That winter I picked Fred up and took him over to my new place. I was proud of my apartment. I kept it neat and organized, and wanted to show off a bit to baby brother. Fred walked in with a little awe on his face. “Wow,” he said. At first I thought he was talking about the oversize mirror that hung in the vestibule, but when I turned around to look at him, he was transfixed on my little A-frame practice pad with two drumsticks sticking out of the top. He grabbed the sticks with all the vigor of a child and started playing. I just chuckled. I didn’t give him any instructions, but it was evident that he was interested in the drums. A month or so later, Mother Dear called me.
“Sandy, looks like Fred wants to be like you,” she said.
“The drum thing?” I responded.
“Yeah, he’s tapping on everything. I just gotta keep him from beating on my living room furniture!”
Fred’s interest in music drew Mother Dear and me closer. Simply discussing Fred’s passion healed old wounds that we hadn’t ever discussed.
Things were coming together for me swiftly. I wanted to share as much as I could with my family, just to make them aware that anyone can make it, no matter the obstacles. I looked at Fred as a part of me. I didn’t want to push him into music or anything; I just wanted to show him love in the only way I knew how, which was through music. I brought 45s over to Mother Dear’s, mostly test pressings of records that were cut at Chess. Verdine and the other kids played them on the stereo. I would watch Fred emulate his older brothers and sisters as they moved their heads to the beat.
After some time had elapsed, I could sense that Fred was indeed serious about the drums. One bright wintry Saturday morning, I picked him up and took him over to Drums Unlimited. I introduced him to the owner, Bill, and told him this was my baby brother, and to hook him up with some lessons. Fred took to drums like a fish to water. He joined a drum corps in the neighborhood. I had developed a whole network of people in Chicago that could help him to get going musically. And boy, did he ever get going! Fred was a child prodigy as far as I was concerned.
5
The Ramsey Lewis Trio
We cannot work for others without working for ourselves.
—Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Dick Marx was the king of the jingle business, creating songs for television and radio commercials. Chicago at that time was a hotbed for that industry because many of the advertising agencies were based there. Dick was a great arranger, pianist, and writer. He was also a salesman. Dick had thick, wavy black hair that he would slick neatly back. He kind of leaned in toward you when he talked, as if he was preparing to tell a secret. Often I would hear him talking to his clients: “It’s going to be great, don’t worry about a thing, people will be humming this one in their sleep.” Dick was always saying reassuring, positive things to his clients. He complimented me, too, saying, “You play what is asked, and you’re on time.” I realized that there were stereotypes for the real good musicians—black and white. Because of their musical gifts, they felt they had license to be late and not listen to instruction. Dick’s son Richard would become a big music star in the late 1980s.
I was quickly playing on commercials for soft drinks, cars, cigarettes, supermarkets, airlines, and a lot of Folger’s Coffee. Until I worked with Dick, I never knew you could make a living doing just that. The advertising world was lucrative, providing another steady income stream for me. I loved this no-nonsense approach to music. Dick’s formula was simple and straightforward, with little room for experimentation. All I needed to do was musically communicate the concept of the jingle. It was a well-established road to financial success, and Dick Marx’s execution was flawless. He knew how to grab someone’s attention with a jingle. He also cared about his business reputation and was highly organized.
Ramsey Lewis demonstrated similar traits. He would be in and out of the Chess building frequently, and it seemed everyone treated him with respect, including the often caustic Chess brothers. Ramsey radiated class, character, and substance.
The Ramsey Lewis Trio song “The ‘In’ Crowd” was wildly successful. What was strange about its phenomenal success was that here was a cat playing jazz, and racking up million-selling singles. His trio was on the cover of Cashbox magazine in the first week of October 1965. The following year he won his first Grammy. Being my usual inquisitive self, I started asking him questions about how publishing companies work, how booking agents work, and what it was like to keep a group together. We had a natural, smooth rapport, my usual quietness overridden by my desire to pick his brain. Ramsey willingly answered my questions; he was always interested in expressing the ways he thought black folks should carry themselves. He believed in speaking intelligently, being dignified, respectful, and yet strong. He didn’t just talk the talk, he walked the walk.
Meanwhile, in late 1965 and early 1966, I had quite a reputation going. I was the go-to drummer around town. Ramsey started popping into recording sessions that I was doing. He’d sit for a few minutes and then leave. After repeating this pattern several times, Ramsey asked me if I would do a gig with him in two weeks. I learned that his longtime bassist, Eldee Young, and drummer, Redd Holt, had left to form their own group, the Young-Holt Trio. I became Redd’s replacement.
Ramsey and I traveled to Indiana State University, where the 10,000-person crowd was the largest audience I had ever been in front of. My heart was beating rapidly, and my skin tingled. I was nervous as hell. I had never heard my drums amplified through such a big PA system. The sheer power of my drums was enormous. It was overwhelming, but the gig was a rousing success.
Back in Chicago, Ramsey called and asked me to stop by his office.
“Maurice, I want you to officially join my trio.”
“If the price is right, sure, I’ll join.”
I was probably cockier than Ramsey deserved, but when it came to negotiating for my salary, I knew I was in a good position. I had several income streams—my Chess salary, commercials, and working for just about every studio and record label in town. Since I didn’t need the money, I aimed high, asking for what I thought was a pretty hefty fee. Ramsey didn’t even flinch, quickly saying OK.
I was leaving Chess Records at its peak. Leonard and Phil were preparing to expand their empire. They would soon buy an eight-story, 172,000-square-foot building at 320 East Twenty-First Street. They had it all, and now they were going to have it all under one roof—pressing plant, musicians, arrangers and producers, promotion and salespeople, radio station and record company. Of course, with my success, I felt that I had contributed in a tiny way to this expansion and should benefit. But the reality is that Phil and Leonard owned Chess Records. They started and nurtured it. It was their dream, and now it was their expansion. I knew that unless I became a songwriter or producer at Chess, I could never tap into the lucrative publishing world and grow financially. At least with Ramsey I would have one large salary, travel the world, and most of all play jazz, leaving R&B and pop behind for good. I believed that playing jazz, my first love, was my rainbow’s end.
I rushed over to tell Mother Dear, and she was floored. “What? The Ramsey Lewis Trio? How did you ever manage that?” Mother Dear always seemed shocked when I played on a hit record or worked with this or that recording star. I knew she believed in me—I just think she underestimated my drive, my hustle. We were still like brother and sister, not mother and son—she was forty-two and I was twenty-five.
“You move so far, so fast,” she said, a vexed look on her face.
“It doesn’t seem fast to me.”
“You are something else.”
The dynamics of my relationship with Mother Dear informed my life’s aspirations. I wanted to show her I could excel and that I was worthy of achievement and recognition. I wanted to prove to her that Dad was wrong when he said, “It’s OK, Edna, he’ll be back in six months.” I was never moving back to live with them. That was for sure.
Getting the Ramsey gig was certainly an example of being in the
right place at the right time. My talent was also a factor. Some of my contemporaries said listening to me perform live was like listening to the weather. I could be a thunderstorm of sound or a dark moody cloud or even sunshine. I had major chops and was eager to let them shine. But to fail to acknowledge the grace, the blessing, of getting the gig with Ramsey would be spiritually counterfeit. I knew for sure it was a gift from the Almighty, the universe pushing forward the deep desires of my heart.
In preparation for my new life with the Ramsey Lewis Trio, one of the first things I did was buy a lot of suits. In the 1960s, if you were black in Chicago, you had to be clean, wear nice clothes, and be well groomed to be credible on a business level. Ramsey took it to the extreme. He had manicured nails and a collection of swanky cuff links, linen shirts, and mohair suits. His tapered pants were immaculately pressed, with perfect creases. He had several different tuxedos, including white dinner jackets. To me he was a fashion icon. He believed in putting the right face out to the public, and as a member of his band, I fell in line.
We played small clubs, big clubs, 1,000-seat and 15,000-seat spots. We also performed at black colleges and white colleges in just about every part of the globe. I quickly understood how he could pay me what he did and not flinch. He sold a ton of tickets.
Those first six months of touring were a major life adjustment. Mama had prepared me well, though: I packed my clothes with precision, everything in its place. If Chess Records was college, the Ramsey Lewis Trio was my PhD. Ramsey had the big-time lawyer, the big offices in downtown Chicago, and his own production company.
I learned everything from Ramsey, from the mundane to the complex. On the basic front, I learned that it was necessary to have one person responsible for making travel arrangements. In terms of critical information, I learned more rules: If at all possible, get the money in advance! Have extras of anything and everything possible. Know the music stores in each city, just in case you need one. Next to the performance itself, sound and lighting checks were the most important part of our day. This was the first time I saw wide tape on the stage floor, marking where to stand so that the lights would hit you perfectly—and those lights could truly enhance your performance. Ramsey even taught me how to eat: have your large meal early in the day.
While very confident in my playing, I was still uncomfortable and shy in front of audiences. These were not the little clubs and juke joints of Memphis. They were classy venues from Los Angeles to London, university concert halls with big stages and upscale crowds. We even performed at Carnegie Hall in New York City. To a musician, Carnegie Hall sounds like Christmas Day to a kid. It is the top of the world. On this night I found a hidden spot and watched the people flood in. The men wore tuxes. The women glowed in low-cut gowns. My eyes and mouth were open wide in astonishment.
With his tall frame, Ramsey was a natural in the spotlight, strolling out onstage like a king, clean as the board of health. His cuff links glistened, reflecting the stage lights back into the audience. He displayed the perfect combination of cool, classy confidence. He was a man in full. He talked to the Carnegie Hall audience effortlessly, as if he were talking to people in his living room. This was the showbiz lesson of showbiz lessons.
I, on the other hand, continued to avoid the spotlight like the plague. I raised my cymbals just high enough so that no one could see my face unless they had exactly the right seat. Even with his original trio, Ramsey had a custom that at the end of a set, all three of us would stand up and bow. I would kind of half stand up and half bow.
Whatever stage persona I lacked, I made up with my playing. Cleveland Eaton and I became a rhythm machine. Cleveland was a rhythmically pushy bassist, and I was a fiery drummer, and that mixture was like gas and fire. We had a lot of fun. It was gratifying because I was fully aware of what a blessing this was. I knew that as a musician you often had to play music that you didn’t want to play to earn a living. But Ramsey, Cleveland, and I actually enjoyed these songs. This wasn’t the music of mediocrity.
In breaks from what seemed like endless touring, we were continually in the studio. In that day, a jazz artist who sold as many records as Ramsey would record two, three, maybe even four albums a year. The first album we recorded as the new trio in June of 1966 was Wade in the Water. The album was successful, but the title-track single was a monster hit—a gold record.
Walking into Ramsey’s house one day for rehearsal, I noticed a pile of books on the floor by the door that he was giving away. “Take what you want, Reece,” he said. I went through them and found The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I took it home and read it and read it again, and I still couldn’t put it down. I felt like Malcolm X was talking directly to me. I was stunned as he described the pig as the dirtiest animal around. Malcolm rejected the African American tradition of eating lots of pork. The book made me realize that taking care of myself was the ultimate sign of self-respect and self-love. I gave up pork and started eating more fish. In addition, I could feel through Malcolm’s articulate and honest words his passion for spiritual transformation. His words made me ponder the courage it took to change deeply held beliefs. He made me question the Christianity that Mama had raised me with. I wasn’t interested in becoming a Black Muslim, as Malcolm X had, but the story of his awakening started my own search for a philosophy that would work for me.
Perplexity is the beginning of knowledge.
—Kahlil Gibran, The Voice of the Master
The Autobiography of Malcolm X encouraged me to spend a lot of time reading and praying while I was on the road. I was asking the Creator to teach me the things I needed to know in order to excel. The Laws of Success was still my bible, but I also started to buy as many books as I could about universal consciousness. Probably no one spoke to me more during that period than Kahlil Gibran. Born in 1883, Gibran—known for his best-selling book The Prophet—is one of the world’s most celebrated writers. Gibran was the mystic I had been longing for. Reading his work excited me, gave me energy. It was as if he was saying exactly what I wanted—or needed—to hear. He fully embraced Western and Eastern spiritual philosophies and rigorously questioned what organized religion was putting out there. It was a time of unprecedented spiritual growth for me.
At the same time I discovered astrology, which I believe reveals man to himself. I think a lot of people misunderstand astrology. As long as you don’t start worshipping the creation over the Creator, it’s a cool science to help understand how personalities work together. It certainly helped me understand my strengths and weaknesses.
By late 1966 I was adjusted to the touring life—planes, hotels, women, and eating right. I had embraced the most important words for a musician: “moderation in all things.” Diet became a big thing to me. I started drinking kefir, a fermented milk. This was decades before the whole probiotics movement. I said good-bye to red meat. I started eating a lot of tofu, and I always carried fresh fruit. I started drinking carrot and beet juice whenever I could find it. I was deep into Jethro Kloss’s classic book Back to Eden, which became my guide on holistic health.
Meanwhile, in addition to Wade in the Water, we recorded three additional albums: The Movie Album, The Groover, and Hang On Sloopy. The single “Hang On Sloopy,” a cover of a hit by the rock group the McCoys, was yet another million-seller single for the Ramsey Lewis Trio. Ramsey was such a big artist that most of his fans were not jazz fans. He was like a pop artist in his own unique way. His popularity bestowed upon me a certain prestige in the music world.
The good money afforded me a brand-new burgundy Buick Rivera, for which I paid cash. Loved that car! It was curvy and sexy and ran as fine as wine. I use to love driving it around the South Shore with the windows down and the heat on. I also bought an upright bass from my pal from the Quartet 4, Bill Terry. I gave it to Verdine, who took to it right away.
I was drawn to people who were searching for enlightenment. I didn’t like conventionality. The Afro-Arts Theater on the South Side was a hip place of non-con
formity, filled with Afrocentric thinkers teaching yoga, music, and everything else artistic. The theater was a hub of “new thought” and a new kind of consciousness, which was being born in centers like that all over America. It was not a militant black power thing, but a place of black awareness, teaching us to fall in love with our culture, giving us an understanding of our rightful place on the planet and of ourselves. It was more than dashikis and Afros. It was spiritual, not religious. I met the poet/playwright/singer Oscar Brown Jr. and poet Gwendolyn Brooks.
One day I saw Phil Cohran, who was kind of the director of the center, playing what he called a frankiphone. It was actually a kalimba, a little wooden box carved hollow, with a sound hole in it like a guitar, and metal strips attached to it that are plucked with the thumbs (it’s sometimes called an African thumb piano). I instantly fell head over heels in love with the sound of the kalimba. Its percussive and melodic tone just spoke to me. Its primitive yet futuristic sound gave different textures to all of the rhythms that I heard. Its African origins appealed to me as well. I found one at Drums Unlimited downtown and started to practice on it religiously.
Saw it in a store one day.
Thought it might make me play
Future music all for you
Seen me through my hardest times
Thought it was ’bout time
To open up a new world just for you
Fills all my needs, gave me the key
Door was open for me to see
My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Page 7