To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  By the time March 26 arrived, we were all crazy with anticipation. It was the night before the Academy Awards and Diana was throwing a pre-Oscar party to celebrate what was certain to be victory, as well as her twenty-ninth birthday.

  Suzanne, Shelly and I were all too exhausted to really enjoy it. We spent most of the night collapsed on a sofa together—in a delirious, punchy state. Looking at Shelly, who was taking up a large portion of the couch, I was reminded of just how far beyond the call of duty he had gone. Besides making him responsible to Diana as her acting coach, I had also given him the impossible job of getting Diana to put on some weight. He had concocted this special fattening health drink, a disgusting-looking mixture of bananas, avocados and ice cream. The only way Shelly could get her to drink it was to have a glass himself. Diana’s weight stayed the same but Shelly looked like he had gained over a hundred pounds.

  In contrast to our quiet huddle, Diana zipped around that party in fitting glory. Nothing could have dimmed her spirits that night or the certainty everyone felt that the award was hers.

  My only concern, I confided to Shelly, was that this was the first time in history two black women were up for Best Actress the same year. With Cicely Tyson’s excellent performance in Sounder, there was a possibility of them canceling each other out.

  Shelly whispered to me, “No way Diana can lose.”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  As confident as I was, it meant too much not to be nervous.

  So when that moment came the next night at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion when the Best Actress category was finally being announced and we heard, “And the winner is…” I must have lived ten lifetimes within that short pause.

  When I heard “Li…” and not “Di…” shock waves went through my body. Then I heard “…za Minnelli for Cabaret.” The seconds that followed were a blur. We were all heartsick, but later, when I watched it on tape, I was relieved to see that when the TV cameras panned to us we were smiling graciously. Not all of the best acting in Hollywood is done up on the screen.

  Though none of our nominees had won, everyone tried to make the best of it. We put in our required appearances at the post-Oscar Governor’s Ball, but then hurried along to the private party back at my house.

  Just about everyone from the cast and crew was there—in a down mood. The songs from the movie were playing in the background, not sounding quite the same.

  Sidney Furie and I consoled each other, talking about how happy we were just to have been nominated. That night I think we were both faking it, but later on I realized how fortunate I was. I had gotten five Academy Award nominations on my very first film.

  MAHOGANY

  A big sound hit me in the face as I walked through the control room door at our Hitsville studio in Hollywood. “Let’s get it on. Aw baby… Let’s get it on.” It was Marvin Gaye’s voice, low, full and sexy. Begging. Incredible! It engulfed me, giving me an emotional something that let me know it had to be a hit. A big hit.

  After concentrating on making a movie for over a year and a half, I was relieved to move my focus back to the music business. One of the first things I did was to check out Marvin’s session that night. And what luck!

  Marvin had just finished his dub-in and the production group and engineers were in the control room listening to the playback. Not trying to mix it, they had left the faders at random levels set for listening purposes only. Everything raw and clear, it sounded perfect.

  The minute Marvin saw me he jumped up and came over. We hugged. I told him he had never sounded so good.

  “Think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “If you love that just wait till it’s finished.”

  “Finished? You’re not going to mess with that? Are you?”

  Looking at Ed Townsend, a veteran record producer who had co-written and produced this with him, Marvin laughed, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet. We still got to put more strings, horns and other stuff on it. BG, this is gonna knock you out.”

  “I’ve heard that before, Marvin. Why don’t you just run me a seven-and-a-half right off the board now?”

  Marvin was suspicious. “What do you want with it? It’s not even mixed yet.”

  “I know. I just want a tape of what I’m hearing right now.”

  “Aw, c’mon BG, this is too raw…”

  “I love raw. People love raw.” I could see Marvin turning from a friend to a foe. “Okay Marvin, you might be right, but so what? What have you got to lose? We’ll compare them later and you can be the judge. Whatever you say we’ll go with. Just run it off for me and I’ll get outta your hair.”

  “Do it,” he told the engineer.

  Later, with the release date set, they brought me a finished master—polished, slick, with more strings, horns, all mixed and balanced as they’d planned. But when we compared the two versions it was shocking. His voice was fatter, fuller and sexier on the tape I had. It didn’t take Marvin long to make his choice. We released that little 7½ version and it became his biggest selling single.

  Nineteen seventy-three was also looking like another good year for Norman and the Tempts. After picking up three Grammys for the previous year’s “Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone,” by April they already had a major new hit with “Masterpiece.” But I soon found out that there were deep problems in this creative marriage of group and producer.

  With Norman’s success, his ego had become gigantic. It was not uncommon to many in our Creative Division. In our competitive ranks if you didn’t have a big one—forget it. Even so, Norman sometimes went overboard, with a real dictatorial style in the studio.

  A frustrated Otis Williams came to me one day as spokeman for the Tempts. He told me they could no longer handle the pressure Norman put on them. “For one thing,” he said, “we’re supposed to be stars, but in the studio he treats us like some new artists.”

  A perfectionist and workhorse, Norman would push them for hours, often when they had just come off an exhausting schedule on the road. Otis told me that when they grumbled about that, he would just pat his bulging pockets and say “I got mine and if you want yours you better keep singing. I’m not tired.”

  I agreed with Otis that Norman could be ridiculous, but I knew where he was coming from. He knew what he wanted and how to get it.

  That was his style, I reminded Otis, and his style was getting them hit after hit after hit. “I really hope you guys can work it out.”

  “No way.” Otis was adamant. “We’ve had it with Norman.” He was nervous to the point of shaking.

  If only I could convince Norman to show some humility I might have a chance to save this partnership. Just a word of appreciation for their hard work or an “I’m sorry” would do wonders.

  But Norman, like Otis, was unbending. “Oh? They don’t want to work with me.? That’s their problem.”

  “You may feel that way now,” I told him, “but look at the bigger picture. You stop recording them, you’re gonna lose, the group is gonna lose, and the company is gonna lose—all because you insist on being ridiculous.”

  “They’re ridiculous. I’m giving them hits, spending all my time writing the tunes and working on the tracks, getting ready for them to come off the road. What’s ridiculous about that?”

  “Patting your fuckin’ pockets—that’s what’s ridiculous about that. I mean, how dare you sit in the studio and do that kinda shit?”

  Norman smiled. “Maybe I am a little ridiculous at times but then so were you. You used to kick my ass all over the place. Did I complain? No. I just kept on learning. Besides, me and those cats are tight. They know me. They know I play a lot.”

  One thing I knew about Norman was his great sense of integrity and fairness.

  “Put yourself in their place,” I said. “You got writing royalties, producing royalties and other artists to write for and record. They, on the other hand, are out on the road, tired from busting their asses on all those one-nighters. They got all those expenses a
nd on top of that they have to split their money five ways. And then they come home and have to deal with your ass.”

  “Look man, I fought too hard for too long to start lowering my standards now. I got to push those cats to get the perfection I know you want and I want. And I ain’t changin’ my style for nobody.”

  And so that was the end of the Norman Whitfield–Temptations era. The Tempts went on to work with other writers and producers—including me—but none of us could give them the super hit power Norman had.

  In the meantime, it was the beginning of a whole new era for Stevie Wonder. After Stevie released his first concept album, Music of My Mind in early ’72, I could see him developing a writing and producing style all his own. His lyrics were emotional, poetic and visual; his chord patterns intricate and different. His music covered many spectrums—Blues, Pop, Reggae, Classical, Jazz and Stevie himself.

  For the first time he began recording in studios other than ours, experimenting with synthesizers and other strange technological apparatus. That unique texture that was all his own broadened the base of the Motown Sound tremendously.

  To give Stevie greater exposure we got him booked on a fifty-city tour opening for the Rolling Stones. When he came off that tour he had reached a whole new audience and his subsequent albums, which included Talking Book and Innervisions, went through the roof.

  I’ll never forget the night of August 6, 1973—just three days after Innervisions was released and orders were pouring in from distributors all over the country.

  Whenever a record came in like this, it gave us the opportunity to collect the millions of dollars in receivables that our distributors owed us from past Motown hits. This was always a very sensitive dilemma: Do we ship the records and let them get further in debt to us? Or do we not ship and risk losing sales and chart action?

  Several months before we had restructured the Motown Record Corporation and I became chairman of Motown Industries. This was a new umbrella company established to oversee all of our other companies—Motown Records, Jobete Music, MPI and our artist management company, ITMI. I promoted Abner, from his position as head of ITMI and vice president of Sales and Marketing, to president of Motown Records—the first time anyone except me had held that position.

  Abner felt the best way to deal with this problem was to talk to each distributor individually. He and I would get together at seven in the morning and call them all personally. He was sure it would work. “The president and the chairman, they’ll love it,” he said.

  This collection problem was a fact of life in the independent record business, but I knew this plan was going to be a winner. Thoughts of how we were going to handle this were swirling in my head as I tried to get some sleep.

  As I was sleeping that night I kept dreaming of a ringing phone. Finally I realized the shrill sound I was hearing was real. I looked at the clock. It was three in the morning. I reached for the phone and heard a voice say something like, “Stevie—not expected to live.” I was groggy, numb and hoping I was having a nightmare. I was, but I wasn’t asleep. All of sudden nothing else was important.

  The voice on the other end was Esther’s. She told me she had been on the phone with a remote little hospital down South. “It’s a madhouse down there,” she said, “and I couldn’t get many details except that Stevie was in a horrible accident. Berry, it doesn’t look good.”

  Eleven years before I got this same kind of message when Beans Bowles and Eddie McFarland had been in an accident, and Eddie had died. I don’t care how used to handling crises you think you are, when you hear something like this you are at a loss for exactly what to do. But you know one thing. You better do something fast and you better do it right. And the strongest person I had to help me do that at the time was Abner.

  Within minutes, I had him on the phone, telling him what I knew and to cancel everything, including the morning meeting with me. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I can handle things here. Just get down there and keep me posted.”

  Ab quickly called the small roadside hospital in North Carolina where Stevie lay in a coma and found out what had happened from Stevie’s brother, Calvin.

  Stevie had been en route to Durham, where he was scheduled to give a benefit performance at Duke University, and the car he was riding in was following a trailer truck that was carrying a load of logs. When the truck slammed on its brakes, a log broke free, smashed through the windshield of the car and hit Stevie in the head. Though his driver, John Harris, had been injured, he was expected to recover. But there was little hope for Stevie.

  Abner learned the hospital where Stevie was had no neurology department to deal with head injuries. He immediately made arrangements to move him to the closest hospital that did and caught the next plane to join him there.

  After eight days Stevie regained consciousness, but was in and out of a conscious state for the next six days. It was a terrifying period for all of us. Ab stayed at his side, constantly reporting back to me.

  When I heard he was playfully grabbing at nurses and entertaining the whole medical staff with his antics, I knew then he was well on his way to recovery. Ab eventually had him flown back to California for further treatment at UCLA.

  I was standing with the whole group at the airport to welcome him home. I got such a kick seeing him come off the plane surrounded by stewardesses. He gave us that old eat-your-heart-out-fellas smile that we knew so well. He was in great spirits. That was such a relief. Such a miracle.

  It didn’t take long for Stevie to start pulling some of his classic pranks. Still good at imitating my voice, he called Edna Anderson, my executive secretary, one day.

  Stevie: “Give Stevie a check for fifty thousand dollars right away.”

  Edna: “What?”

  Stevie: “I said, give Stevie a check for fifty thousand dollars.”

  Edna: “I don’t get it.”

  Stevie: “You don’t have to get it. I worked out something with Stevie and just get it to him as soon as you can. I gotta go now. Bye.”

  I later got a call from Edna.

  “Boss, fifty thousand dollars is way over my signing limit. You’re gonna have to sign this check yourself.”

  “What check?”

  “The check for Stevie.”

  It dawned on me what had happened, but before I could say anything, Edna said, “Oh shit, that damn Stevie. He got me again.”

  In March of 1974, seven months after the accident, I watched him walk out on stage at the Grammy Awards ceremony. The place went wild. He picked up a total of six Grammys that night, including Album of the Year for Innervisions. Each time he came up to collect another Grammy I kept thinking, what a miracle.

  In these later days I continued to use my basic philosophies to run the business. One of the sayings I created that people tell me they remember most is, “There are three kinds of people—dumb, smart and super-smart. And you can’t tell the super-smart from the dumb.” My philosophy behind the saying has many applications, not only in business but life.

  In a competitive, political working situation a thin-skinned person will always have a hard time making it. I call that person smart. The smart are easy to identify; they’re defensive—their egos are bruised easily. They seek the credit for everything they do and need approval from others. If something is said that they understand to be insulting to them they take great offense. The other two kinds react differently. The super-smart don’t care and the dumb don’t know.

  Suzanne was super-smart. Even though she was only in her twenties, I promoted her to head of the Creative Division.

  One day she came to my beach house, crying.

  Well, not actually crying at first but when I greeted her at the door I could see she was trying to push the ends of her lips upward. “You told me how to be a leader. You told me and I did it. And now look what’s happened,” she said as her voice started cracking.

  “What?”

  “You always told me if I brought in somebody stronger than
I was, that things would work out better for me.”

  “That’s absolutely correct. So what’s your problem?”

  “Well, I hired Herb Belkin to help me with Creative and now I don’t have anything to do. In the last three months he has taken over everything. No one calls me anymore. I come in and just sit in my office all day. He’s signing new artists. The department has never been more active, but I’m not really part of it. I’m not doing anything.”

  Her honesty was always so refreshing. I hugged her, laughing at the same time. “You’re so great,” I said.

  “But I’m wasting your money.”

  “Are you crazy? Whatever I’m paying you is probably not enough. Do you know how many other executives would have the courage to bring in someone that might be stronger than themselves? None that I can think of. Do you know how valuable that makes you?” I told her what she was going through was simply growing pains. “If you’re confident enough to bring somebody stronger under you, it just pushes you up.”

  I saw a little ray of sunshine trying to peek through that clouded face. I knew she understood.

  “Now,” I said, wrapping up as I walked her out to her car, “no matter how good Herb is at handling the creative side, you should concentrate on bringing in somebody else just as strong to attack some of the administrative problems I’m hearing about—like getting production costs down and making release dates on time.” And, I told her, if she had too many strong people and had nothing to do, that meant she’d be ready to move up to a new job.

  That was a great day for both of us. She believed in me and what I said and that made my responsibility to guide her the right way even greater. No matter what happened I had to be there to back her up. We parted that day with a little more conviction about each other. I knew she believed in me and she knew I believed in her.