by Berry Gordy
Dusk. The city lights, some yellow, some white, slowly creeping on, bringing into focus a magical glow. I had moved to California over twenty years before. Now I was looking back over the city where I grew up, where my roots were. Where once my vision could only take in a couple of blocks of the inner city, now I was looking over all of Detroit and beyond. I had come full circle. I had come home.
I got a sad feeling when I thought about the old hangouts that were no longer there. The 20 Grand, the Flame Show Bar, the Frolic, other clubs on John R Street in Paradise Valley—all gone.
But looking toward Woodward Avenue where the Fox Theatre was still going strong, I thought of the many joyous Motortown Revues we had held there every year at Christmastime where many artists literally learned about show business and real competition. Down that same street, where the Graystone Ballroom had been, were more memories—from the forties Big Band era to the sixties Motown Battle of the Stars.
I had returned with my protégé, the top superstar in the world, Michael Jackson, who had agreed to make a contribution to the Motown Museum. He said he very much wanted to put something back into the soil from which he came and would donate the proceeds from an upcoming concert in Detroit.
“The only stipulation,” he said, when working out the details with Esther and Joanne Jackson, who was helping run the museum at that time, was that “Berry Gordy meets me there.” He was joking at first, but when he and I talked, we knew it had to be. We would have dinner together at the Gordy Manor, which held many fond memories for both of us, the house where he and his brothers performed that first time, and also where they stayed whenever they came back to Detroit.
Remembering how he and his brothers used to run through the house in stockinged feet, slipping and sliding on those marble floors, he asked if the two of us could do it again. I happily agreed.
Michael remained a perpetual kid, yet he was brilliant enough to call most of the shots in his own career. That was part of his mystique. He also had what it took, the talent, the drive and the drama. And a discipline perhaps greater than any I had seen.
Despite the pouring rain, 2,500 fans had crowded out front of Hitsville to witness his presentation of a check for $125,000 to the Motown Museum. He also donated a hat, a rhinestone glove and a stage uniform from 1972.
During that ceremony, I thought about how hectic the past months had been.
That very next day after the sale, Edna had tossed an article from a Detroit newspaper on my desk. “Boss, have you heard that Stevie said he was going to run for mayor of Detroit?”
First thing I thought was Damn, I’ll never get that Stevie album now.
Then I caught myself. Wait a minute. I looked at Edna and smiled. “That is not my problem anymore.”
We both laughed. She knew I felt good saying that.
Others were rushing in to tell me about more crises. My favorite saying for those next few days became: “It is not my problem anymore.”
But in addition to the huge task of transferring all the property and documentation to the new company, there were many things that were still my problem. Among them was finalizing a fair bonus and severance pay structure for all the Motown employees.
Another was setting up the Gordy Company to oversee the surviving entities, Jobete, our publishing company; Motown Productions, our film and TV company; and ongoing development of new projects.
These included the production of Lonesome Dove, an eight-hour miniseries that would be seen the world over. As its executive producer, Suzanne had shown me that she had definitely come into her own.
Since it was approaching the time when we would no longer be allowed to use the name “Motown Productions,” I changed the name of the company to Gordy-de Passe Productions, giving her more visibility. I later turned the whole company over to her.
I was still very much in business. Retaining my chairmanship, I put my son Berry IV in charge of the Gordy Company. An employee of Motown for years, he had worked his way up to executive vice president of Motown Industries.
I now had more time to pursue other things I enjoyed like horse racing. I had gotten hooked about eight years before when, in partnership with Bruce McNall, I had bought my first race horse, Argument, for $1.2 million.
When Argument won the Washington, D.C., International, our first race, we were offered $5 million on the spot. That day I became a fanatic about horse racing. The horse’s value had quadrupled and I didn’t have to worry about him coming back to renegotiate his deal.
My sister Gwen was hooked, too. She set up stables at her ranch. I get such a kick out of seeing how much she and Anna enjoy themselves at the track. Avid handicappers, decked out, sharp from head to toe—they always come dressed for the winner’s circle.
Another way I used my gambling instincts to advantage was trading on the futures market. I found out I could make money by paying attention to world events and interest rates, and by following a few basic principles.
I had time to go see a special lady who had been the inspiration for writing my very first full-length song—Doris Day.
I presented her with a specially framed copy of the sheet music to “You Are You”—forty-three years later. Doris was as enchanting, pretty and sweet as she had seemed to me back then. Even more. And when she asked me to sing it, I was as nervous as I would have been back then. Trying to avoid the Donald Duck side of my natural register, I sang it with everything I had:
You are you—
That’s all that matters to me.
You are you—
And only you can be the one I love and yearn for,
the one that my heart burns for.
Yes, you are you—
And that makes you best of all….
During the song, Doris began to cry and afterward when I hugged her, so did I. The thrill of singing it for her after all those years was worth the wait.
The biggest undertaking I have had since the sale is writing this book. It has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the most rewarding. It has given me the chance to relive and relearn the lessons of my life. Again and again I’ve seen how important family always was to me, whether it was the family I grew up with, the Motown family or my family today of eight children and ten grandchildren.
Not unlike the household in which I grew up, each of my children have their own unique talents and personalities. But as different as they are from one another, they have in common a deep intelligence, wit and goodness. At this writing, all of them are doing well. Thank goodness!
Hazel, still the strong, staunch, principled person, has never changed. She’s still the policeman of the family and in raising her own three great kids she has proven that she’s one of the greatest mothers ever. Berry IV, with his own strong management style, is running the Gordy Company. Terry, true to his childhood desire to be around money, is a successful banker at Bank of America. He also works with me on many aspects of international investment trading.
Kerry attacks every project with imagination, enthusiasm and strategy. He has the greatest attitude and most optimistic outlook on life I’ve ever seen. A real people person. While he has his own company, Kerry Gordy Entertainment, he continues to be one of my top consultants and is currently a vice president at Warner Brothers Records.
My daughter Sherry, down-to-earth and independent, is an aggressive go-getter who has done extensive work in real estate and is now an executive at Aames Financial Corporation.
Kennedy has continued to grow creatively since his Rockwell days, exploring his own entrepreneurial ideas. Being the most naturally creative of all my kids, he and I relate on still a different level than the others.
Rhonda, singer, actress and director, is a graduate of Brown University and a scholar in African-American history. The youngest, Stefan, is a writer and producer whose music is already appearing in feature films.
Teaching has been one of the most fun parts of being a dad. Making learning fun was a big priority. Whether spor
ts, cards, math or history lessons, I made a game out of everything.
My teaching methods developed over the years. As the kids got older, the more challenging it became, like with my youngest son, Stefan. Though he liked music it was his tennis playing that really impressed me. As a teenager, he showed so much promise I decided to go back into the management business. I became his manager.
I told him that we had three relationships. One was as father and son, where he had to respect me as he normally did. A second was, whenever we’re competing, as we often did, we were equals. “You can fight, say and do whatever you want and nothing will be held against you. Now,” I said, “when I’m your manager, you have to do things only one way—my way.” He loved that arrangement. For a while it worked beautifully. The fact that we could hang out as equals was unbelievable to him. He tested me a few times and I passed.
But the better he got at tennis the more resistant he became. Finally, he stopped listening to me. Finally, I stopped being his manager. Stefan took off with a tennis-playing buddy for Sweden to play there. (Not on the best of terms with me, I might add.) That turned into a great growing experience for him. Because it was so cold and he didn’t go out much, he started writing and producing songs. His mother, Nancy, kept him well stocked with recording essentials—keyboards, microphones and a recorder.
When a tape arrived from him for my birthday, I had no idea what to expect. What I heard was a thrilling surprise. It was a rap song, produced remarkably well, about all the things he had learned from me over the years that I thought he had never heard—about tennis, about music, about life. He hadn’t missed anything I’d said and now he was rapping about it. What a joy that was for me!
I’m proud of all my children for what they’re doing, but the most important thing to me is that they are all simply fine human beings.
In my backyard along one side of my lawn is a tall wall with a mural, painted in 1973 by Carolyn Thompson, an artist from Detroit.
There are about twenty little vignettes of ghetto life depicting the old neighborhood in Detroit where I was raised. The images are also about family, surroundings and dreams of a better life. I see that kitchen with the potbellied stove; everyone gathered at the table with only one pot of food. Mother, hardworking, doing the wash on a scrub board, the ironing; three or four of us kids in one bed; protective parents checking on us while we sleep. There’s a young boy sitting on the steps holding his head, thinking, contemplating. That’s me, and a lot of others like me.
Many people ask me why this mural is there. I tell them because every time I look at it I’m reminded of where I came from. Others sometimes see me as a guy with all these great accomplishments. But I’m quick to say, “Those are only my accomplishments; they’re not me. They’re up there somewhere. Me, I’m down here on the ground looking up at them in awe and thankfulness.”
I never stop thinking how blessed I’ve been to have crossed paths with some of the greatest people in the world.
People like Smokey Robinson.
From the time I first met him—this eager teenager always wanting to show me his latest song, and me always sending him away to make it better—I knew even then that what I loved about Smokey was much bigger than a song.
I’ve had many great tributes but probably the greatest one I have ever received was one that almost didn’t happen. It came at the end of a program at which I was being honored by the Brotherhood Crusade—Danny Bakewell’s organization.
Being the honoree that night, I was under pressure. Even though I wasn’t involved with the planning of the event, I somehow felt responsible for it.
The evening started off great. Danny Bakewell had brought everyone out this night—Jesse Jackson, Sidney Poitier, Diahann Carroll, Muhammad Ali, George Schlatter, all my family and friends. Even Gary Hendler, who had been stricken with cancer, had come from his deathbed to be there with me. After a speech by Jesse, eloquent as ever, Sidney and Danny presented me with the Pioneer of Black Achievement Award. And following my acceptance speech, the entertainment began—Smokey.
It was already late when he began and I could feel a wave of restlessness in the room as he did a pantomime of a private memory between the two of us, that trip to the Owosso pressing plant to pick up my first record, “Come To Me.”
I could see no one understood what Smokey was doing sitting in a chair pretending to be driving a car that had slid into a ditch—twice. It went on forever. People began to squirm. I began to squirm. I wanted Smokey to get on with what people did understand—his music.
At last he went into some songs and the audience came to life. By this time it was really late. He was so wrapped up in what he was doing, he seemed to have no concept of time. I thought because it was so late, he would only do a few numbers, but now he was doing his entire repertoire.
Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and I sent word over to Sonny Burke, his musical director, to have him cut his show. I watched as Sonny walked over to speak to Smokey. Smokey nodded—then went into the next song. And the next and the next.
I was getting more and more frantic. This was my night. My friends. He was ruining it for me. I knew he meant well, but I sent word again, this time by Suzanne and Roger Campbell, to make sure Smokey got the message. Sonny confirmed it: “I told him.”
“Well, tell him again,” Suzanne said.
Once more Sonny went over and whispered in Smokey’s ear. Once more Smokey nodded but continued into another song.
Right as he got close to finishing that song, I leaned over and whispered to Rog, “Smokey’s ridiculous. We may have to pull the plug.” That would mean cutting off the electricity controlling the mike and instruments. The song ended and I heard Smokey say, “Berry, I have a new song I wrote for you. It’s called ‘Berry’s Theme.’” His sincere face was looking right at me, his eyes full of warmth, loyalty and love. He started:
Did you know all the joy you’d be bringing?
Did you know you’d be the song the whole world is singing?
Did you know when you dreamed your dream that you
would make so many other dreams come true?
By the time he had sung the second line, I was overcome with emotion. Emotion that was triggered by how wonderful the song was, but also because of how bad I felt about thinking of stopping this man’s show. I would not only have hurt Smokey but missed out on one of the greatest moments of my life.
Did you know way back when first we met?
You and I would be as close as true friends can get.
Though the road has been rough at times we made it through
and I’d live it all again just to be with you.
By this point, my tears were flowing uncontrollably. It was one of the most beautiful melodies I had ever heard. I would have sat there till four in the morning the next night and the night after that and the night after that to have felt that loved, that trusted, that blessed as Smokey ended with:
And I’m hoping that right now you know my friend, my
wonderful friend, I love you so…
Though he was my protégé, Smokey always inspired me to be the best that I could be. Others did that in different ways. Some were my childhood heroes.
Joe Louis was one—the first person who made me know what the word hero meant. His phenomenal feats had opened my imagination to the possibility of being somebody in this world. And by some stroke of magic I was able to spend time with him once our acts started playing Vegas. Living there, Joe had become the official greeter at Caesars Palace. Whenever I was in town, the two of us would head out to the golf course. Every now and then, I had the urge to just shout out right there on the green to whoever was passing by—Hey, people, this is Joe Louis! I’m playing golf with my hero!!
I also became the greatest of friends with my all-time idol—Sugar Ray Robinson. In person he was as princely as he was in the ring. He and Millie, his devoted wife, who took care of him like her dearest little baby, used to come to the house. When
he and I would walk the grounds, play boxing, I had to hold myself back from calling to my neighbors—Hey, people, this is Sugar Ray Robinson! I’m boxing with my idol!!
When he died in 1989 Millie asked me to speak at the funeral. I had been praising him for so many years, I had no trouble finding words. To the many people who came I started simply with, “The greatest fighter that ever lived—Sugar Ray Robinson! Swift, clean, sensitive, smooth, sharp… and deadly…” He was my man.
But out of all those who changed my life, in looking back over the years, my biggest hero of all—in the end turned out to be my father, Pop. Not a day goes by that I don’t appreciate what it means to have been his son. In my youth, I knew I couldn’t be like him—I was too lazy. But as it turned out I ended up working longer and harder than he did, which made me realize there are probably no really lazy people. Just uninspired ones.
When we celebrated his ninetieth birthday on July 10, 1978, my brother Robert played a tape of a song written by two Jobete songwriters, Marilyn McLeod and Pam Sawyer. They must have spent a lot of time with Pop because they really knew him well. The song was called “Pops We Love You”:
Anyone who’s had the pleasure of meeting you in this life time
would recognize the strength in you, the sense in you
and the wisdom like sun shining through.
Pops, we love you, yes, we do…
Anyone, young and old alike, would feel free for your advice
and know you’d understand,
you’d give a helping hand.
All your life you have fought for what’s right.
You always say first love the Lord
and then it’s easy to love thy neighbor.
And from what we’ve heard,
you’ve always been a man of your word.
Like the roots of the strongest tree,
you give strength to your friends and family.