To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  Junius and Ab accompanied me to meetings in Atlanta, where I had been summoned by calls from Coretta King and Harry Belafonte, to put on a benefit concert using Motown artists to launch the Poor People’s March to Freedom held shortly after Dr. King’s funeral. I brought Diana and the Supremes, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and the Pips and the Temptations to perform. After the concert we all joined in to start the march from Atlanta that would end in Washington. I was not only proud of all the artists that came to donate their time but I felt good marching alongside Sidney Poitier, Sammy Davis, Jr., Nancy Wilson and so many other great people. As I was walking the words to a song I had written five years earlier came to my mind. “May What He Lived For Live” was a song that was very special to me for several reasons. First because the message in it was as relevant about Dr. King as it had been about President Kennedy. Second, it was recorded by one of the greatest singers I had ever worked with, a girl named Liz Lands with a four-octave range. (Ironically, Dr. King himself had introduced me to Liz at a SCLC gathering in Detroit.) And third, because I had co-written it with my sister Esther and with a gentleman who called himself W. A. Bisson. W. A. Bisson was the actor known as Stepin Fetchit, who had been the epitome of black embarrassment in the movies. It was so funny how bad he made me feel as a kid. Yet I was excited to meet him as a man. I guess I realized that he had done what he did the best way he could. And he had been a screen star bigger than life. He had been a working black actor when it was not easy for them to get roles—more power to him—and his roles had nothing to do with the smart and fine person I found him to be.

  Two months later came the killing of Robert Kennedy. And so the hope of the sixties—once at an all-time high—was shattered. Things were crazy now. The bad guys were killing off our dreams one by one.

  MAY WHAT HE LIVED FOR LIVE

  May what he lived for live

  May what he lived for live

  May what he strived for

  May what he died for live

  May what he stood for stand

  May what he stood for stand

  Freedom for every man

  And peace in every land

  Enemies he made, trying all to save

  Let it be now that he’s gone

  Dreams he had for men have no dying end

  May what they tried to kill live on,

  Live on, live on, live on, live on

  May what he strived for

  May what he died for live.

  Against this backdrop of craziness and uncertainty, Motown continued to create and grow. The only thing that hadn’t grown was our office space. While we continued to record at our Hitsville studio on West Grand Boulevard, we had to move our administrative offices downtown to the Donovan building, a ten-story high-rise on Woodward Avenue. But along with that growth came problems—more bills, more conflicts, more taxes, more egos.

  Growing pains—we all felt them. They were part of the Cycle of Success, no different from the one that had started with me when I had my first Jackie Wilson hit. Since that time, less than ten years before, I had gone from borrowing eight hundred dollars from my family to having a company that was being embraced by the world, influencing culture. Things were moving so fast, I couldn’t conceive of what it all meant.

  Now many around me, most of them kids who had gone from relative poverty to wealth and fame, were getting caught into their own Cycles.

  Aside from the normal problems and pitfalls facing the artists as individuals, the groups had an added one. I saw over and over again the natural process that pulled the lead singer into the spotlight. It was supply and demand. Vicious. No matter how vital the whole group, the public usually pays to see that person up front.

  Unlike most other groups, in the Temptations everybody was a lead singer—but not like David Ruffin. He was a natural star, electrifying. You knew it the minute he walked into a room. Talented he was, humble he wasn’t. The more successful the Temptations became, the more the public singled him out and the more he began to isolate himself. He traveled in his own mink-lined limousine with his name on it. I was told he wanted the group’s name changed to David Ruffin and the Temptations.

  This was a tough, dangerous request. The Tempts’ essential quality was that they were a tight, precise, perfectly synchronized unit. The five moved as one body. David was threatening that unity. It was not just their problem, it was ours, too. The seriousness of it became clear in one of our Friday meetings. The Temptations’ new single was overdue.

  “So, Mr. Whitfield, where are we?” I wanted to know.

  “I got the tracks and the tunes, but not all the Tempts. Everybody showed up but David. This is crazy and,” Norman continued, “it happens all the time. I’m tired of it and the guys are fed up.”

  Reports from the road were not good; tempers were out of control. I sent Shelly Berger. Whenever there was a problem with an artist who related more personally to me and I couldn’t be there I knew I could count on Shelly to deal with it.

  He called from Cleveland to say the group had decided to replace David. “They can’t stand it anymore. They want to put him out now!”

  “Wait a minute. Tell them not to be too hasty.”

  “I did, but they all voted. Unanimous.”

  David was out.

  They lost no time in getting Dennis Edwards, an ex-Contour, whose soulful, gritty voice and strong presence made him a perfect replacement in the lineup.

  David refused to accept it. He kept showing up at dates, trying to go on. They had trouble getting him off stage, especially since the public wanted him on.

  All that stopped once we released records on him as a solo artist, something he had wanted all along. His first record, “My Whole World Ended (The Moment You Left Me),” was a hit right out of the box.

  This was not the last time the Temptations’ lineup would change. Years later Eddie Kendricks decided to follow a solo career, staying with the company. Working with producers Frank Wilson and Leonard Caston, he conquered the seventies disco market with hits like “Keep On Truckin’” and “Boogie Down.”

  Paul Williams, who I always considered the heart of the group with his emotional baritone voice, soul, rhythm and style, had sung one of the most heart-wrenching versions of “For Once In My Life” that I had ever heard. He left the group in 1971 because of ill health and died a few years later. He had been replaced by Richard Street who remained with the group until the early nineties.

  Despite many personnel changes in the Temptations over the years, it was original members Otis Williams and Melvin Franklin who kept their incredible legacy alive and their group sound and style consistent. Because of them, the Temptations survived the negative pull of that vicious Cycle of Success.

  While the Supremes spiraled through their own Cycle, they stayed great friends for a long time before their trouble started. From the beginning, though, there was always that subtle internal battle between Diana and Mary.

  Mary didn’t have the advantage of the unique voice that Diana had, but she was always in there pushing with her personality, sex appeal, acting ability and her own voice—which was good. Anytime she led a song or had a solo she attacked it with everything she had. But the more she pushed, the harder Diana worked. Diana always had to stay on her toes because she knew Mary was right there breathing down her neck.

  Flo was Flo and everyone loved her. She was a unique character whose wit, sarcasm and deadpan comments kept us laughing. At times she was outgoing, fun-loving and even challenging. At other times, withdrawn and depressed. In a sense, she controlled us all. When she was happy we all were. When she wasn’t it could be a nightmare. Flo was caught in the middle. The harder Diana and Mary worked at trying to outdo each other, it seemed the less motivated she became.

  Traveling together there were many times of fun and closeness before the Cycle tightened its noose and a major cold war developed among the girls.

  One day in London when we were doing a BBC radio show, I got to
gether with Mary and Flo privately.

  “We have a major problem,” I told them. “We have a lead singer who is miserable because she is being isolated from her friends.”

  “We’re the ones being isolated,” Mary snapped. “She gets out there on the stage and acts like we’re not even there.”

  “Yeah,” Florence added, “she ain’t nothin’ but a show-off.”

  “I agree with you,” I said, “but let’s take a look at it. Nothing has changed. Remember when I first met you all? She was a show-off then, too. In fact one of the reasons we’re here doing this show today is because she’s a show-off. We should all be happy about that. But that’s not the real issue.” I went on to tell them that they were the Supremes, the top female group in the world, and reminded them that they all shared equally, that even though Diana was the lead, she didn’t make any more money than they did, and didn’t want to. All she wanted was the way it used to be—friends. “One thing I know for sure is that she loves both of you. It seems to me you all should be able to work it out.”

  “You’re right,” Mary agreed.

  “We’ll try,” Flo nodded sincerely.

  Back in Detroit running the company, I had much less contact with them over the next few months, but based on what I was hearing from the chaperones and road managers, nothing had really changed with the girls. Plus, they told me, there was another problem—Flo’s drinking. She was showing up late for shows and interviews, skipping rehearsals, putting on too much weight.

  Diana and Mary confirmed this and told me how hard it had been on them. Their keeping it from me had actually brought them closer together.

  Everybody knew how I felt about drinking and drugs. They had heard me say many times: “It’s easier to stay out than to get out.”

  It seemed the harsher the warning, the more flagrant Flo’s behavior became. It finally got to a point where we had to bring in Cindy Birdsong, formerly of Patti LaBelle and the Blue Belles, to be on standby and go on when Flo didn’t show up. Cindy was good. She had a great voice, a sweet disposition. She learned the routines quickly, and, most of all, she was reliable.

  Florence became less and less so. Finally, in July of 1967, we all knew she had to be replaced.

  At the time we decided not to publicly disclose the reasons for Flo’s dismissal. In the sixties alcoholism was not dealt with the way it is today. It was something to be kept secret.

  Although we decided to record and release records on Florence as a solo artist, before we could do so she got an offer from ABC Records and severed her relationship with Motown.

  A lot has been written and said about the tragedy that surrounded Flo’s life after she left Motown—the stint at ABC that didn’t work out, the legal action she brought against a lawyer whom she accused of misappropriating her funds. She was caught in a downward spiral that took a terrible toll on her life. Her death nine years later was very sad to all of us who knew her in happier times.

  I will never forget Flo, Tammi Terrell, Paul Williams, Shorty Long and those other unique and talented people who made outstanding contributions to Motown and died too young.

  The same summer Cindy came in, the name change to “Diana Ross and the Supremes” was made.

  Shelly Berger made a deal for them to do a guest appearance on an episode of the Tarzan series.

  Tarzan was shot on location in Mexico. James Earl Jones co-starred with Diana, Mary and Cindy, who were playing nuns. Because this was their first dramatic acting opportunity, I was frantic to make it work. At this point I was unfamiliar with this part of the business so there was not a lot for me to do. I just sort of hung out, taking in this whole exciting process.

  I noticed Diana and James Earl Jones off to the side, working on something. I went over and heard them rehearsing the words to a duet.

  Songs, singing? Great! There was something I could do to help—make this duet the greatest ever.

  During spare moments I got Diana and James together under the trees to work on the song. James was excited and could not have been more cooperative. He, with that deep, beautiful voice, and Diana, soft, seductive, blending with the authentic jungle noises. I loved what I was hearing.

  Just as I reached my highest point of enthusiasm, the director came over and politely but emphatically kicked me off the set.

  Embarrassing. Especially in front of Diana.

  Besides, I was the Supremes’ manager and deserved more respect. I knew how bad the show wanted the girls.

  Should I threaten to take them off? No, much too dramatic. Plus if they called my bluff I’d be in worse trouble.

  I tried another approach. On location with us was Mike Roshkind, the aggressive head of our Public Relations Division. I wanted him to find the person who owned the show.

  “Ask and you shall receive, my friend,” he said.

  Mike could do anything. The only problem was he would never tell anybody how he did it. (He did confide in me once, though, when I was amazed that he was able to find an out-of-town heart specialist in an emergency, that he had gotten the doctor’s number from the yellow pages.)

  Anyway, Mike found out who owned the show. It turned out to be a guy in Los Angeles named Sy Weintraub. When I called him, he was very warm.

  He knew of me and my music and thought my ideas for that episode were great, but told me there was nothing he could do. He never got involved with the shows.

  I understood.

  It was clear to me I had to make peace with the director.

  So the next morning before going on the set I prepared my personality for an extensive exercise.

  Walking on the set I saw he was busy and was about to turn away when he caught me in his view and started walking my way.

  Oh shit, more trouble, more embarrassment. But my well-trained personality kicked into gear and was ready for action.

  “Mr. Gordy,” he called. “I’m glad you’re here.” He reached out to shake my hand. “How are you today?”

  “Uh, fine, fine. How are you?”

  “Y’know that idea you had about having them sing it freely and natural without the music was wonderful. I love your help on this stuff and any more ideas you get please feel free to just come and let me know.”

  I don’t know what Sy did, but whatever it was, it was very effective. Sy and I later met in California and became the best of friends. He told me that the airing of that show brought the highest rating of any Tarzan episode.

  That show had given me my first real feeling of the movies.

  Toward the end of ’67, in New York City, I first met Suzanne de Passe. The girls were making one of their frequent appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show when Cindy Birdsong introduced me to her friend.

  I could see Suzanne was young, bright and pretty. I soon found out she was also brash. When I saw her again a few months later in Miami with the Supremes, she didn’t hesitate to tell me what was on her mind.

  “Mr. Gordy, I love your company but I don’t think it’s being run right.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re not taking care of business and I just thought you should know.”

  She then told me of the troubles she had been having trying to book Motown acts for a New York theater owner. “No one at your company returns calls. For the last month I’ve been trying to get the Miracles. If they don’t want them to do the show, that’s one thing. But to not even return a call is just rude—and bad business.”

  The more we talked, the more impressed I became. I liked the way she got right to the point, didn’t waste my time. I could use somebody like that.

  “You think maybe you could help run the company better?”

  “Who me? Well I’d love to try.”

  I liked her. I had no idea what her job would be, but two weeks later I flew her to Detroit. I put her on the payroll, telling her to return to New York and I would get back to her later.

  After a few weeks of not hearing from me, she called my office in Detroit. “Mr. Gordy, hav
e you forgotten me? You’re paying me and I’m not doing anything.”

  “I know. When I have something for you to do, I’ll let you know. Don’t you think you’re worth waiting for?”

  “Oh, yes sir, Mr. Gordy, sir. How stupid of me! How crazy we mortals become on lack of sleep…”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Of course, Mr. Gordy, sir. I’ll be right here.”

  When I announced I was bringing in a new girl from New York everybody was puzzled.

  “To do what?” Ralph Seltzer asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I know she’s great and should be here. Probably my creative assistant. She knows about music and artists.”

  Ralph’s face showed that familiar expression of frustration that my executives had whenever I made up my mind to do something they thought impractical.

  In my first talk with Suzanne about the best way to work together, I gave her my ground rules: “As long as you’re honest with me, everything will be fine. If I ask for an opinion, don’t hesitate to be critical—even of me. Never say something just because you think that’s what I want to hear. Be yourself. I pay people for their ideas not mine.”

  She took me at my word—and her first day on the job was almost her last.

  My sister Esther was also in charge of the Art Department at the time and had some new album covers she wanted me to approve. Esther was very dedicated to anything she did. From the time she pioneered our first bookkeeping office at Motown to now, she had always fought for the very best for me, the company and the artists. I loved her devotion but I didn’t like her taste in album covers—which was a small point of controversy between us. She had heard me say many times, “The real boss around here is not me, it’s logic,” so she was “logically” trying to show me why those album covers were good. I couldn’t always put my finger on what it was I didn’t like; all I knew was they didn’t knock me out.