He put out his hand, and in a high, clear voice said, “Sit, son.” Putting on his thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses and picking up a yellow pad, he asked, “Where you born?”
“Memphis, Tennessee,” I said.
“What day?”
“December 19, 1941.”
“What time of day?”
“Eight a.m.”
He reached down to the floor for three books, which he placed on his lap. One of the books was so tattered and weathered, it looked as old as the Bible. He got to work. I sat mostly silent, occasionally getting up to look at the various books on his shelf. Roughly an hour later, he said, “Whoa, son, you have no water in your chart, only fire, air, and earth signs. That’s a very odd occurrence. I’ve only seen a few of those.”
“Well, what does that mean?” I said.
“It usually means a pronounced lack of emotion.”
“Mmmm.”
“But, son, this chart is to show you your natural tendencies—to be aware of them. What you do with the information will determine your life.”
I thanked him and took the completed chart. I packed it away with my books and went back on the road with Ramsey. The discovery that I had no water in my chart had added another piece to my puzzle. Water is the emotion of the stars, and I knew that I could cut myself off emotionally pretty easily. It’s not a good trait. This is when I realized how I had been trying to compensate for my lack of emotion by having an emotional relationship with my music.
I would continue to study astrology—a lot. Not to obtain forecasts and all that stuff, but for its psychological insights. I also discovered that astrology was at the root of the ancient religions of Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, and the Tao.
Later that year, Wade Flemons, Don Whitehead, and I had gathered several songs we had written. I had tried to interest a few artists in recording them, but with no luck. Believing the songs were good, I thought we should just go and professionally cut them in a studio and hope for the best. I booked studio time at a great place, Audio Finishers Studios, a brownstone building on Ontario Street with great acoustics and great engineers. The guys who owned Audio Finishers had gotten their start at the legendary Universal Recording studio, where I did a ton of sessions.
I found an isolated part of the studio and silently prayed that things would go well. We cut five or six songs that day. Two of them were the instrumental “La La Time” and the song “Love Is Life,” which I would later recut in Los Angeles with the original Earth, Wind & Fire.
We had a huge band. It was enhanced with a lot of horns, most of the same cast of characters that did horn dates in those days. But we still maintained that core: myself, Chuck Handy, Pete Cosey, Louis Satterfield, Wade Flemons, Don Whitehead, and Don Myrick. The great addition was the one and only Donny Hathaway.
Donny Hathaway had been in Chicago for a few years. It was either Curtis Mayfield or guitarist Phil Upchurch who introduced me to him. There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind that Donny was everything an artist should be. He was the one person I knew for sure I wanted in the sessions, because he was creative, soulful, and sensitive. Donny played some of the keyboards and did all the vocal arrangements. It was his idea to hire the Dick Judson singers to sing with him. My baby brother Fred was there, and I put him on the tambourine. “La La Time” was Fred’s first released recording. A few years later, Donny Hathaway would ask Fred to become his drummer.
I decided to release “La La Time” under the group name the Salty Peppers. It got a little radio play in Chicago but stalled there. Fortunately, my pal Phil Wright, who had left Chess Records a few years earlier, landed on his feet at Capitol Records in Los Angeles. They picked the record up, and it branched out to be a little hit in the Midwest.
6
The World Can’t Erase My Fantasy
There is something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself. It is the only true guide you will ever have. And if you cannot hear it, you will all of your life spend your days on the ends of strings that somebody else pulls.
—Howard Thurman, “The Sound of the Genuine” a baccalaureate address
I started to become restless when I thought about Squash Campbell in Memphis, Billy Davis, Ben Branch, Vivian Carter’s Vee-Jay Records, Booker T. & the MGs, and even Ramsey. Ramsey and Billy Davis were creative and successful. They were leaders. They were black men. These were all people who owned their own creative business endeavors. Spending those years with them planted a seed in my spirit that was starting to bloom. I knew that, like them, I wanted to have a musical situation that I could call my own. From the time I committed to paper my definite chief aim and after discovering Sly a desire started to grow in me. I wanted a band that could express how I felt about life, how I felt about God, how I felt about identity, and how I felt about love.
My subconscious manifested a series of vivid, color-filled dreams. In these dreams I had a band of nine people, and we played all over the world. The audience was of mixed races and religions, like in Norman Rockwell’s painting Do Unto Others. In my dreams some people had on turbans, some looked liked nuns, some looked as if they were from the present day while others looked ancient. In that night bubble I felt this band would represent clean living and be a force for good—no drugs, no booze, a respect for self, and a respect for your brother. In various forms, I had these dreams on and off for months. But the more I dreamed them, the more clarity I received. I awoke one night in a hotel room in Charlotte, North Carolina, quickly picked up a pen, and started to sketch this fantasy band of nine people, following the mental picture in the dream. The picture consumed me. I was obsessed with it. When I got in my hotel room in whatever city I was in, I would pull it out and prop it up on the mirror. I was strung out on the idea of creating such a band. For hours I would fantasize about leading this band, which would provide a sense of encouragement, a sense of peace. The vision dictated everything I did in my social life, my spiritual life, my professional life, my financial life—everything.
For the first time, creating a band that represented universal truths was primary, and the music was secondary. I wanted to uplift humanity. To achieve it would take time, prayer, and God’s grace. To find the right individuals who could bring this dream to life would be a challenge. But as The Laws of Success say, an unfailing positive mental attitude would be the vibration I would have to stay anchored to, no matter what.
Shortly after this realization, I decided to leave the Ramsey Lewis Trio. It was a tough decision. I was earning $65,000 with Ramsey and another $15,000 to $20,000 at Chess and other studios. It was not easy giving up that bread. Foolishly, I had not saved much money. In good faith, I first had to let Ramsey know. I was confident in my decision, but it was still tough to tell him. He was my boss, but he was also my friend.
“Ramsey, I’m going to form my own group.”
“Mo, that’s great. Good for you. When are you leaving?”
“In three or four months. I’ll let you know.”
“So what kind of jazz will you be focusing on?”
“Oh, no, I’m not forming a jazz group, not at all.”
“Well, then, what in the world are you doing?”
“Man, it’s going to be bad. We’re going to play pop, Latin, R&B, rock and roll, jazz, and soul,” I responded enthusiastically.
“Ah, Rooney, go home, take some aspirin. Lie down. Get some rest.”
“Rams! I’m serious, man. And it’s going to be theatrical, too. There’ll be dancing, and eventually I want to do magic!”
Ramsey looked at me with a bewildered stare, the same look he gave me when I didn’t want to go to center stage and play my kalimba solo. Like he didn’t understand what in the world was going on in that head of mine.
Ramsey’s reaction was typical of many of the people I told about the diverse group that I wanted to form. A steady gig for a musician is pure gold, and there was nobody bigger in the world of popular j
azz than Ramsey. I never doubted that it was the right decision for me, but other folks, especially musicians, thought I had completely and totally lost my mind. They thought I was crazy and financially stupid for leaving the Ramsey Lewis Trio.
Pete Cosey, my good buddy and guitarist from Chess Records, was particularly harsh.
“Maurice, you’re a G-d damn fool. Do you know how many cats would love to be in the Ramsey Lewis Trio? What in the hell are you doing? This is a colossal mistake!”
This was especially hard to take, coming from Pete. He was my boy. He was my road dog.
The only support I received was from Mother Dear. She said, “Go on, Sandy, it’s going to be all right.”
Nothing I heard astonished me more. She had grown to really believe in me, trust in my abilities and my judgment. I gave her a big, long hug, the tears welling up in my eyes. She heard my sniffle and held me tighter, like a mother should, like a mothering I’d never known. During our long embrace, I felt the full weight of our years apart—her summoning me to Chicago, me leaving her home in Chicago, her belief that the mean streets would eat me alive, and ultimately my turning out OK. Our relationship had come a long way, and in that moment, I could feel her love for me.
My last gig with the Ramsey Lewis Trio was in Los Angeles at the Hong Kong Bar in the Century Plaza Hotel. As fate would have it, David Porter was in town, promoting a record and attended the show. The next day we got together. We were walking down Sunset Boulevard, just west of Highland, talking and catching up. I told him I was leaving the trio to form a new band. I asked him what he thought about the name Earth, Wind & Fire.
“Well, that’s different, man,” he said. “But it’s fresh, too.”
“Thanks, man.”
“What kind of music?”
“Soul, rock, jazz, Latin—everything.”
“Whoa, it sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Man, it’s been heavy on my mind.”
As we continued to stroll down Sunset Boulevard, I laid it all out for David. I talked about the unity of God, spiritual mysticism, and how I believed we could write songs about all this stuff. I rambled on about how our live show was going to resemble theater, with props, magic, and acrobatics. David listened, chiming in with a yeah and an affirming nod here and there. I know I sounded crazy, but all David said was, “Man, I know you can do it.” David not telling me I was foolish was validating. It was obvious that he had grown into a man who was pure soul—southern, gentlemanly, warm, brotherly, and creative. He showed a lot of gracious respect for my dreams that sunny day.
At the hotel, I said good-bye to Ramsey. Shaking his hand, I thanked him for the opportunity that he had given me, and the graciousness he’d shown me over the years. Even though I knew he doubted this vision I had, he had given this shy drummer from Memphis, Tennessee, a lot of tools to pull that vision off.
I flew back to Chicago alone, ready to make the move to California. As confident as I was that this was the right move for me, that flight seemed to be the longest of my life. High above the clouds, I thought about my move to Chicago from Memphis nine years earlier. It felt so long ago. The boy on that train had a lot to be desired in the self-love department.
The Laws of Success taught me that for anyone who has a calling, the success of fulfilling that calling has a lot to do with that person’s faith and self-love. Making the decision to follow my dream was a manifestation for me of true self-love. I discovered that a lack of self-love is actually anti-God, dishonorable to his creation and a force of darkness.
Walk around, why wear a frown
Say little people, try to put you down
What you need is a helpin’ hand
All the strength at your command
How’s ya faith? ’Cause ya faith is you
Who you kiddin’, to yourself be true
Spread ya love for a brighter day
For what ya search, you’ll find a way
We are people, of the mighty
Mighty people of the sun
In our hearts lie all the answers
To the truth you can’t run from
—“Mighty Mighty,” Open Our Eyes, 1974
Part II
Between the Vision and the Fulfillment
7
Starting from Scratch
“I will not follow where the path may lead, but I will go where there is no path, and I will leave a trail.”
—Muriel Strode
I had gone from being part of the most successful jazz/pop group in the world to starting something completely new from scratch. My concept of Earth, Wind & Fire was that its music would render itself to humanity by encouraging an investment in the inner life. My self-love would project holistic and clean living through diet and no drugs. My plan was to exemplify a new brand of black masculinity rooted not in a super-black power thing but in dignity.
On April 3, 1970, the original Earth, Wind & Fire left for Los Angeles. Wade Flemons, Don Whitehead, and Yackov Ben Israel drove a beat-up, broken-down Volkswagen bus I had bought for $150. Sherry Scott and I drove in my badass 1966 burgundy Buick Riviera. I took $3,000 with me. I had a strong signal from Capitol Records that it was going to extend my relationship, based on the regional success of “La La Time.”
Our raggedy VW bus broke down smack in the heart of mountainous Utah. We somehow found a mechanic to fix it, which took all day. At dusk, he seemed to get nervous. I asked him if he was having problems fixing the thing. He cleared his throat and started rubbing his head. “Man, I’m just trying to get you guys out of here before dark.”
“What, the Mormons are going to get us?” I joked.
“The Mormons are the least of your worries, young man.”
I got it. As soon as he pulled the bus out of the garage, the cats piled in, and, zoom, we were gone into the Utah dusk.
Within weeks I had moved into the infamous Landmark Hotel in Los Angeles. It was filled with pimps and prostitutes, drug dealers and drug users, as well as creative types of all kinds. Present also were gurus, psychics, and the one and only Reverend Ike, who lived above me at the hotel. He was trying to get his ministry going at the time, and we would come to exchange many books.
“How do you do, young man? I am Reverend Ike,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.
“You know who you are—I can tell by your firm handshake.”
In trying to adjust to Landmark’s energy, I began to appreciate the communal/spiritual feeling that came from its many different ethnicities—red, yellow, black, white, and brown. Leaving the limited black world and limited minds of Memphis for the expansive black universe of Chicago was the first change. Now I was leaving the super-black power structure of Chicago for the palm-tree-lined streets and eternal sunshine of Los Angeles. The spiritual diversity in the books I had been reading became tangible upon my arrival.
The Landmark was home to entertainers of every stripe: Archie Bell of Archie Bell and the Drells, Joe Zawinul before he started Weather Report, and the Chambers Brothers. Janis Joplin, another resident, would sit out by the pool, drinking liquor from the bottle. The Golddiggers, who were regulars on The Dean Martin Show, would lie out by the pool with timers to make sure their tans were white-girl perfect. Little Richard, who lived down the street, could often be seen there. It was an eclectic crew. There were even a couple of guys there that robbed banks. Everybody knew what they did, but no one turned them in because sometimes they would pay folks’ rent.
Once I got settled at the Landmark, the first order of business was to go to the Capitol Records Tower and meet with the people who picked up “La La Time.” After waiting for at least an hour, I was finally called in to their office.
“We’re not picking up your contract,” one of them said.
“What, you’re kidding, right?”
“We’re not picking up your contract.”
“Not for an album, but a single, right?”
“N
ot for an album, not for a single, or anything else.”
“But . . .”
“Our decision is final.”
It was a dreadful turn of events. Humiliated, I left quickly without even shaking their hands. I knew the music business could be a cold place, and I was freezing that day. I had brought all these cats out here to LA on the assumption that we had some kind of commitment from Capitol Records to at least do another single. Without a contract, we were truly starting over.
Black music in 1970s Los Angeles was heading into uncharted waters. Black folks for the first time in American history were achieving success equal to that of our white counterparts, but the record business simply wasn’t yet prepared. The business still had the “race record” mentality of the 1950s, meaning that black people sometimes didn’t get credit for songs they had written unless they had lawyers looking over their contracts. Most of the big labels didn’t even have black music divisions, or if they did, they were small. Now, some of the majors did have deals with smaller black labels, but those labels weren’t integrated into the penthouses and boardrooms of the big boys. Black groups, especially bands, didn’t make a lot of LPs. They made many one-shot singles, perhaps, but not albums. Although Sly and the Family Stone changed what I coined the “drill team era,” which was black musicians performing synchronized dance moves, in matching wardrobes, and delivering a unified sound, black music getting respect from the boardroom brass was still years away.
My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Page 9