by Berry Gordy
Summing up, Smokey recommended that anyone in doubt ought to stop by our management offices and check out just what was being done for the artists on a twenty-four-hour basis:
Even our not so popular artists are receiving free artists development training courses so that they can still work on dates and earn some money. There are many beneficial things happening and going on at Motown on behalf of our artists, producers, and writers, which are not even considered at other companies. No brag—just fact.
Though I had always ignored rumors before, this had me so emotionally charged I wanted to go straight to the press and tell everybody how totally ridiculous this was. But after thinking about it more I realized that that would not necessarily make it better and it might even make it worse. So I restrained myself, deciding to continue letting the legal people handle it.
Few successful institutions or people escape rumors, because they’re usually more exciting than the truth. We were no exception. One of those had sprung up a couple of years before: Motown was controlled by the Mafia.
That rumor started when a mysterious little article appeared in a small neighborhood news sheet. Without any specifics it alleged that Motown was being taken over by the Mafia. Because that paper had such insignificant distribution, we paid no attention. In fact, we laughed at it.
Well, that little article turned out not to be so funny when larger papers picked it up.
The mere fact that Barney Ales, an Italian, was running our powerful Sales Department was enough to perpetuate such a rumor. There was no substantiation whatsoever, but through time it picked up steam and plagued me for many years.
The FBI even called me into their offices because of the rumor. No one is ever so innocent that getting called down to the FBI is fun.
When I got to their offices that morning they assured me it was just routine. I was taken to a room by two agents who said they had information on every mob connection in the country. They knew everyone who was controlled by the mob, and either there was a mob guy they didn’t know about—which was unlikely—or I was not connected to the mob. That was the end of it, except for a personal request of me: “By the way, can we have your autograph?”
But even after that FBI clean rating, somehow the Motown-Mafia story kept resurfacing. They gotta be crooks! How could one of the most successful independent record companies in the world be owned and operated by a black man without being crooked?
Barney did not mind his newfound celebrity. He had fun with it. Occasionally someone would ask him about it.
“Mr. Ales, this Mafia connection, is it true…?”
“Well, I am Italian and I am from Detroit,” he’d say with a deadpan expression—and then lean right into their face. “You godda problem wid dat?”
The one good thing about it was sometimes it was a little easier to collect our money.
But over the years no rumor was as painful to me as the one that accused Motown of cheating its artists. The HDH allegations had helped to make it worse.
People were looking for reasons why Motown was so successful. Because of the reputation of some independent companies ripping off their artists, some people assumed that Motown must be doing that, too. Ironically, the very reason that artists and writers were stampeding to our door was because they found out that we were paying. I was a creative person just like they were and knew the value of paying creative people for what they already loved to do. The reason this accusation bothered me so much was I had made every effort to ensure that people would be paid everything due them. Not only was it the right thing to do, it was good business.
What was due them was clearly defined in our contracts. When our royalty rates were questioned, I checked it out and reconfirmed that Esther had originally patterned our contracts after United Artists’. So we knew they were on par with the industry, and in some cases, even better than other labels.
The systems set up by the Novecks, who were exact to the penny, made sure that every cent of an artist’s earnings was paid to them and that all expenses charged to them—like sessions costs—were authorized and correct. A fanatic for checks and balances, I insisted they create safeguards to prevent overcharging expenses or undercrediting earnings. For example, after the Royalty Department generated the royalty statement they would meet with heads of Management and A&R, questioning each and every charge to make sure there were no errors in processing the information.
The issue of cheating bothered me also because I felt we were unique in keeping artists who weren’t necessarily getting hits under contract for year after year. We treated them just like the artists who were getting hits—spending money on recording and promoting them, paying many different types of bills for them, and giving them cash advances. All of our creative people were always asking for advances, and I, being a creative person, usually gave it to them.
When you’re a star or just living like one you tend to forget about those advances through the year that let you live that way. But at royalty time when you see the money you already spent reflected in the size of the check, it’s understandably disappointing. But no one’s been cheated.
Still, anytime complaints were brought to my attention or if an artist thought he had something more coming, I would jump on it immediately and get to the bottom of it. Because it was such a personal thing with me, I did everything I could to find out what it was and correct it if there was a problem. I would have artists and their representatives come in and check our books until they were satisfied.
In spite of over thirty years of audits that have confirmed accurate accounting and proper payment over and over again, the rumors have persisted. Probably the biggest reason they did is because I did not defend against them at the time. My policy was never to comment publicly on the bad or good. Maybe I should have set this record straight a lot sooner. Then again, if I hadn’t stayed focused on my mission, there may not have been a Motown to have rumors about.
The HDH lawsuit dragged on for around four years. As time went on I felt more and more that this was becoming a personal vendetta on Eddie’s part, benefiting none of us.
Disagreement or not, the fact was these guys had once shared my vision and helped me make history. I did not want war to be our legacy.
On January 3, 1972, we settled. I don’t know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars it cost all of us, but the only financial winners were the lawyers.
Despite the victory with “Love Child,” HDH’s leaving in 1968 adversely affected us in many ways. As hard as we tried, we never were able to find writers and producers who could deliver with the same consistency for groups like the Four Tops and Martha and the Vandellas.
One person HDH’s departure did not hurt was Norman Whitfield—who was now on the rise. Even back in ’67, before HDH left, Norman had started coming on stronger than ever.
It was at that time that he started writing regularly with Barrett Strong, the artist who had sung “Money,” one of my first hits. Their collaborations would yield almost five years of continuous hits as they led the Tempts in a whole new direction toward uptempo, driving rhythms with lyrics that reflected a growing social consciousness. And the very first Whitfield and Strong collaboration was about to become a major hit on two different artists.
At the Friday meeting when we first heard “I Heard It Through The Grapevine,” Billie Jean Brown was seated next to me, tightly clutching the master references that she had decided would be voted on that day. Near her, as usual, were two turntables upon which the competing songs would be played. In the case of a close vote she would switch back and forth between the two to give everyone in the meeting a chance to better compare.
Billie Jean was feared by almost every producer in the room because they knew she “had my ear.” She had as keen a sense for what was a hit as anyone I knew. And she knew it. That’s why she sat there like a diva in the last act waiting for her solo. She was expressionless; nothing moving except her squinting eyes, which darted back and forth from on
e hopeful producer to the other as if to say, “Yes, I hold your fate in my hands.” She knew, like we all did, that the moment of truth had arrived again.
For Norman it was his production of “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” on Marvin Gaye, up against the HDH production also on Marvin called “Your Unchanging Love.”
When the majority of the votes were for “Grapevine,” Norman was encouraged, but he knew he still had to overcome a major obstacle—me. Most of the time I gave in to a majority vote, but this time I announced I was overriding the group and going with “Your Unchanging Love.” I personally liked “Grapevine” better, but I felt the other record was more in the romantic vein of what Marvin needed.
Norman sprang to his feet to make his case. “This is a smash, a number one record and I know it. I got those chills I get when I know I got a hit! And you know my chills don’t lie!”
“Norman,” I told him, “I love innovation, but I’m going with HDH. That’s it.”
Though Norman was devastated, he knew in our game “a winner wins and a loser keeps on trying.” He became even more persistent. For the next few months, everywhere I went it seemed he would be there mentioning “Grapevine.” One day he followed me to the 20 Grand, came over to my table and said, “Uh, excuse me, sir. Since it can’t go out on Marvin, can I cut it on another artist?”
I stared at him in disbelief. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was begging for something he really believed in. At that moment he probably could have gotten anything from me.
“Norman, do whatever you want to do with it. I don’t care. Just stay out of my face till it’s done.”
“Thank you,” he said, rushing off.
The next time I heard the song it was a totally different production. Gladys Knight and the Pips’ version, with its uptempo Gospel feel, bore little resemblance to the version Norman had cut on Marvin. It zoomed through the Friday meeting and right to the top of the charts.
When I had first seen Gladys Knight and the Pips perform at the Apollo in 1966, I knew right away how sensational they were. Gladys was smart. She could talk to an audience and articulate what she wanted to say with just the right words. And those Pips—her brother Merald and cousins Edward Patten and William Guest. Smooth. Sharp. They were dynamite backup for Gladys, complementing her on every turn. I was impressed with their class, artistry and stage presence. And on top of that, Gladys could “sang.” What a voice! From Atlanta, she had warm Southern charm and a hint of Country soul, mixed in with an infectious Gospel feel.
There was also a family feeling about them that made me feel close to them from the beginning. Unlike many of our main acts who had been through our artist development process, Gladys and the Pips were already seasoned before coming to Motown. That meant I would not have to spend as much time in a hands-on capacity with this group. They had actually worked with some of our key Artist Development people earlier in their career. When they were starting out Gladys’s mother had written to Maurice King at the Flame Show Bar and asked him to work with them. And Cholly Atkins, our choreographer, had been responsible for their stage routines I liked so much. Larry Maxwell, the great promotion man I had hired, was also their manager.
I was thrilled when Norman gave them their first big hit.
About a year later, he was campaigning to release Marvin’s record of “Grapevine” as a single, reminding me of the great vote it had gotten at that Friday meeting—and also reminding me that the HDH record that I did release hadn’t done well.
I told him he was right, but now it was too late. It would be crazy to release the same song on Marvin so soon after it had gone to #1 on Gladys and the Pips.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but they’re two totally different arrangements.”
“So what? They’re still the same song. Forget it, Norman.”
When it came time to release another Marvin Gaye album, Norman was right back in my face. This time in front of Hitsville as I was going in. “Mr. Gordy, I know you told me not to bug you about this song no more,” he said cautiously.
“Yes, I did.”
“But sir, you always told us that name value songs help albums sell better.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’ has name value now. So can I put it on Marvin’s album?”
“What did Billie Jean say?”
“She said it’s too late. The songs have already been picked and sequenced in the album.”
Realizing I’m talking to a man with a #1 record now, I was a little more respectful. “All right, Norman, you got it. I’ll have Billie Jean change the lineup and stick ‘Grapevine’ in.”
He was so happy he looked like he wanted to hug me.
The DJs played it so much off the album that we had to release it as a single. Almost a year to the day after Gladys Knight and the Pips’ version had reached the top, Marvin Gaye’s version of “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” was at #1. It was Marvin’s first #1 Pop single and the song became the biggest seller in Motown’s history at that time, remaining at #1 for seven consecutive weeks.
Very soon after I had given the go-ahead to release the single on Marvin, there Norman was again outside Hitsville—waving an acetate in my face. “Mr. Gordy, you’ve got to hear this new record I just cut on the Tempts. It’s great. I can’t wait for the meeting, you’ve got to hear this now.”
I knew now that whenever Norman Whitfield was this excited he usually had something. I couldn’t wait for the meeting either. We went into my office to play it:
Childhood part of my life, it wasn’t very pretty.
You see, I was born and raised in the slums of the city.
It was a one room shack that slept ten other children besides me.
We hardly had enough food or room to sleep.
It was hard times,
Needed something to ease my troubled mind.
Listen!
My father didn’t know the meaning of work.
He disrespected Mama and treated us like dirt.
I left home seekin’ a job that I never did find,
Depressed and down-hearted, I took to Cloud Nine
I’m doing fine up here on Cloud Nine…
Let me tell you about Cloud Nine.
(Cloud Nine) you can be what you wanna be,
(Cloud Nine) you ain’t got no responsibility,
And ev’ry man, ev’ry man is free,
(Cloud Nine) and you’re a million miles from reality.
I wanna say I love the life I live,
And I’m gonna live the life I love up here on Cloud Nine
I’m riding high—On Cloud Nine…
As soon as I heard the intro, I loved the song. The rhythm, melody, vocal arrangements were unlike anything he had done before. It was another of Norman’s innovations, another example of his refusal to stay in one place creatively. The performance of the group, especially Dennis Edwards’s lead, was great. But I had a problem with the lyrics. The first verse was fine about growing up poor in the ghetto. I could relate to that. But what were they talking about—“I’m doing fine up here on Cloud Nine… a million miles from reality… riding high”?
When the song was over I said, “Great, Norman—it was really great. But the words, you gotta change them. They just won’t work. We can’t put this record out. Not because it isn’t a good song but because it sounds like you’re promoting drugs.”
“No,” Norman protested, “it’s not drug-related. It’s art.”
“Norman,” I said, reminding him how people saw Motown as a clean, straight institution, “we have a responsibility not to send out a message that could be interpreted the wrong way.”
“Artistic freedom of expression!” he argued. “Ain’t that s’pose to be what Motown is about?”
I smiled. He did have a point.
Norman continued. “Besides, this is nothin’ compared to the type of stuff other labels put out.”
“I don’t care what other
labels put out. I don’t care if it has some commercial shock value. There’s nothing wrong with a shock technique, it works. But to use it where it sounds like you’re talking about using dope is taking artistic freedom a little too far.”
Even during this fight, I couldn’t help feeling proud of the distance Norman had come. He was a lot different from the kid who used to hide from me in the halls. Now he was definitely somebody to be reckoned with.
“Cloud Nine” was brought into the Friday meeting battlefield.
This time, though I could have used my veto power, my objections were overruled and I went with the majority decision. They were right; the public loved “Cloud Nine.” In cases like this, I didn’t mind being proved wrong. I didn’t mind either when the following spring it won a Grammy—Motown’s first.
Christmas of 1968 brought headlines blazing throughout the music industry. In the week ending December 28, Motown had five records out of the Top 10 on Billboard’s Hot 100:
#1 Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through The Grapevine”
#2 Stevie Wonder’s “For Once In My Life”
#3 Diana Ross and the Supremes’ “Love Child”
#7 Diana Ross and the Supremes’ and the Temptations’ “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me”
#10 The Temptations’ “Cloud Nine”
But even more important than that, we captured and held the #1, #2 and #3 positions for one solid month, an unprecedented feat that to my knowledge has not been done since.
1968 had wound up an incredible year.
Five out of ten! The not-quite-grown-up kid who had once depended on lucky rolls of the dice and who had watched and studied the numbers guys on the streets computing the odds in their heads, had 50 percent of all the ten top-selling records in the country. Impossible! And, we’d done it without HDH. The verdict was in: We would survive.