by Berry Gordy
Then Diana raised her fist in the power sign to me.
My automatic response was to give it back to her, raising both of my fists up and signaling—Yeah, I’m with you, like always. But just as automatic were my hands changing their mind. They opened up, let go. I had given up. Not our love. I knew that would always be. What I had given up was my fight for her understanding of me and what I was really about.
I thought about a line from one of Stevie’s songs: “All is fair in love.” While she hadn’t given me what I thought I needed, she had given me a dream come true. Long ago she had promised me, “If you can think it, I can do it.” And she had. She was my star and will always be my leading lady.
Far off in the distance I heard Mary Wilson and Cindy Birdsong joining Diana on the chorus of “Someday We’ll Be Together.” Meanwhile, other Motown stars were slowly making their way onto the stage, singing along.
Still looking at me, Diana said, “Well, how long will it take you to get down here, Black? Ladies and gentlemen, Berry Gordy.”
I was surprised. This had not been planned. With the overwhelming applause that had come once everybody—and me—realized that Diana was summoning me to the stage, I felt myself melting.
Walking down that aisle amidst a sea of people, a swarm of cheering, I couldn’t contain my burning pride. In front of me was a dream-like mural—the great cast of characters from my life—waiting anxiously on stage to hug and kiss me.
When I reached the stage it was as if nothing had ever changed. In these very real minutes I felt that whatever misunderstandings we might have had with each other meant nothing. Beyond rivalries, beyond misunderstandings, no matter what, they loved me and I them. And there was nothing anybody could do about it.
The topper to Motown 25 came a few months later in the fall of 1983, when the show was nominated for nine Emmy Awards.
At home, I was lying in bed watching the broadcast on TV when the category for Outstanding Variety, Music, or Comedy Program was announced. I was tense. We had lost the other eight. This was the most prestigious award of all and our last chance to win.
When I heard those beautiful words, “And the winner is… Motown 25: Yesterday, Today, Forever,” a relieved excitement came over me as I watched an emotional Suzanne de Passe jump out of her seat, leading the way up to the stage, followed by director Don Mischer, producer and writer Buz Kohan, and producer Suzanne Coston.
Suzanne picked up her Emmy and headed for the podium where she began her acceptance speech.
I was not prepared for my reaction when she ended the speech, looking straight into the camera with tear-filled eyes:
“…a man who changed my life so extraordinarily and so dramatically that I just want to tell him, Berry Gordy, I love you…
And holding up the award she continued—
“and this one’s for you!”
It was hard to hold back the tears. I had been thanked in front of millions of people by someone who really understood me and who really wanted to do it.
That was a big night for me. Motown 25 closed one chapter on the building of my company and opened another one on the selling of it.
13
MOTOWN FOREVER
1983–1988
I was holding our latest quarterly statement as I made my way down the corridor to Jay Lasker’s office. The figures made it clear—our collection problems had gotten worse.
From the strong smell of his Cuban cigar wafting down the hall I knew Jay was in and I was not surprised to hear him screaming at one of our distributors.
“Don’t give me that fuckin’ ‘the check is in the mail’ shit. If I don’t receive that fuckin’ check by tomorrow, I’m pulling the fuckin’ line.”
I walked in just as he slammed down the phone. It made me feel so much better knowing that Jay was madder than I was.
“Just like the old days, huh Jay?”
“Worse. In the old days,” he said, “at least you had something to look forward to. The independent distributors were getting stronger then. Now it’s just the opposite.”
For the past few months Jay and I had been discussing the possibility of going with a major. It had been over three years since Jerry Moss and A&M had made that move and we’d been sticking it out with the independents since that time. “We can’t do it anymore,” I told Jay. He agreed.
That day in May of 1983, we made the big decision to go with MCA for national distribution. Irving Azoff, the new head of MCA’s record division, had immediately come after Motown for distribution. Up until that time, the black division at MCA was virtually nonexistent.
By distributing us, Azoff knew that MCA could get a major foothold in the black record business. And for us, instead of fifteen to twenty different distributors, we could now look to one company for one check—that we knew would be there on time.
Within a few months after making the deal, Lionel Richie busted wide open with his Can’t Slow Down album. True to its name, it never did. It went on and on, selling over ten million. Our distribution marriage was off to a great start.
Then along came “Somebody’s Watching Me”—a big hit by an artist named Rockwell, half singing and half talking in a British accent. Few at the company knew that this artist, the writer and co-producer on the single and the hit album of the same name, was my son Kennedy. “Somebody’s Watching Me” went straight to the top of the charts. In the past, whenever he tried to get me to take one of his songs to any of my established stars, I had rejected the material. In addition to not being up to my standards, I explained to him that it would be a conflict of interest, since I had turned down much better songs that the artists wanted to do.
But Nancy Leiviska, the mother of my youngest son, Stefan, really went to bat for Kennedy. When she played me some of his new songs, I realized what a talent he had become and okayed a budget to produce an album on him.
My son had become a star. Kennedy was on top of the world—until word leaked out that he was my son. He hated that. It took away from his legitimacy as an artist. He had really wanted to do something on his own and be recognized for it. He started resenting my getting credit for his success, and for good reason; I didn’t deserve it. Though he enjoyed his stardom, he went through many moments of anger as more and more interviewers were implying I was the reason for his success.
“I know how you feel,” I told him one day. “It’s unfair for people to say that you didn’t do this on your own. But rather than take it out on me or hold it in and be miserable, on your next interview, just tell them the truth. Tell them you made it in spite of your father, not because of him.”
“Are you serious? I can do that?”
“Of course. Just tell ’em the story, tell ’em the truth.”
The very next time he was interviewed, he told the story, but added his own ending. “My father never had time to work with me. He told me he had to work with Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson…” He stopped and then said, laughing, “Come to think of it, if I were him, I wouldn’t have worked with me either!”
Kennedy felt a lot better toward me but not enough to let me be his manager when I offered to work with him. I understood. He needed to continue independently, doing things his own way, learning his own lessons.
While everything was seemingly going well at Motown again, I became involved in an outside creative project.
At the time, Gary Hendler had just become the president of a new company, Tri-Star Pictures. A Hollywood lawyer who had represented many top stars, Gary and I had become close friends in a very short period of time. We had come from different worlds—his Jewish, mine black. He, highly educated; me, a high school dropout. Despite our differences, we had the same backyard—a term I used when people shared the same values in life. Differences—race, religion, education, political views and even ideas—don’t really matter if you have shared values, if the principles by which you live your lives are similar.
When Gary came to my house one Saturday for our weekly te
nnis game, he was very excited. “I’m really anxious to hear about the script I gave you,” he said on the way to the court.
I had not been looking forward to that question. This was one of his company’s first projects—a kung fu movie. I knew how important it was to him. But I had to tell him straight. “I don’t like it at all.” I was hoping the discussion would end there. But Gary wanted to hear more.
“Kung fu movies are big business,” he said, “and this one’s with black kids.”
“That might make it different but that in itself is not enough. The story’s got to be more human, funnier, romantic.”
“Okay, so you’re not crazy about it.”
I told him there was a philosophy in there that needed bringing out. “Everything should be built around the concept that the Master he is seeking is in himself all along. That might not only make it a hit, but could be a positive message for kids.”
“Berry, you’ve got to make this movie.”
Within a few months I was off to New York shooting Berry Gordy’s The Last Dragon for Tri-Star Pictures.
I worked with a fine young black director named Michael Schultz, who put together a wonderful crew. Together we came up with a tremendous cast, starring two newcomers, Taimak, as the martial arts star, and the beautiful Vanity as the female lead. Julius Carry III was sensational as Sho’Nuff, the outrageous gang leader. And Faith Prince, who did such a wonderful job as the redheaded “dumb blonde,” was a delight to work with. I was extremely proud of the way Last Dragon turned out.
That movie was also significant to me in another way. While we were shooting in New York Suzanne de Passe had arranged for Rhonda Silberstein, her goddaughter, now almost thirteen, to be an extra in one of the dance scenes. I remember while shooting that scene I heard a buzz on the soundstage—“Diana Ross is here, Diana Ross is here. Over there.”
Our eyes met for the first time since Motown 25. Diana had come to the set with her daughter, Rhonda. Diana walked over to me. We didn’t hug. “She knows,” Diana said. “I told Rhonda you were her father.” We hugged.
“What did she say?” I asked softly.
“Not much. She was surprised and shocked, but she handled it like the champion she is.” It was a soul-relieving hug and it continued for a while. When it started becoming awkward we pulled away.
“So what do you think?” I said.
“I think she’ll be fine. I’m not sure whether she was sad or happy, she took it so well. After all, she’s known you as Uncle BB her whole life. That made it easier, I guess.”
I looked over to Rhonda, who was rehearsing. She was looking our way, smiling.
I couldn’t wait to hug my daughter. I had done that many times before. But this time it would be a little different.
When the scene broke she came over. We hugged as we had before, and it was different. Diana stood there, beaming. Rhonda and I said nothing. There was too much to say.
Rhonda and I had lunch the next day, just the two of us. She was poised and well versed in so many things, I could see what a wonderful job her mother had done. We talked for hours. Now she was watching me as I had watched her for years, looking for similarities. Every now and then I saw what I thought was a smile of her recognition of some of me in her. We didn’t talk about it as such, but I believe that day resolved some questions she may have asked herself over the years.
The atmosphere was jovial as we gathered in my dining room for a family meeting.
Our family never changed. We still settled disputes by bringing everyone together. At the company where many worked for me, I was the chairman—the boss. But at meetings with my sisters and brothers, I was just one of seven. Personally I did not like these meetings. That one-man-one-vote stuff was not something I looked forward to. Even so, it was I who had called this one.
The subject was to be Gwen and her house in Beverly Hills. Because her publishing company was doing so well with “Sweet Love,” a big hit by Anita Baker, and her house had gone way up in value, she was spending money like it was water. Everybody hung out there. Day and night it was party time all the time.
This was not good for her health or her pocketbook. Since she loved horses, I had been trying for the longest time to convince her to move to the healthier environment of a farm somewhere.
She wasn’t buying it, she was happy where she was.
I lobbied the family, who were as concerned as I was and had agreed to help me get her to move. Esther and George came out from Detroit.
As had happened many times before when the family met, the minute we sat down at the dining room table that day, I lost all authority—I was “Junior” again.
Though things started off fine, somehow Gwen’s situation took a back seat and the meeting turned into an opportunity for everyone to bring up any insensitivities they thought I had shown them over the years. Though the others brought up theirs half jokingly, when Esther jumped in with hers, she was dead serious. I had no idea what she was talking about. It was something about me siding with Ralph Seltzer against her over a legal matter.
I told her I didn’t remember any of it. “Are you sure?” I said.
“Oh yes, it was twenty-one years ago, in Ralph’s office, on a Tuesday morning at ten o’clock…”
She knew the exact time it had happened!
Esther, now the family matriarch, one of my staunchest supporters, understood me and my business motives better than anybody. It seemed so out of character for her that I was sure the others would be just as shocked.
But when I turned from Esther to look around the table for support, scanning from face to face, there was none. There was Fuller, regularly so laid-back and easygoing, frowning at me. George, always fun-loving and joking, stared at his hands folded on the table. Robert, who had looked up to me all these years, was nodding his head in Esther’s favor. Anna, always caring and bubbling over with warmth, was saying little. And Gwen, knowing why the meeting had been called in the first place, was pleased that the focus was no longer on her.
I was devastated. Had it come to this? After all I had achieved, had I lost my family in the process? I wondered. We adjourned without resolving anything about Gwen.
That night, late, overcome by sadness, I found myself in one of those moods where normally I would head straight for the piano. But this night it was the computer. I sat there trying to express my feelings in a poem to Esther. I decided to call it “I Wonder.”
How have I hurt thee through the years… I wonder.
Your subjective recollection right or wrong on
closer inspection
The hurt was there and lingers on… the
realization of a forgotten fact, a decisive act
that may have changed the course of history.
Right or wrong, who’s right, who’s wrong, what’s
right, what’s wrong.
Do you love me… do you think you love me.
Or are you hoping for the day when you can say “if
you had only done it my way”… I wonder.
Buried hurt carried through the years surfacing now
and then, takes its toll…
Remember when you said you wished me dead? I
never said… O yes you did!
On a Tuesday afternoon around three o’clock.
Behind the barn I took your bike I still hear you
screaming as if it were yesterday…
Wait a minute! What am I trying to say?
If I ever hurt you I swear I never meant to.
I believed whatever I did was right at the time…
I wonder.
I love you,
Berry
When Esther received it, she called to tell me how much she loved the poem and me, and told me I didn’t have to wonder anymore, that she really understood. She insisted I send it to every member of the family.
A short time later Gwen bought a wonderful ranch where she could raise horses and start a new lifestyle.
Not
long after this, in early 1985, Robert let me know we had a chance to get Lester Sill, the granddaddy of music publishing, for Jobete. We had been looking for someone to take it to higher international levels.
I had tried to get Lester Sill many times before and had given up.
“I think the time is right,” Robert said. “We should try again.” He was right. This time Lester agreed to come aboard.
Once hired he immediately started making plans to take advantage of previously untapped worldwide opportunities for our songs, significantly increasing Jobete’s revenues.
Over at Motown Productions, where Suzanne was running the show, deals were being made for Motown-related TV specials like the Emmy Award–winning Motown Returns to the Apollo, The Motown Revue starring Smokey Robinson, a weekly summer TV show, and Motown on Showtime, a series of specials featuring Smokey, the Four Tops and the Tempts, Michael Jackson and Marvin Gaye.
Again, this was good for our image but did not help our bottom line enough.
The record scene was even worse. We had both creative and marketing problems. We still did not have enough quality front-line product, and what records we did have, we had trouble promoting properly. Marketing costs had skyrocketed. Now it was a minimum of $100,000 to promote a single record. And that didn’t mean you were guaranteed heavy airplay.
Music videos were the marketing tools of the day, but Jay didn’t believe in them. He was from the old school, didn’t believe in spending a buck if he couldn’t see two coming back in. He considered my money his money, and was furious about every expense incurred by the company, whether it was in his area or not.
It was not only that we were losing money. I had lost interest. From ever since I could remember my work was the thing that brought me the most pleasure. Music was never work. It was like my hobby. But now, after thirty years, it was work—real work. I thought that building a company was tough, but I now discovered that saving a company was much tougher.
Jay came to me one day and said that MCA wanted to buy Motown, something that had once been unthinkable. Not anymore. I now understood better what I did not know when I had gone into the distribution deal with MCA—whenever you give up the control of your distribution, you give up the control of your destiny. Our distribution agreement with MCA had been a necessary survival move for me. It had gone well for a couple years, but now Jay had to fight every day with them for better marketing of our product—better in-store position, all sorts of things. It was a natural conflict when a major record company takes over your smaller record label for distribution. They really want to sell their records, not your records. And the only way to make your records their records is for them to buy you out.