My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire

by Maurice White

Playin’ around the world

  Touchin’ all the boys and girls

  With a new love to make them free

  Kalimba, oh kalimba, play me a tune

  Kalimba, oh kalimba, I’m glad I found you

  Kalimba, oh kalimba, play me a tune

  Kalimba, oh kalimba, sends a message to you

  —“Kalimba Story,” Open Our Eyes, 1974

  One cold day I brought the kalimba into rehearsal. I was messing around with it, and Ramsey said, “We’ve got to use that in our show, it’s perfect!” Ramsey was my boss. I had to do what he wanted. However, I still didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t argue with him. I had gotten too comfortable with my crutch—my shyness. Deep down, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, and playing the kalimba would put me in the spotlight. Ramsey was constantly trying to bring me out of my shell. That first night we stopped the music, and I put my drumsticks down, stood up, and picked up the kalimba, I played my ass off. I just killed it! It was an immediate hit with our audiences. They ate it up, but Ramsey was not satisfied.

  “Reece, you’ve got to take a bow and a full bow after your solo,” he said.

  “Man, the audience doesn’t care. They like it just as it is,” I replied.

  Ramsey looked at me in the most bewildered way. He was saying with his eyes, What in the world is wrong with you? “OK, Reece,” he said, and walked away. Rams was patient with me, but he was pissed and wouldn’t let it go. At the very next gig he had the sound guy put a microphone center stage. As we were walking out of the dressing room, Ramsey said, “Reece, that mic stand is for your kalimba solo. Just get up from your drum set, walk to center stage, adjust the mic, and play.”

  “But—” I said.

  “Reece, trust me, you can do this.”

  “I don’t know, but—”

  He interrupted again, “This is good for the show.”

  Like a parent who knows what is best for his rebellious teenager, Ramsey knew what was best for me. That night I walked to the microphone and proceeded to play. The crowd went berserk. I was almost in shock. After doing this four or five times, I started to strut out to the microphone.

  Ramsey didn’t only help me with my shyness; he also made a cultural statement by showcasing the kalimba, which, as a primitive African instrument, gave a wink and a nod to the growing Afrocentrism in major American cities in 1966 and ’67.

  On the television, we saw riots breaking out all over America. In places as diverse as San Francisco; Winston-Salem, North Carolina; Buffalo, New York; and so many others, violent conflicts revolved around black folks’ confrontations with police. Detroit would have a riot that lasted five long, hot days. Even ensconced in the Playboy Club–type world of the Ramsey Lewis Trio, I was not immune to the racial tensions.

  One night after a gig in Indianapolis, Cleveland Eaton and I went down to the hotel lounge to chill. The area was filled with traveling businessmen in their Botany 500 suits and spit-shined Florsheim shoes. I remember a lively night, surrounded by lots of cigarette smoke and waitresses in low-cut red outfits serving up drinks. There were these two well-endowed, and I do mean well-endowed, white girls working in the lounge. They had a little music/cabaret act. We invited them up to our room. We weren’t doing anything, but the house detective knocked on the door. “Open up!” they shouted. I opened the door, and they pushed into the room.

  “You’re under arrest, boys,” one of them said.

  “For what?” I protested.

  “For being in the bedroom with someone of the opposite sex.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  With a smugness I have not forgotten, he said, “It’s an old law, but it’s still the law.”

  They arrested us black men for being with white women, some trumped-up charge from an antiquated law. In the police car Cleve didn’t say very much, but I kept on talking back. “This is some bullshit and you know it!”

  Once we got to the police station, pointing at me, the cop said, “Look out for that little one. He thinks he’s bad. Thinks he’s so tough.” But I kept on talking back.

  In reality, I was scared as hell.

  It was Cleveland’s quiet patience that calmed me down. Since this was late Saturday night—the weekend—we had to wait in jail until Monday before we could see the judge. That really scared me. I started to think about all those guys like the Scottsboro Boys and Emmett Till who got screwed over or killed due to the deep fear among whites of the idea of a black man raping or even flirting with a white woman. If those girls lied, we could be in a heap of trouble. Talk about miracles: all we had to do was pay a fine. Still, the experience made me uneasy, particularly since the Ramsey band was supposed to be straitlaced, and getting arrested didn’t jive with that. After that incident, I was way more careful about the race of the woman I was with, depending on the city I was in.

  For about seven years, my sole goal was to be the best drummer in the world. I had top role models—Joe Dukes, Art Blakey, Roy Haynes, and Philly Joe Jones. Elvin Jones and Max Roach were the absolute last word, and my greatest influences. In the mid-1960s Miles Davis got a new drummer who literally changed what it meant to be a great jazz drummer. Tony Williams was possibly the best jazz drummer of his generation, and he left an amazing impression on me. Like Joe Dukes, Tony played the skins “melodically,” but he took it to a whole new level. He played freely, floating the time yet still keeping it all together. He would be playing in 4/4 and jump out into 5/8 and back into 4/4 without skipping a beat. I was completely inspired by Tony, and began to borrow as many things as I could from him.

  But Ramsey wasn’t into that. His style was more of an Oscar Peterson thing, which is not a bad place to be, but I was playing floating drums and messing with the time. This would throw Ramsey off, and he wasn’t satisfied with that. Ramsey wanted me to play within the structure. I adjusted to avoid getting fired. However, I gradually discovered that I could still have the best of both worlds. I could try new things as long as my playing didn’t become obtuse in any way. Ramsey again was patient with me, allowing me to jam through my restlessness.

  In 1967, right about the time Muhammad Ali made his public announcement that “I ain’t got no quarrel with the Viet Cong,” Ramsey got really sick and took six or eight weeks off. This abrupt hiatus was a gentle reminder that I couldn’t stay still. I had to keep it moving. During this downtime, I created Hummit Productions. I had a real good thing going with Ramsey, but I was always longing for something to call my own, an entity that was viable apart from Ramsey. Renting some office space at 1321 Michigan Avenue, on the seventh floor, I put together a team that could share the space and cost with me.

  We called it Five Men. It was ours. The art director of Ebony magazine, Herb Temple, was part of this group. I ran into Wade Flemons, who a few years earlier had written the Dells’ big hit “Stay in My Corner.” He joined me in the venture. Soon thereafter, Don Whitehead joined too. “Head,” as we called him, played bass in a blues band in my early days in Chicago, even before Chess Records. We had a photographer’s studio, a mini recording studio, an art studio, and a huge rehearsal room in the back.

  My aim was that this office/studio would be the launching pad for something creative and lucrative. I wanted us to write songs for other artists. I wanted to do commercials, like Dick Marx. We didn’t get too much happening, but a few things came my way. I got a beer commercial, but breaking into Chicago’s TV/radio commercial world was tough. Certainly some racism was in play. In retrospect, I probably should have hired someone white solely to beat the pavement to all the advertising agencies on Michigan Avenue. Someone like that fronting this venture might have gotten us more gigs.

  Ben Branch, an old friend from Memphis, had moved up to Chicago. Ben was about twenty years older than me. From the time I was a little boy, he’d played at all the proms and at events on local radio. Ben was a captivating saxophone player and a strong bandleader who always seemed to turn up in the baddest bands
in Memphis. Upon arriving in Chicago, Ben looked me up. We became well acquainted because, along with Pete Cosey, we formed a group together, the Down Homers. I was on drums, Satterfield on bass, Cosey on guitar, Burgess Gardner on trumpet, and Ben on sax.

  By this time, Ben had become the bandleader for Operation Breadbasket Orchestra and Choir. Operation Breadbasket was formed by the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, or SCLC, and run in Chicago by Jesse Jackson. SCLC believed in collective non-violent action. They boycotted businesses where they felt blacks were not getting a fair shake in terms of jobs or respect. They were about uplifting black folks through economic empowerment. Blacks were telling America: If you’re the moral country you say you are, put up or shut up. It was all about blacks being able to freely integrate into the mainstream of American life.

  While Ramsey was still recuperating, I got a call from Ben. “Maurice, it’s Ben. Cosey told me you were in town.”

  “Yeah, Rams is taking some time off.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “My drummer flaked on me. Can you come rehearse on Saturday and play on Sunday?”

  “Sure.”

  I played with Operation Breadbasket Orchestra and Choir for a month and a half, and after that any time I was off from Ramsey. The sermons I heard on those Sunday mornings were all about social responsibility being a part of the teaching of Jesus. Through that experience I had the opportunity to shake Dr. King’s hand, a moment I will never forget and will always cherish. Ben Branch is remembered historically as the last person to speak to Martin Luther King before his assassination on that fateful day in Memphis on April 4, 1968.

  Ben was a great sax player, but he was an even better bandleader—or, better yet, just a leader. He was funny, charming, and gracious and knew how to speak in a way that would awaken a vision in others. Through his example I learned that leadership is about the ability to motivate, not about position.

  Ramsey eventually got better, and we recorded and released two more albums in 1967, Dancing in the Street and Up Pops Ramsey. All this happened despite a hectic touring schedule in America and Europe.

  “Sandy, we got to get outta here,” Mother Dear bluntly started a phone conversation in the fall of 1967.

  Life for the family in the Henry Horner projects had become perilous.The building was in disrepair, damaged by vandalism and plagued by rat and cockroach infestations. In addition, Mother Dear and Dad were distressed by the culture of violence that was starting to take root. Blacks were terrorizing each other for the sake of the drug trade or other vices.

  I told Dad to pick out the place he wanted, and I would make the down payment and cosign for the loan. Dad made decent money, but it all went into the household. He definitely could not get his hands on $6,000 cash (around $43,000 today), but a few thousand dollars went a long way back then. In December of 1967 Dad moved the family into 6845 South Chappell Avenue, a nice two-story, five-bedroom house with a formal living and dining room and basement, in a community called South Shore.

  It felt good to be in a financial position to make that down payment, and to see Mother Dear and Dad start a new era in their life. It felt good to see the kids running around and enjoying the house. I loved having money, and this experience made me want more of it. My elation reminded me of the bike Dad had given me. I had never thanked him for sending me that bike all those years ago. I had never told him what it meant to me, not only materially but also psychologically. Since I wasn’t good at expressing my emotions outside of music, I think subconsciously helping with the purchasing of house was my way of saying thank you. It was for his family. I felt a sense of manhood, a sense of pride.

  I studied, prayed, and meditated more during that period than ever before in my life. I took my books wherever we traveled, always packing them neatly at the top of my suitcase. Whenever possible, I retreated into my own personal ashram. Following the instruction given in Napoleon Hill’s The Laws of Success, on Sunday, December 17, 1967, I committed to paper my definite chief aim. Committing an idea to paper would give it an intrinsic power, I felt; it would carve it in stone for me. I addressed what I wanted to do with my life—my commitment to myself and, more importantly, to the universe.

  This kind of visioning is the closest thing a man can ever get to giving birth. Those years of gestation were necessary in order for me to ultimately form Earth, Wind & Fire. I started to keep to myself pretty much. I didn’t do things just because someone else was doing them. I was an independent thinker, with my own vision. I had a plan and knew where I was going.

  Not long after this, Ramsey took the group on what would be the first of two trips to Asia. I walked out the airplane door, and bam! The most dense smog I had ever seen. It hung over Tokyo like a blanket. I was shocked to see so many people crammed into such small areas. Moving from city to city, I discovered how beautiful the people were. It also blew me away that they loved Ramsey’s music. To see people who didn’t speak my language jump to their feet behind my beat demonstrated how music transcended culture. As I banged on those drums, I saw the music incite crying and shouting. Music was the fundamental bridge between people. Almost no other shared experience could come close.

  I liked the Asian way of life, of minimalism and order. Less is more. Less materialism. More open space. Less chatter. More calm. I also studied Buddhism a bit, and got a much bigger taste of it on my second trip. I found that Buddhism connected to many of the Christian tenets I had learned as a little boy at Rose Hill Baptist Church: that love can overcome hatred; that giving is better than receiving; and that I should not judge others. It made me see Christ and Buddha as divine brothers. The notion that to cling to anything is to suffer also resonated with me. I found that way of thinking—not clinging to the past, not clinging to the future, but living in the eternal now—liberating.

  Studying Buddhism led me to look at even more esoteric religions, such as Tantra, Christian mysticism, astrology, Taoism, and the like. At the time it was as much about historical research as about spirituality; I wanted to learn as much as I could. I also started to look at the esoteric meanings of events in my life and in the world. I learned to follow my instincts as a reflection of my faith and devotion to myself, to the God within me, and to the world around me.

  My intuition was telling me not to fall victim to the tried and true traps of rock and roll, especially alcoholism and drugs, which were prevalent in the industry. Alcoholics were always around in Memphis, and many of the artists at Chess Records had alcohol issues. I knew about how Charlie Parker, Billie Holiday, and even Coltrane had chased the heroin dragon. Seeing some of the baddest cats I knew in the Chicago music world starting to get into heroin just blew my mind, and I had to cut them loose. Little Frankie Lymon, of Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, was a precious sweet kid in the eyes of America. His hit “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” and his many appearances on early television made him a household name. When he died from a heroin overdose in Harlem in February 1968, it shook the music world and America something bad. His shocking death only confirmed what I already knew. Drugs will turn your life upside down.

  It’s a crying shame that in the music world there is so much romantic glorification of drugs. It’s cool, it will free your mind to expanded creativity—it’s all rhetoric. I wasn’t the biggest square in the world. I tried pot, but it made me feel like I had a blanket over my head.

  Drugs were on the stage, in the audience, and throughout society as a whole. The Chicago drug world of 1968 was symbolic to me. It seemed that the entire country was in upheaval. Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. Vietnam was on America’s television every night. Richard Nixon was elected. And Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was shot in my hometown of Memphis. The country was enraged. Riots broke out.

  “A riot is the language of the unheard,” as Dr. King put it.

  Later that year, James Brown came out with “Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud.” His anthem was so necessary. He
was telling people that being black is nothing to be ashamed of, that they should stand up, be empowered, and love themselves.

  Amid all of the chaos, Sly and the Family Stone burst onto the scene with the hit single “Dance to the Music,” and music changed. I changed. Sly freed me up. I was emancipated by the way he completely abandoned any adherence to the status quo of musical expression. It was permission to explore and discover anything I damn well pleased. Sly gave me the courage to put my own set of peculiar ideas out there, and put them out there with boldness.

  Just before I discovered Sly and the Family Stone, it was as though I had an incomplete blueprint on how to become a great musician. His big sound, his offbeat nature, and his simple, uplifting messages launched a new movement in pop music. The music world of the late 1960s and early ’70s can be largely described as before and after Sly. Sly and the Family Stone came with a whole new bag. The racially and gender-integrated band just blew apart how the world saw the African American artist. Even singing groups couldn’t get away with conked hair and Botany 500 suits anymore. The Temptations’ hit record “Cloud Nine” was in direct response to the Sly Stone phenomenon. The Tempts went from uniformed suits to psychedelic outfits. Everybody did.

  I had great respect for Sly’s concept. His message of self-empowerment wasn’t limited to African Americans—it was for everybody. When Sly first hit, black folks really weren’t into him. I think the psychedelic sound, the psychedelic imagery, and the interracial nature of the group took time for blacks to accept. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that the integration dreams of the late Dr. King were expressed in some of Sly Stone’s songs, and in the group itself.

  All of the bands that came into prominence in the early 1970s, including Earth, Wind & Fire, are indebted to Sly. There would be no Mandrill, Kool & the Gang, Ohio Players, War, Commodores, New Birth, or later even Prince without Sly Stone.

  In the late 1960s I sought out Mr. Black, the top astrologer in the Chicago area, who was known far and wide. Folks flew from all over the Midwest and East to get his counsel. I wanted a deeper understanding of the planetary positions of my chart. In my studies up to that point, I had found astrology to be true. I saw it as a science, something that I needed to study to receive any benefits. I believe we are affected by the awesome universal energy of the moon, planets, and stars. Walking in to meet Mr. Black, I was excited. I was taken aback by how unassuming he looked. He was short, with bushy gray hair and bright eyes. He had the presence of an old, wise man who was comfortable in his own skin.