To Be Loved

by Berry Gordy

  When I got there she was still breathing, but only with the help of a machine. In reality, she had passed away. But being with her in those last moments meant the world to me.

  As was my family’s way, we celebrated her life and her memory, thankful in the knowledge that she had lived a full and vital life. Her teaching, the value she placed on education and in always striving to better ourselves left us a great legacy.

  I had always known what a great scholar and role model Mother was but I discovered she had been a brilliant writer as well. Looking through Mother’s belongings, I found papers written by her fifty years before, tackling many subjects, including family, business, racism and religion. Strong, articulate and skillful, her writing was just incredible. I only wish she could have been here to help me with this book.

  During the services for Mother, I remembered the pain I felt about a year before when I thought Pop was going to die.

  Pop had been a very healthy man all his life. He was his own doctor and always had his special methods of keeping himself well. Whenever he had a cold he would clean himself out by drinking buckets of water. As kids he made us take castor oil. He never told us why, but he was such a great example of health that we figured he knew what he was doing.

  But even Pop’s home remedies couldn’t stop the natural aging process. Finally his health took a bad turn. He collapsed and was taken to Century City Hospital in Los Angeles. When I got there Pop was lying in intensive care and his doctor had given up on him.

  “After all,” the doctor said, “at eighty-five he’s like an old car whose batteries have just run down. He’s really had a great life.”

  Had! “I want a second opinion,” I said.

  “That would be silly. We’ve done everything that can be done. He’s had enough poking and jabbing. That would kill him sooner.”

  Was he kidding? Me, not get a second opinion? After Loucye’s death and the guilt I carried throughout the years? No way.

  I changed doctors immediately and moved him to UCLA, under the care of Dr. Bill Hewitt, where he was nurtured back to health. Though his left leg had to be amputated above the knee, he was better with one leg than most two-legged men half his age and his life was extended by several years.

  After the services for Mother, I flew back to Rome.

  Within weeks after Mother’s death, Tony Greene, who now worked with Pop, brought him and Esther to Rome. I decided to use them in one of Mahogany’s most exciting scenes. It was Diana’s big fashion show, which culminated with the audience leaping to their feet with thunderous applause.

  I had planted Esther and Pop in a luxury box in the theater’s balcony. Directing the standing ovation, I had the camera pan the audience and when it got to Esther and Pop, as I thrust my arms upward, they jumped to their feet.

  We did many takes before it dawned on me that Pop was standing straight up on each take just like everybody else—but with only one leg.

  Whenever I watch Mahogany today I get chills when I see how he was able to just stand there. I don’t know where he got the strength.

  I guess as he saw me pull my arms high motioning to everyone all he could think of was, “That’s my son, the director, and he wants me up.”

  There were many great moments on Mahogany and then there were some not so great. One night a couple of weeks before the end of shooting, with Mother’s death, the friction with Diana, my not being happy with all the takes, our being behind schedule, and Rob constantly rushing me, reminding me we were behind, my patience snapped.

  We were in the middle of a difficult scene when I saw him pushing his way through the crowd with a doomsday glint in his eyes, to give me another one of his lectures. True to form, he blurted out, “Look, Berry, you’ve got to just speed it up.”

  “Hey!” I said, “you direct it your damn self. I’m leaving.” I started walking off the set.

  Rob’s stern expression changed into one of panic. “Oh no, wait a minute.” He called, “Berry, wait, Berry…” as he flew to my side and began to pamper me. Exactly what I had done for so many years with other stars. Yes, me, I was now a star! Me—Mr. Calm, Mr. Logic, always the one saying “Let’s just be cool and talk it out. Let’s break the problem down and solve it.”

  These were the words that I was now hearing from Rob Cohen. The shoe was on the other foot and I liked it. Why not play it out? I knew the script: “Forget it, I don’t want to be bothered. I’ve had it.”

  Neil Hartley, the associate producer, ran up and tried to coax me back to work, saying he could understand my frustration but knew we could work it out.

  When I saw Shelly off to the side, I thought—how strange—my right-hand man was the only one not pampering me. But then he came closer. With the smuggest expression on his face he sauntered over, turned me away from the others and whispered, “Who in the fuck are you kidding? You’re not some director working for somebody else who’s going to suffer if you walk off and have to kiss your ass to keep you on the film. This is your film, your money! You’re not going anywhere, so why don’t you go on up there and get your shit together and finish the movie?”

  “Fuck you,” I said, as I walked back to my director’s chair to rehearse the next take.

  It was no mystery to me what made Shelly so good at dealing with creative egos. One of the best artist managers I have known, in the early eighties he left Motown and started his own management company, which today includes the Tempts, who are busier than ever. Shelly certainly managed me well that day on the set.

  I knew all along that Rob really wasn’t the cause of my frustration. It was Diana. She was irritated with me and I was irritated with her. When I look back at what happened next, I realize I should have seen it coming.

  By the end of February 1975 we were almost finished shooting. All we had left to do were some pickup shots—pieces of scenes needed to provide continuity.

  When Diana came to the set her nerves were on edge. Everything I said to her, good or bad, was met with cool. We had just finished shooting one of the pickup scenes when I told Diana we had to do another take.

  Turning to me with steely eyes, she said, “No we’re not. I’m going home!”

  “What?”

  Everyone on the set stopped what they were doing.

  “What do you mean you’re going home? I want another take.”

  Then she did something. I don’t know for sure what it was, a slap, a shove, something. Whatever it was it sent my glasses flying across the room as I turned to see her storm off to her trailer.

  EMBARRASSING. I stood there looking down but glancing at the people who were just sort of staring at me with stunned looks on their faces. I hurried after her, still in a daze.

  She couldn’t possibly be going home—just a threat made in a heated moment.

  But when I walked into her trailer and saw her throwing her things together as fast as she could I knew she was serious.

  “Wait a minute, you can’t do this.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do, I’m leaving!”

  “Please, Diana, you can’t walk out now—I’ve got one more day of shooting. It’s just not right. We’ve still got these pickups to do with your hands and arms. I need one more day.”

  She said nothing.

  “Diana, listen,” I said, “it’s about principle, too. You don’t walk out on any film but especially this one. My money is in it. I put it up for you. If you walk out now, you know that I can never ever do another movie with you where I put up money.”

  Too late. Never looking at me, she picked up her bag and left the trailer.

  The hands and arms of my secretary, Edna Anderson, doubled for Diana’s in the pickup shots. The movie was not hurt by Diana’s leaving, but I was.

  Which was the best shot? The best angle? Watching Diana’s face over and over during the editing process put me at a major disadvantage. It was impossible for me to hold on to the anger I had felt after she walked off the set in Rome. Looking at image after ima
ge, it did not surprise me that I quickly fell in love with what she could do all over again.

  During much of the shooting of Mahogany, the new companion in my personal life was a woman named Nancy Leiviska, whom I had been with for the last year or so. Sweet, supportive, bright and outgoing, Nancy was pregnant with my eighth child, Stefan, who was born in September of 1975.

  In my life I was not only lucky when it came to my business, but also when it came to some very special women. The thing that always made me feel good was that with my relationships, no matter how they ended, we would usually remain the best of friends. That was the case with Nancy. By the time I had begun editing Mahogany, our relationship had changed and we split up, but our friendship grew even stronger. She become good at video production, and went on to oversee the videotaping of many Motown projects and personal events throughout the years.

  In the spring of ’75 I was giving a graduation luncheon at the Bistro in Beverly Hills for my son Terry, who had just graduated from Beverly Hills High School. My third oldest kid, Terry was a natural at many things, not unlike my brother Robert. Quiet, thoughtful, easygoing, he was an academic star. As he was heading off for San Diego State University in the fall, this was a real celebration. I was called to the phone.

  It was Jermaine Jackson, who had become my son-in-law when he and Hazel were married nearly two years earlier. Jermaine told me his brothers had just signed a contract with CBS. They were leaving Motown.

  What? I knew we still had at least a year to go on their contract. “How can they do that?”

  “I don’t know, but they just did.”

  He told me his father had said Motown was having promotion problems and that was why their records hadn’t been going to #1.

  “What about you?”

  “He wanted me to sign but I didn’t,” he said in a voice that let me know how tough the decision must have been.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him Motown made us who we are today and if there’s a problem, I want to stay and help them work it out.”

  I told him I appreciated him for standing up for what he thought was right.

  Earlier around 1973, after four years of the group’s success and Michael taking off with four solo hits, including “Ben,” which he performed on the 1973 Academy Awards show, their father, Joe, went from being quietly behind the scenes to having many complaints and demands. It was everything from wanting a say in how they were produced, what songs they did or didn’t do, to how they were being promoted and booked.

  And now I had heard CBS had made a deal for the boys with Joe being a big part of it.

  CBS had signed them a year before our term was up. We sued both CBS and the Jackson 5 for breach of contract. The Jacksons countersued, claiming they were due additional royalties. In the end, we owed them nothing and we were paid a settlement of $100,000. We’d won the battle but lost the war—the Jackson 5 were gone.

  At that time, I didn’t know the full extent of what losing an act like the J-5 would be. I also did not know that in the industry it was hunting season and Motown was the biggest game in town.

  But, as always, I had to continue to forge ahead on my other projects and right now that meant completing Mahogany. By October, it was ready to go.

  In the past I seldom took what critics said personally, but the advance reviews on Mahogany were so bad they made the negative ones on Lady Sings the Blues sound like love letters.

  Sitting alone in my New York hotel room the night before that first showing at Loew’s State Theater I was dejected—confused—but still confident, or continuing to convince myself I was.

  Unable to touch my food on the tray that room service had just delivered, I was thinking how Mike Roshkind, my vice president in charge of public relations, had gone out on a limb prepromoting this film. He was saying what he always said when I came out with a major project of any kind, “If Berry Gordy says it’s a smash, it’s a smash.” So far I had been right. Why should this time be any different? My appetite came back. Right as I plunged a fork into my steak, the phone rang.

  It was Mike, telling me in a businesslike voice, “I just left the screening room. They ran Mahogany for about ten or twelve people from the industry, including some from Paramount and Loew’s State.” Then he did his usual thing—silence, waiting for me to ask him the inevitable question. Usually when this happened, it meant good news. Not this time. “They didn’t like it.”

  I came back fast. Defensive. “I don’t give a damn about those people. All I can tell you is the movie is a hit.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that for a minute,” he said in a nervous voice. “I’ll see you at the first show tomorrow.”

  Knowing my appetite was gone for good, I put the tray aside and fell down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. What if everybody’s right and I’m wrong? Didn’t I know public taste after all these years? For hours, my conscious and subconscious battled it out, the clock moving past midnight, 1:00 A.M., 2:00, 3:00. My first directing job. I had directed my ass off. Diana and Billy Dee were great and Anthony Perkins phenomenal. I went through the whole movie in my head from beginning to end, scene after scene. I realized nothing had changed. I still loved it. With that awareness, I was able to get a few hours’ sleep before it was time to get up and go to the theater.

  October 8, 1975. I don’t know what I was expecting when I got to Loew’s State that morning. But I knew what I was not expecting. I was not expecting to see nobody. And that’s just what I saw: nobody.

  The only people there were connected to the film or on my personal staff and they were doing what I was doing—looking for paying customers.

  Everybody wanted to cheer me up but no one could think of anything to say except for Roger Campbell, my chief of staff. He walked over to me and said, “Sir, I think it’s much too early to tell anything, don’t you?”

  I stared at him in such a way that he knew it was time to disappear. He did.

  My body ached with sadness. Nothing added up. Was I on a different planet? We had promoted the hell out of this film. We had a hit song from it, “Theme From Mahogany (Do You Know Where You’re Going To),” already on its way to #1. People loved Diana. And she and Billy Dee were a team that people wanted to see. So where were the people?

  About 9:25 A.M. a limo pulled up to the front of the theater. Rich paying customers! No doubt this was the beginning of the STAM-PEDE!

  The limousine door opened and out came my friends, Sy and Linda Weintraub. They had flown all the way from Japan to be with me opening day, the day I had told them would be one of the most exciting of their lives. Sy always smiling, Mr. Glad-to-be-Alive, Mr. Sunshine; Linda, his wife, even more so. The two of them could usually make a nightmare seem like a fairy tale. Sy had retired from producing movies and television shows, sold the rights to Tarzan, and was now exploring business opportunities around the world.

  I appreciated their friendship so much that I tried not to show my deep disappointment and jumped right into their world, hugging and thanking them for being there for me. We went in.

  A few more people were now appearing but my dream for anything near a full house had long vanished. All I wanted to do now was just get in and get out. In spite of this major disaster, Sy and Linda were oozing with compliments on my having directed a picture in the first place. They were saying all of the nauseating things good people say in circumstances like this. Every time my name came up on the credits, their heavy applause reverberated through the scarcely populated theater.

  I personally loved the film but was glad when it was over. I didn’t see Mike Roshkind anywhere, but couldn’t blame him for hiding from me. I began thinking that I needed to reevaluate myself, my life, my choices.

  Sy and Linda accompanied me back to my hotel suite. After an uncomfortably quiet period, they were about to leave when the phone rang.

  Mike’s voice came blasting over the wire. “It’s a smash!”

  “What do you mean smash? I
was there. The house was practically empty.”

  “Yeah I know,” Mike said, “but…” Then he went on to tell me he had been in the theater office the whole time, talking to the management. We had a third of a house—twice the number of people that The Godfather drew the first day at the same 10:00 A.M. show. The earliest shows never did much, they told him. They were predicting sell-outs starting with the 5:00 P.M. show with lines around the block.

  “They can tell that fast?” I questioned.

  “They can tell that fast.”

  Mike was right, not only for the five o’clock, but for the eight and twelve o’clock shows as well. Soon they were running ads letting crowds know they were open all night, adding a 5:00 A.M. show.

  Three days later, the picture was still breaking records. We then opened it at Loew’s Orpheum on 34th Street. Two theaters with record crowds for Mahogany! New York was my town—now for sure.

  Despite that major triumph, Mahogany was a personal disaster in that things would never be the same between Diana and me. My favorite line from the movie, “Success is nothing without someone you love to share it with,” had become painfully relevant. Memories of that slap that last day, followed by her walking out after I had begged her to stay, reverberated in my mind, signaling the beginning of the end of a great symphony.

  PART FOUR

  ALL IN LOVE IS FAIR

  ALL IN LOVE IS FAIR

  All is fair in love.

  Love’s a crazy game.

  Two people vow to stay

  in love, as one, they say.

  But all is changed with time.

  The future none can see.

  The road you leave behind,

  ahead lies mystery.

  But all is fair in love.

  I had to go away.

  A writer takes his pen

  to write the words again

  that all in love is fair.

  All of fate’s a chance.