring her friends over for a tour of the company.

  She’d always ask Phil Jones: “Please tell my friends who you are and what you do here.”

  Phil would stand up and say, “My name is Phil Jones and I sell LPs, the big records with the small holes,” and sit back down. Then Irv Biegel would stand up and say, “I’m Irv Biegel and I sell 45s, the small records with the big holes.” She’d go through the whole department and each would oblige her, reciting their particular duties. Then Mother would thank them and continue the tour.

  As she was leaving she was sometimes heard to say, “And my son owns it all.”

  GROWING PAINS, BUT THE BAND PLAYS ON

  Meanwhile, against the larger backdrop of the world around us, anger and confusion were the dominant moods of the day. In addition to the racial strife, the fighting and bloodshed of the Vietnam War had continued to mount. So too had antiwar protests and demonstrations. Polarization within the country increased.

  But in all the camps there seemed to be one constant—Motown music. They were all listening to it. Black and white. Militant and nonviolent. Antiwar demonstrators and the pro-war establishment.

  When I heard that kids were burning their draft cards or becoming conscientious objectors, I thought how much had changed since I was in the army. Now outspoken activists were voicing the same questions I had asked myself privately about the Korean War. What are we fighting for? What are we dying for?

  The Watts riots of 1965 had been a definite sign that the simmering anger from decades of oppression could no longer be suppressed. In its wake, challenges were sent out to topple the message of nonviolence with militancy; advocates of a new creed—Black Power—were on the upswing.

  In the summer of 1967 the hurricane of rage came to Detroit in what was being called the worst race riot in the nation’s history.

  Curfews were imposed as armored tanks patrolled the streets and National Guardsmen armed with assault rifles were stationed on the roofs of buildings, their weapons aimed down at the uneasy streets below. Hitsville was near the center of the hardest hit area. The Motown Sound gave way to sirens and bursts of gunfire as nervous producers scurried between buildings, protecting master tapes.

  I ordered the offices closed but people came to work anyway.

  “Keeping busy takes my mind off it.”

  “It’s no safer at home.”

  “This is my home.”

  We continued business as usual but outside were constant reminders of the turbulence surrounding us: flames jumping, broken glass and debris from shattered windows and looted stores. Despite martial law, the rioters were still out there, running up and down the streets with stuff—toasters, sofas, stereos, TVs, everything they could carry.

  During this period the civil rights movement was finally center stage in the nation’s consciousness. Because of Motown’s prominence, I was deluged with requests for benefit performances, contributions and endorsements from a multitude of groups. The requests were as varied as their ideologies: from “Support our peaceful sit-ins in the South,” to “Stand up and be counted brotha,” to “We need a positive black symbol like you to help us drive the blue-eyed devil off the face of the earth.”

  While I didn’t agree with some of their ideologies I respected all people who were fighting against bigotry and oppression. I knew there were many roads to freedom. And just because someone wasn’t on the same one as me did not mean they should be silenced.

  We created the Black Forum label so that different voices could express their views. Primarily a spoken word series, it featured the speeches of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Stokely Carmichael, Ossie Davis, Wallace Terry, Elaine Brown, poets Langston Hughes and Margaret Danner, and Leroi Jones—using the name Imamu Amiri Baraka.

  Many years earlier, even before the great Thurgood Marshall was their counsel, the NAACP was in the forefront of the fight for civil rights. As a kid I remembered them always taking up some unpopular fight for freedom and justice. Now some thought the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People had done too little. I often said if it hadn’t been for them we would never have come this far.

  In 1963, on the Gordy label, I released two albums of Dr. King’s most inspiring speeches ever, “Great March to Freedom” and “Great March to Washington.” Not since Pop and the Reverend William H. Peck, had any man’s words aroused such deep feelings within me.

  Dr. King spoke of how no good could come from hatred or violence. He told me we were all victims. I was a victim and he was a victim, but white people were victims, too, when they allowed their hatred to propel them to act in the ways that some did. He understood it was coming from ignorance, fear and insecurity so he didn’t hate them.

  I saw Motown much like the world Dr. King was fighting for—with people of different races and religions, working together harmoniously for a common goal. While I was never too thrilled about that turn-the-other-cheek business, Dr. King showed me the wisdom of nonviolence.

  He also showed me in other ways why he was such a great man.

  One such incident was in Detroit when we were discussing arrangements for his speeches, which we were releasing on record. He wanted to giv
e all the royalties to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. My suggestion was that since it was his artistry and his performance, it was only fair that half the royalties go to him and his family. Dr. King said, “Absolutely not.” He told me, “There is enough confusion out there right now, as it is. I cannot allow the perception of personal gain, right or wrong, to confuse the message of the cause.”

  I understood, admiring his vision. He made it clear—it was not only important to stand up and fight for what you believe in, but also to make sure not to confuse others.

  Then in April of 1968, I heard the news. Dr. King had been assassinated in Memphis.

  The very man who had fought with the weapon of nonviolence, violently shot down. He who had refused to hate when all around him were hating, now ironically snuffed out by hate. A man I so loved and admired. A man who was my friend. He was thirty-nine years old, a year older than me.

  I couldn’t contain my anger. I wanted to fight. But who? I knew I couldn’t make it a personal fight—I had to be a part of some kind of organized response.

  The first person I thought of was Ewart Abner. Ab, as we called him, was the same man who had impressed me so much at the NARA convention in Chicago back in the early sixties.

  A person of high integrity, rich vocabulary and a strong sense of black pride, he had asked me for a job when his company, Vee Jay, went out of business. I jumped at the chance and hired him in May of 1967 as director of ITMI to ease the load Esther was carrying.

  The other person I needed to respond to this crisis was Junius Griffin. A journalist and Pulitzer Prize candidate, Junius had been an assistant to Dr. King for two years in the mid-sixties. In the spring of 1967, I had hired him as my director of publicity. I knew he was passionate, deeply committed to the civil rights movement.

  Junius was our link to the black community and theirs to us. He kept us in touch with our roots. And during personal tragedies to come, he would be the one I would turn to to handle difficult logistics. Junius and Ab became fast friends along with George Schiffer, my copyright attorney and legal adviser. George was a white Jewish liberal who’d been with me from almost the beginning. The three were the most outspoken at Motown when it came to social causes.