by Berry Gordy
It was another special moment for me when the Four Tops and the Temptations came out. They were epitomizing something I had set up many years before—the Battle of the Stars. They had been challenging each other all over the country. I had just seen them a short time before at the Universal Amphitheater in Los Angeles. That night, after an opening segment with both groups singing about what they were going to do to the other, the Tempts left the stage.
There were the Four Tops. Four guys who had never changed any members—together even before Motown started, not only going strong but displaying practically a lost art. They were a combination of some of the greatest entertainers I had seen throughout my life—the Mills Brothers, the Treniers, the Ink Spots, the Will Mastin Trio and many others. They were not only one of the hottest groups of the sixties but great showmen.
Levi Stubbs, out front, had kept the audience in the palm of his hand with his soulful interpretations of great songs, while Duke Fakir and Lawrence Payton backed him up with the class and artistry of real pros. Obie Benson’s face told it all. Bright, happy, having the time of his life as he bounced around with his bass notes and talking to the audience with his expressions and moves. After a few numbers, mesmerizing the audience, it was now time for the Tempts to do their thing. I wondered what they could possibly do to top the Tops. I was worried for them.
Once the Tempts hit the stage, moving through a medley of their hits in that familiar tight Tempts formation, I was worried no more.
Now, at Motown 25, because the show was so long, they could only do a compilation of both groups’ hits. The Tops started with “Reach Out, I’ll Be There” as the Tempts answered with “Get Ready.” The Tops topped that with “It’s The Same Old Song.” The Tempts upped them with “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg.” The Tops were undaunted as they soared even higher with “Baby I Need Your Loving.” Richard Street of the Tempts tapped Levi on the shoulder as if to say, “Watch this,” as the audience started screaming over the intro to “My Girl.” Jumping right in, Levi joined Richard on lead with that one, until the Tempts’ Dennis Edwards broke off into “I Can’t Get Next To You.” This time Levi tapped Dennis on the shoulder as the Tops roared into “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)” which pushed the crowd to a peak. The Tempts kept it right there as Dennis launched into “(I Know) I’m Losing You.” The two groups were trading off lines, burning up with classic Temptations and Four Tops moves, dancing the finale. Once it was all over, like the ending of a twelve-round championship bout, they hugged and hugged and hugged.
After the intermission Stevie Wonder came on, singing a medley of his hits. Another time flash—from that little kid banging on those drums in the studio, making all that noise, to this exceptional man making incredible music.
Stevie was originally supposed to close the first half of the show, but he arrived late. That was not unusual for him. I could never get too mad at Stevie because his heart was always so much in the right place. He was often out front fighting for the humanitarian causes he believed in. And when it came to me and my family—birthdays, funerals, anything personal—he was always there, on time.
A few years before, when the company was facing bankruptcy, I decided the best of my bad options was to sell Jobete. But for Stevie’s songs to be part of the deal I had to get his okay. He was coming to the end of a world tour for his Hotter Than July album when I caught up with him in Paris. He was going to be there for three nights of concerts.
Sitting in the audience that first night, I was listening to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours),” “Superstition,” “Sir Duke” and “Higher Ground”—songs I had come to tell him I wanted to sell. Then he sang “Happy Birthday,” the song he had written to honor Dr. King. I was thrilled to see how positively the French reacted to it. Afterward at dinner, we talked about his fight to establish Dr. King’s birthday as a national holiday. We could both see how much power music had. I decided it would not be the best idea to talk to him about selling Jobete that night.
The second day, another show, another dinner. But the timing was never right. There were too many people around or we were distracted by something. Another day, another show, another dinner. On the fourth day there were no more shows but another dinner. By the end of that dinner it was me and him—just the two of us alone.
“Stevie,” I said, “I need you to understand something. I am in serious trouble and I’m thinking about selling Jobete.”
“What do you mean? Sell the publishing company? How can you sell the publishing?”
“I know it’s a shocking thought,” I said, “and I don’t want to do it, but I think the time has come when I’d better be a little more realistic about the economics of the business.”
Our talk quickly moved from banter to bickering with me finally grumbling, “It probably wouldn’t have gotten so bad if I could have depended on you to deliver me albums when you were supposed to.”
Stevie shot back, “Yeah, that might be true, but when I do give you albums you know they’re gonna be good!”
I didn’t elaborate then on all the financial troubles the company was in and Stevie did not give his okay. When I presented it to the buyers without Stevie they wanted to drop the price. I said no. The deal fell through.
Thank God for Stevie.
When Marvin sat down at the piano and began improvising some melancholy, jazzy chords it was déjà vu. That was what he was doing twenty-three years before, when my sister Gwen had pointed him out through the studio window at the Hitsville Christmas party and said, “That guy is really good!”
So much had happened since then.
Watching him sitting there filled me with incredible memories of a beautiful but troubled life. He was always in conflict with something, always rebelling. He didn’t want to pay taxes; he got into drugs, he got out of drugs; he fought anyone who told him what or what not to do, including himself.
In the mid-seventies, Marvin’s marriage to my sister Anna hit the rocks.
I had made it a point never to get involved in their affairs, but when these things were in the family, unfortunately, I was always somewhere in the middle because both parties sought me out to one degree or another. I was still Anna’s brother and still Marvin’s friend, sometimes father figure and confidant.
I was more concerned for Marvin. I knew Anna would be fine. She was strong, protective and had played every role with him—wife, friend, sister, sometimes mother. And it was obvious how much he depended on her.
They could not come to a settlement agreement, and Marvin did not want this to get messy. Neither did I. I presented him with an idea on the golf course one day that he loved. I would get all our best producers who knew his style to produce tracks for him. Then, I told him, “All you’d have to do is come off the road and spend two weeks of your time putting your voice on them. And whatever the album made would fulfill your responsibility for alimony and child support forever. If the album did not make enough, it would be my responsibility to take care of Anna and Marvin III. You would have no more responsibility. Two weeks of about six hours a day in full settlement after a seventeen-year marriage has got to be a good deal for anybody. It’s a win-win situation,” I said. “The only one that can lose is me.”
Marvin thought this was the greatest idea he had ever heard—only two weeks of his time and he would never again have to worry about paying alimony and child support. But a few weeks later, when he came back off of a tour, he had changed his mind.
“I don’t know, BG. What if it sells millions? I want a cap on it.”
“Yeah, Marvin, but what if it sells nothing? You’re off the hook and I’m on. Marvin, two weeks of your time?”
“Naw, BG, I don’t think so.”
Two years later, behind on his payments, he went before a judge who ordered him to produce such an album himself and if it didn’t sell he had to pay additional monies. Marvin hated it.
He started out trying to make the worst album he could, but his true art
istry took over. He proceeded to make a documentary-type album—charting the course of the relationship on record. He had to sing about what he was going through in this breakup—hurt, anger, love, longing, regret, resentment. The feelings were so raw. It was as pure Marvin as you could ever get. Knowing he had to hand it over to Anna, he gave it an appropriate title, Here, My Dear. Even the inside cover of the album, showing a Monopoly board with the words “Judgement” on it, the marriage partners as adversaries and their possessions as game pieces, was a masterpiece of symbolism.
Marvin remarried and when that marriage got into trouble, he became even more despondent and left the country—becoming a recluse. While overseas, he signed a deal with Columbia Records, who had been courting him.
It didn’t surprise me—Marvin was always searching and when the time came I had mixed feelings. I was losing a major source of income, one of the powerhouses. But I also knew I was losing the pressure of dealing with Marvin’s problems. And we would still be friends, go out to the golf course together, have fun.
When he came back to the States after his big hit, “Sexual Healing” (which won him his first and only Grammy), he called me for advice on a new song he was writing. He wanted to know what I thought of the title—“Sanctified Pussy.” He was dead serious.
My first thought was what a relief—I don’t have to deal with this one. “Well, Marvin,” I said, “sounds great to me, but you might have a little trouble convincing Columbia.” (Obviously he did, because it was later released as “Sanctified Lady.”)
As Marvin got up from the piano bench and began to sing, I thought back to how after telling Suzanne there was no way I was gonna ask anybody to honor me, I had changed my mind and invited Marvin over for lunch.
When he arrived that day at my house, it was the first time I had seen him in almost two years. He was in great spirits. He loved the thought of my having to ask him to do something for me. But just knowing I was willing was enough; he never even made me do it.
“I was gonna do the show all the time,” he said, “but you know me, BG. I just wanted to feel a little special.”
“You are special, man.”
Marvin smiled. He noticed a chipping iron lying next to a golf bag as we walked out to the patio where lunch had been served. “Still playing, huh?” he said, picking up the club, swinging it across the grass, hitting an imaginary ball.
“Gotta keep in shape,” I said. “Never know when you’ll come back trying to take my money again.”
“That was fun, BG.”
“Yeah, for you maybe.”
Marvin smiled, still swinging the club. “I was pretty good if I must say so myself,” he said, then reminded me of the day he sank a forty-foot putt on me for $2,000.
After lunch, I had him follow me into the house and up the stairs to a converted attic area, a meditation-type room with overstuffed pillows and Persian rugs, a hideaway I called the “Raj Mahal” after Roger Campbell, who had it done for me as a surprise when I was out of town.
We took our seats cross-legged on big brocaded cushions on the floor.
“Hey Marvin, what was that joke you used to tell about Ma’ Laady?”
Marvin chuckled softly, “Y’know, BG, that’s one of my favorites.” Growing animated and bubbly, he started in.
Nobody could tell it like Marvin. He loved imitating English accents. Feeling comfortable, Marvin reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint.
“Hey, man, that’s not cool,” I said. “You still doin’ that shit?”
“But BG, this is like…” His words trailed off as he made a gesture around the room, then telling me this was a special moment, a special meeting of the minds, and he wanted to celebrate it with a little grass.
Sensing what this meant to him I said, “Okay man, it’s cool.”
“Good shit, man,” he said, holding his breath with tight lips after taking a deep hissing drag on the joint. Smoke curled out of his mouth as he extended the joint to me.
“No, no man, not me. It gets me much too paranoid. My mind’s already active enough. I tried it when I was about fifteen and hated it.”
But then looking hurt, he said, “Aw, BG, come on. This is you and me, man. You and me.”
So I took a couple of puffs and as I did, I saw in his eyes a peace, a contentment. “Yeah,” he said, “pass the peace pipe.”
“Yeah,” I echoed, “the peace pipe, man.”
That’s what it was.
We talked about all sorts of stuff. Marvin told me of the trials and tribulations in his love life. But not like someone crying on my shoulder. It was just Marvin being Marvin, honest; a man who could make his worst heartbreaks into the funniest stories.
Our conversation turned to the old days, which Marvin seemed to be missing. He told me he had thoughts of getting back with Anna and even returning to Motown.
A few days later he told me that that time together had meant the world to him. It was about two old friends, two everyday, anyday cats talking about the foibles of living and loving, and admitting to having done some stupid shit.
At Motown 25, as Marvin sang “What’s Going On” I was caught up in his magic, his aura.
Mother, mother, there’s too many of you crying,
Brother, brother, brother, there’s far too many of you dying…
I had no idea that this would be the last time I’d ever see him do his thing. A year later, on April 1, 1984, April Fools’ Day, a day before his forty-fifth birthday, he was shot and killed by his father.
Watching him that night, he reminded me more than ever of Billie Holiday—singing through his pain, smiling through his sorrow, crying through his joy. Marvin—such a star, such a character, the truest artist I have ever known.
For my emotional height, there was nothing that could have topped what I got from Marvin that night. But in terms of pure entertainment it was the other holdout, Michael Jackson, who stopped the show.
When he and his brothers came out on stage for a historic Jackson 5 reunion electricity shot through the whole place.
I thought back to my talk with Michael about appearing on the show, once again doing what I had told Suzanne I would never do. I caught up with him over at our Hitsville recording studio in Hollywood. Guy Costa, our technological pioneer, had built a state-of-the-art video facility there that many outside artists used. That day Michael was there overdubbing a video with producer Quincy Jones. When Michael saw me come in, he smiled, stopping to greet me. We hugged, then headed downstairs to talk privately.
He told me of his concern about being overexposed on TV.
“This is not TV,” I quickly told him, “this is Motown 25.” I pointed out that he and his brothers hadn’t been together for eight years and what a reunion this could be. “Sure, this is going to help me and Motown, but if you think you’re big now, you do this thing right and you can really go into orbit.”
It began with an exciting buildup of various clips of a young Jackson 5—from their 1968 audition in Detroit to The Ed Sullivan Show. Then the boys, all grown up, hit the stage, bringing the crowd to their feet.
With the drama and precision of their early days, Michael led the group through one spectacularly choreographed song after the other in a medley of their Motown hits.
He then moved center stage for a solo spot with his latest hit, “Billie Jean.” It was the most incredible performance I’d ever seen. He had touches of many of the greats in that one performance—Sammy Davis, Jr., Fred Astaire, Jackie Wilson, Marcel Marceau and James Brown. But it was his own Moonwalk that blew everybody away. When the special aired two months later Michael did indeed go into orbit.
As the night drew to a close there were film clips of the Supremes, each identifying a place in time where we were all together, the girls and me—Diana, Mary and Florence and later Cindy.
There was the Sullivan show, To Tell the Truth, a trip to China, Japan, London. Each clip brought back a special feeling as I recalled how the Supremes had for so
long led the way for Motown. They had become the standard by which girl groups were measured and had made their mark on history that would always be there. I thought of what a fighter and a survivor Mary Wilson was. She may not have been the lead singer, but in a sense she was the heart and soul of the Supremes. She had been the glue that kept the group and their legacy alive.
Then I heard Diana’s voice coming from the back of the auditorium as she made her entrance singing, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” moving down the aisle and up to the stage.
I felt a kind of a pain creeping in. Tonight there was nothing but glory but tomorrow, back at the office, there would be nothing but problems.
All night long everything had been going too fast, but now everything began to move in slow motion. Diana had been the love of my life, the person who had given me the most thrills.
But for the past few years things had not been right between us and tonight Diana would try to address that for the first time.
Looking squarely up at me in the balcony, she said, “There’s a strange thing, but Berry has always felt that he’s never been really appreciated.”
A little voice in my head shot back—No shit.
She continued, her eyes still locked in on mine, but her voice cracking slightly and her stance wavering. “It’s a strange thing, I feel a little emotional. But it’s not about the people that leave Motown that’s important. It’s about the people who come back. And tonight everybody came back.”
That little voice again—No Diana, that doesn’t cut it, that doesn’t make it okay. I knew that she meant what she was saying, that she sincerely wanted to smooth over the rough edges she knew I must be feeling.