Le Freak

by Nile Rodgers

Our art—tribal, communal, ecstatic, visceral, transcendent, joyous—was anathema to the culture, just like that. It was as if we’d thrown ourselves into this beautiful thing only to discover that we’d gotten it entirely wrong. No, no, this isn’t what people want at all. They’d lost their heads for a minute and embraced our sound, but now they seemed to be saying, “No, please, no more.” The status quo had reclaimed its throne.

  But the battle wasn’t over yet. We weren’t giving up and we were far from finished. The insurgency had to go even deeper underground, and do battle like guerillas. Our next campaign was just getting ready to launch.

  It all started with an unlikely turn of events back on the East Coast.

  I’D MET A LOT of record business people in my life by then, but Suzanne de Passe was like no one I’d ever come across before. Dynamic, beautiful, and bright, she was president of Motown Productions, and Berry Gordy’s right hand by most accounts. She was very powerful, and she knew it.

  De Passe also happened to be a big fan of the Chic Organization, which was very good for us. Though many show business people had already dismissed us as part of the now-derided disco movement by the summer of ’79, Suzanne knew that we were in fact big-thinking jazz-funk rockers who’d gotten a break by conceiving Chic at a propitious moment, and she had a plan to prove it.

  Suzanne and Nard and I went way back, though we’d never actually met. We first heard about her in New York at a club we frequently played, called the Cheetah, which she’d booked for a few years in the late sixties. The Cheetah had more than the fabled nine lives of regular cats. It had survived countless trends. It had a hippie rock phase, and was once popular as a Latin club. Under Suzanne’s watch, it mainly appealed to the black crowd. While our careers were taking off, so was hers. She came to Motown in 1968 and her meteoric rise soon had her extending the brand’s reach into film and television through a new subsidiary called Motown Productions. She was nominated for an Oscar in 1972 for co-screenwriting Lady Sings the Blues, a film that revitalized Diana Ross’s career. Suzanne eventually rose to the position of president of Motown Productions, a rise that ended with Berry ultimately selling her that entire operation.

  Before she moved up, her last order of business at the record label was to reignite the musical career of Motown’s top superstar, Diana Ross, and that meant making a radical move by going outside the company. And we were the people she had in mind to do it.

  Our first official meeting to discuss the Diana Ross project took place at Chic HQ at 110 East Fifty-ninth Street. The space actually belonged to our attorney, Martin Itzler. It was a penthouse with panoramic views of the New York City skyline. Marty’s walls were adorned with photos, awards, and gold and platinum records that he’d amassed over the years, which gave the cozy environment an air of show business importance.

  When Bernard and I got off the elevator, we could hear the sounds of laughter and cackling spilling out into the top-floor waiting area, as if there was a huge party going on inside Marty’s office. We didn’t wait to be announced.

  It was my first sit-down with Suzanne, but it felt like we’d known each other all our lives. Then again, maybe there were other factors affecting Bernard’s and my mood. After all, these were the days when Bernard and I had the habit of making frequent trips to the bathroom, and not because we’d been drinking too much coffee. We were doing tons of blow, and even though it was top of the line, our resistance was growing; more and more hits were required just to maintain a nice buzz. Call it a sign of the times, but no one ever said a word about what was a fairly obvious drug habit.

  And what a ritual it was: On cue we’d both get up in sync, and walk single-file like a couple of soldiers in Gucci suits. Once in the bathroom, we’d go into the same stall together, take out a hundred-dollar bill (it always had to be a hundred during this period of silly status symbols), roll it into a straw, and stick it in the left nostril first and snort a hefty amount. Then we’d switch to the right one and do the same. Then we’d go to the sink and run cold water on our first two fingers and stick them up about a half-inch into our nostrils to make sure there was no trace of coke visible to the naked eye. We’d shake it off, smooth out our jackets, and march back down the hall to our meeting.

  At some point during a lull in the laughter, Suzanne seized the moment to get down to business. And just like that, the first link in the chain was forged.

  DIANA ROSS HAD RECENTLY come off of a pretty big hit record called “The Boss,” which had been written and produced by the husband-and-wife team of Nicholas Ashford and Valerie Simpson, longtime Motown insiders. As big as this record was, it was nowhere near the league of the mega-crossover sales that Chic had tapped into. Suzanne wanted to make sure that Motown was part of this wave of chart-topping black pop, especially since Berry Gordy had perfected the black-crossover entertainment business in the first place. Suzanne was the ultimate consigliere. She was always loyal to the Don and what he’d created, but she also knew that the old ways didn’t work the way they used to. If the business was going to survive, it had to grow or die.

  The supply chain in the music business was dependent on so many people, places, and things lining up just right, but the Chic Organization rewrote the rules. We got rid of as many outside variables as possible. We started out downsized. Our overhead was low, and the return on investment was very high. Our early investors and business colleagues all did very well indeed. In the beginning we had almost nothing; soon we owned everything we’d created. Monetization of our assets was key to survival in the ever-changing music business.

  Early on, our attorney, Marty, used to tell us, “You’ll never be big forever, so I’m going to teach you how to always make a living in the music business, even when you’re not hot.” We’d always felt thankful for Marty, because he helped us in the beginning to get out of the legal mess that was the result of Chic being signed to two labels. He’d also thought of calling the business the Chic Organization Ltd. Though we never fully developed the Chic brand the way artists do now, we were able to do licensing deals, productions, and compositions to order; we even purchased rare stamps and documents. We invested in the then new General Electric technology called the CT scanner and started a medical business called the CHIC Mobile Diagnostic Laboratories, which sent CT scanners to hospitals that couldn’t afford to have the million-dollar units in house. Marty and Suzanne were wheeler-dealers and they put a new Chic Organization/Motown deal into motion.

  I KNEW SUZANNE was skilled at making things happen, but I had no idea exactly how skilled till she showed up unannounced at our very next gig, Santa Monica Civic Auditorium—with Diana Ross in tow, dressed in full superstar regalia.

  I don’t remember Diana’s exact outfit, but I do remember thinking, Damn, we’re onstage singing about being chic and she looks more chic than we do! (Our clothes used to get so saturated with perspiration that it was hard to remain dry, let alone chic. Nard was wearing a tan pastel-colored suit made out of crepe de chine that got so completely sweat drenched that by the end of our shows we called it “crap do shine.”

  And here was Diana Ross casually dressed in the middle of the day, her signature mane blowing back to expose her face, looking like she’d just finished a cover shoot by Scavullo. A waft of Santa Monica Beach air lifted her hair off her shoulders like Mother Nature’s production designer had choreographed the scene for maximum impact.

  I’ll never forget how I felt at that first sighting. We briefly made eye contact and she was smiling ear to ear as if I was her best friend in the world. She represented the perfect blend of soul and style, everything we wanted Chic to be. Ever since I was young, I’d loved the songs of most Motown acts, but the Supremes were special. The combination of Diana’s delicate soprano voice, the way she was styled, and the perfect songs that were chosen for her made her Berry Gordy’s Galatea. (The mythological story of Pygmalion wasn’t far from Berry and Diana’s real story, even down to him fathering a child with his beautiful creation.)
As a kid, I was a day-dreamer who loved reading, watching movies, and acting out mythological stories. I remember thinking, Wait a minute, is this a dream or an acid flashback? Is Diana Ross really watching us?

  Maybe this is real stardom, I thought to myself. Maybe our songs are just that big? After all, it was possible, especially given the chemicals and hormones juicing up my perception. In a few short months, I’d gone from a shy introvert, frozen with stage fright, to a co–front man, thanks to a steady diet of what I called the Killer B’s: blow, booze, and babes. I’d never have to play a song in concert that I hadn’t composed myself for the rest of my life. From as far back as I can remember, I was consumed with feeling ugly, which had the residual effect of also making me feel disposable and rejected. This new convergence of stimuli made me almost feel attractive, which was different than I’d ever felt before. The battle against disco might have dented our dignity, but here was Diana Ross enjoying my show.

  I wasn’t the only one who could sense something special was going on: Suddenly people in the audience started noticing Diana too, and their response—it was a capacity crowd, and they were whipped up into a frenzy—made me feel very special. Diana’s visit couldn’t have come at a better moment: Our songs “Good Times” and “We Are Family” were dominating pop culture (the latter due to the World Series bid of the Pittsburgh Pirates, who’d adopted the song—as many would—as their inspirational anthem).

  In spite of the Disco Sucks movement, “Good Times” had gone No. 1 on the Billboard pop chart, and this was definitely our crowd.

  “Aw, freak out,” we screamed in sync with our instruments, the last three beats concluding the song and our set. “Thank you, Santa Monica. We love you people. Get home safe and don’t hurt anybody,” Nard said in his cool, suave voice. It was the false ending to the show. We rushed offstage and ran back to our dressing rooms to get ourselves together a bit; after all, we expected the crowd to call us back for an encore. But before we could get to our dressing rooms, Suzanne de Passe, who was standing in the stage right wing, said, “Hey, guys, I’d like you to meet Diana Ross.”

  It was a surreal moment. My blood was still racing from the show, and my mind was already leaping ahead to the encore. Suddenly a goddess wanted to say “What’s up?” It was hard to maintain any degree of politesse, but I did my best. Before I could say a word, her perfume spoke first, reminding me that she was a refined pop diva and cool as a cucumber and that I, on the other hand, was dripping in sweat; my silk suit felt like a terrycloth sauna bathrobe on my hyper-thermal body. The glare of the backstage lights, the massive screaming crowd, and the stage manager’s frantically trying to prepare us for the encore only amplified the surrealism. With a formality that was out of place for this maddening setting, I said, “How do you do, Miss Ross?”

  “Did you enjoy the show?” Nard added.

  “Call me Diana, and it was really great,” she said in a laughing rhythm.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I panted, trying to catch my breath.

  “It’s really nice to meet you.”

  The situation was almost otherworldly. Two contrasting soundtracks were clashing in the room: Diana’s silkily angelic voice and the frenzied crowd screaming at the top of its lungs. Backstage, it was all decorum and dignity, while out front, uncontrollable insanity prevailed. The elegant diva looked like she just jumped off the cover of Vogue; our fans looked like they were ready to storm the Bastille. But Diana was perfectly cool with it. A veteran performer herself, she knew we’d have to put our little convocation on hold until after an encore.

  “Um, we’ve gotta go back out to do one more song,” I said.

  “OK,” Diana said, with a little wave as we ran back onstage. “I’ll meet you in the dressing room when you’re finished. Break a leg,” she added with a giggle.

  We did our encore and completed one of the best shows of our lives. We’d clearly made a strong first impression on Ms. Ross, and she told us as much when we saw her in our dressing room after we’d finished. There was something in the air that bonded us. She was almost like a sister, and Bernard and I started our typical tomfoolery, making fun of each other’s performances. Diana was delighted watching the two of us, giggling like a kid watching the “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” sequence from The Wizard of Oz. She was ready to join us. Suzanne knew her artist well and had played her cards exactly right.

  BEFORE DIANA, THE ONLY ARTISTS we’d produced were Chic Organization–related projects: ourselves, Norma Jean Wright (our former female vocalist in our short-lived one-girl configuration), and label mates Sister Sledge. We’d never worked with a big star, unless we were their backup musicians.

  Now we were being given the awesome responsibility of retooling the career of one of the biggest stars in the world. This was what Atlantic Records president Jerry Greenberg had had in mind when he’d suggested we work with the Rolling Stones a few months earlier. We weren’t ready then, and maybe we weren’t ready now. But Suzanne de Passe believed in us and had made it happen. Thank God for her focused faith.

  We were going to need it.

  In a little more than two short years, we’d sold more than twenty million units of product, but as I’ve said, our records were about to stop selling with a thudlike finality. The entire industry would quickly turn against us.

  And that was just the half of it: The glamorous project we were about to embark on with Diana Ross would cost us far more tears, pain, and humiliation than our first record deal ever did.

  But tonight all of that seemed as unlikely as Richard Kimble losing his battle with the one-armed man, or California falling into the ocean. And among the jubilant crowd in the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium’s Pacific Ocean zephyr, there wasn’t the slightest ill wind blowing at all.

  IT WAS AROUND NOON, relatively early by a musician’s time clock, when we arrived at Diana’s luxurious New York apartment for the first time. The place was in a prewar apartment building on Fifth Avenue and overlooked Central Park. Her apartment felt like a mansion in the sky: high ceilings, spacious and grand rooms. The décor exuded an understated regality, and my first impression was of how tastefully it was decorated: not too little and not too much—Goldilocks-style.

  Although she’s a superstar, there is something deceptively normal about Diana Ross. Yes, she’s beautiful and glamorous, but she laughs freely. She’s regal and rightfully so, but also unpretentious, kind, and generous, and will throw you a homegirl-from-the-projects curveball when you least expect it. She once feigned sickness at a dinner party and asked me to drive her home. We then secretly drove to Queens to get White Castle hamburgers. She’s got a great sense of humor, and we quickly found ourselves having a ball with her.

  Some of these qualities I detected right away, but I didn’t really know her yet and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly nervous. Diana was cordial and made us feel very comfortable, but Bernard and I were just eager to get down to business. We had this golden opportunity, but the storm called Disco Sucks was raging, its funnel cloud trying to suck us up and carry us off into black history. There was a sense of urgency at this meeting, at least on our part.

  Before we started composing, our plan was to have a few interview sessions with Diana. We didn’t want to misrepresent her, a mistake we’d made to some degree with Sister Sledge. The fact that they’d never heard the songs until the day they came to record—we were still writing them in the studio—hadn’t helped either. That was a less-than-desirable way to start a relationship, as we’d learned the hard way.

  Determined not to make the same mistake with Diana, we wanted to get a broad range of subjects that she was interested in.

  “So, Diana,” I probed, “tell us about yourself. What’s on your mind? What kind of things would you like to do? What makes Diana Ross tick?” I wanted to start cautiously but she opened up right away.

  “This is a time of major change in my life,” she told me, “and everything is going to be 180 degrees diffe
rent from now on.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?” I asked.

  “I’m going to live here on the East Coast,” she told us. “I have a feeling life will be more exciting here. I’m actually looking forward to turning my world around.”

  Based on that conversation—and, admittedly, a few cocaine powwows between Nard and I—the result was the song “Upside Down.”

  Many of the song ideas for Diana’s new album, Diana, were transcribed in my childish scribbling during those interviews. I could have come off like a new-wave black Edward R. Murrow in my pre-eighties cutting-edge suits, but I was clearly relaxed and, respectfully, not too prying. (OK, I admit it. I was trying to impress her with my sense of high fashion and knowledge of the hottest new designers, so I wore many hip outfits to this series of interviews.)

  “My new life’s going to be fun and adventurous,” was how our next session started. “I want to do exciting new things.” We were just getting to know her, but by now there was a definite story line developing. Although she was upbeat, it soon became obvious to me that Diana Ross was leaving something painful behind. But most survivors possess a gift for looking ahead, and without a doubt, she had it. This interview resulted in a composition called “Have Fun (Again).” We were so impressed (and frankly surprised) by her incredible gentility and kindness, we composed a song called “Tenderness.” This record was clearly going to be about the vulnerable and powerful woman we were getting to know. From our point of view, this album was going to be about the complete Diana Ross, a butterfly who’d returned to being a chrysalis, just so she could enjoy the thrill of metamorphosis again.

  Even artifacts in Diana’s surroundings influenced us. She had a fabulous collection of dolls, stately paintings, and a cute baby grand. It was the baby grand that captured our imagination the most, resulting in the song “My Old Piano.”

  We paid tribute to Suzanne de Passe and Diana with a song called “Friend to Friend.” It was the best way we knew how to say “thank you” to the two amazing women who’d rescued us from becoming a minor footnote in rock-and-roll history. Thirty years later I still cry every time I listen to it.