During this time we were working on our second album, The Need of Love. Once more, the record was a very jazz-psycho-funk affair, with only five songs: “Energy,” “Beauty,” “I Can Feel It in My Bones,” “I Think about Lovin’ You,” and “Everything Is Everything.” On both of our Warner albums Jean Carne added her wonderful voice to the background vocals, even though she wasn’t credited. Radio picked up on “I Think about Lovin’ You,” a beautiful tune written by Sherry Scott. It made it into the mid-40s on the R&B charts. I was surprised that radio stations liked “I Think about Lovin’ You” best of all the songs we had released. I now believe the song reflects the peace and love vibe that Sherry brought to EW&F. The new black consciousness growing in 1972 had been very masculine, bold, and pushy. Sherry’s feminine voice in “I Think about Lovin’ You” was a refreshing reprieve. She sang the song beautifully. I also think that many people didn’t think of the peace and love movement as being authentic for Negroes. Many believed you had to be white and have flowers in your hair to be part of all that. But to Sherry it was real—idealistic, for sure, but still central to the social and political movement of the early 1970s.
In January 1972 I found out that our second album was on par to sell about the same number of copies as the first, which was nothing to go crazy about. There were grumblings among the band about the album’s lack of chart success and how I was failing as a leader. Wade seemed to be the most vocal. I was disappointed but undaunted. One of the first things I did to try to increase sales of the second album was to book a gig at the Gaslight Café in New York City, opening for Dizzy Gillespie. Warner Bros. picked up the tab for me to fly the whole band there and do this one gig.
Perry Jones and I put our heads together again to figure out how we could maximize the trip to NYC. It was helpful that we knew most of the promoters, big clubs, radio stations, and record stores across the country. Getting our hustle on, we took that one date and turned it into a three-week, multi-city tour. We did not have a budget from Warner Bros. to do this. We didn’t have credit cards. We didn’t have a so-called travel agency. And we certainly did not have any checks. Perry and I pooled together whatever money we could, even using Verdine’s unemployment check. We didn’t fill the Gaslight up, but by the time we got to Boston we were opening for another jazz artist, Gary Burton, and we had the place packed. We played Chicago, Detroit, and a few other cities before ending up in Denver.
Perry did a great job getting our product into record stores. Since he was trying to do things on the up and up, he didn’t really have a chance to win the promotion game—EW&F didn’t have the kind of juice to get the big brass at Warner Bros. Records to pass cash around. The black jocks, in many cases, were not getting paid—anything! Some of the record companies were giving them washing machines and refrigerators, which was just another form of payola. Only later did it extend to cash. There’s an old story about a famous black disc jockey in Atlanta. When he died, they found a sparkling gold Rolls-Royce in his garage. He’d been too scared to drive it, for fear of the IRS taking notice.
Getting money was a problem for all of us in the business at some point. One time we were on a promo tour in Columbia, South Carolina, and we’d just finished a gig. When I went to the venue office to get our money, the club manager tried to stiff me. “I ain’t paying you a dime,” he said.
I stormed out. The next morning I called Jim Brown’s office. Richard Covey, Jim’s partner, answered. I told him I was having problems, and I needed someone to talk to this guy. Covey said, “I don’t think there’s anything I can do, but hold on.” He connected me to Leonard Smith, whom I had never heard of before.
“Hey, man,” I said, “I’m Maurice White. I’m stuck down here, and this son of a bitch won’t give me my money. I need it to get to the next town.”
“Hang on a minute,” Leonard said. “Don’t move—stay right there.”
I heard Leonard pick up another telephone and call Cecil Corbett, a promoter near Columbia whom he’d worked with in the past. “Cecil,” he said, “I need a favor. One of my guys is having a problem in your neck of the woods. Will you call and straighten him out for me?”
Leonard picked my phone line up again. “Now, Maurice, just do what I tell you. As soon as you hang up this line, call Cecil, and he’ll take care it.”
“OK, brother, thanks!”
Within an hour of hanging up with Leonard, I was counting my money. I knew I needed this cat. Fate was in my favor; he was the road manager of the Friends of Distinction (“Grazing in the Grass”) on Jim Brown’s behalf. When the group decided to leave Jim’s management company, Jim assigned Leonard to us. Leonard would be my right-hand man for the next eighteen years.
8
Hearts of Fire, New Desire
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
—Confucius
Leadership requires accepting that you’re always going to be challenged. I discovered that the band—minus Verdine, of course—had been having meetings behind my back. Bottom line, Wade Flemons wanted to be the leader of the band. Although everyone contributed to the band, I handled all the business from day one. When I was at Chess Records, I saw that decisions by committee never worked. Six years earlier I’d had to fall in line with Ramsey’s way of thinking—the neatness, the classiness, the way he wanted things played, and the way he wanted things to run behind the scenes. Now my band had to fall in line with my idea of things, or it wouldn’t work. I never, ever would have started a band without being the leader, which is why I financed everything from the beginning. Wade and I had a huge blowup over the direction and control of the group. After a good fifteen minutes of arguing, I reminded him that I owned the name Earth, Wind & Fire. Wade quit.
I started to make calls and begin rehearsals. To my surprise, when I called Whitehead, he said, “There ain’t no rehearsal,” and hung up. One after the other, my old bandmates all split, forming a new group called Colors. Michael Beal hung in with us for a little bit longer, but eventually he left, and it was just Verdine and me. The breakup was tough, but I came to understand that, with the exception of Sherry Scott, they were all older and had already had disappointments in the business. I also recognized that my leadership style needed developing. I could have benefited from being more inspiring and encouraging.
I was determined, with a clenched mental fist, to rebuild the band. I believed the Creator would take care of me. He made me realize that I needed to know more about personality types. I believed astrology would help with that. I was also motivated by Mama’s words: “Keep moving, just keep moving.”
It seemed that everything around me was falling apart. The Landmark Hotel, where I lived, had developed a bad vibe. Drugs were more and more becoming the norm—and not just pot and cocaine. There were funny scents that I had smelled before in the alleys behind the clubs in Chicago—people smoking heroin. Marilyn, my girlfriend, would sometimes stay at my place when I was on the road. She was there when Janis Joplin died, and saw the EMTs take her body out. I wanted to start anew.
I moved into a nice house at 743 Westmount Avenue in West Hollywood in the hills above the relatively new Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard. Marilyn, who was becoming more a part of my life, moved in as well. We talked a lot and didn’t go out very much. It was easy to be with her. We were a natural fit. Marilyn stocked the place with healthy food and made the house a home. I had a big piano, a fireplace, and mountains of records. Music was always playing in the sun-drenched house. Verdine had the bedroom downstairs. V had just started taking singing lessons and would spend his time singing at the top of his lungs “Wonderful, Wonderful” by Johnny Mathis.
But my new home was haunted. We learned from the neighbors that previous tenants had seen a ghost, which forced them to move out. Between Verdine’s grandiose singing and unexplained “ghost” movements in the night, it was a fun, crazy, and lively place. This little house became the launching pad for the new Earth, Wind & Fire.
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br /> I wanted the band to be slightly different in this new rendition. First of all, the guys needed to be younger. I didn’t want them to have a lot of experience and be cynical and coldhearted about the record business. I did want them to be talented and full of promise. I had the shining star of Verdine’s youth, positivity, and bright karma as a template for what I wanted the new band to be. Verdine was hyper. You couldn’t turn him off. I was perpetually saying to him, “Be cool, man, be cool.” I started to call him Mr. Entertainment.
At twenty-eight years old, I knew who I was, and I was feeling confident and competent. I felt in control of myself and ready to lead a new Earth, Wind & Fire. I was on a mission and had become even more clear about what I wanted to communicate to the world. In order to get my message across, I wanted a band that was as serious as I was about the craft. I also didn’t want to teach people to be positive; I wanted to find positive people.
One of Michael Beal’s last gifts to the band was that he contacted Ralph “Slick” Johnson to audition for the new Earth, Wind & Fire at Michael’s house in Baldwin Hills. Verdine and I had already seen Ralph play at Maverick’s Flat, in a band called the Master’s Children. I wasn’t big on the band, but I loved their name. Verdine auditioned Ralph and said I should take him on.
Ralph, a learned drummer, had technique up the yin-yang. I liked the way he played, and liked him even more. Soon after he joined the band, tension started to rise in rehearsals. We would be playing, and I would stop and say, Let me show you something. I’d move behind the drums, count the song off, and play it how I felt it should groove. Ralph listened with his poker face on. I understood his feelings, even if I acted insensitively.
Although he thought things should be played one way, while I thought they should be played another, we eventually worked it out. I’m glad Ralph was the first piece of the new band. It gave him and Verdine time to click. It’s always vital for the drummer and bass player to form a tight bond, as they’re the foundation of a band.
I still had a contract with Warner Bros. Records after the band broke up. I didn’t run over to their Burbank offices to tell them EW&F was no more, but Perry Jones knew what was going on.
I had gigs booked while I was putting the new band together, piece by piece. For a while, it felt like a revolving door—people quickly in and people quickly out. I enlisted Helena Dixon, a little tiny chick with a sweet voice. We held auditions with about eight or nine guitarists on one long day. No luck. Someone had mentioned they’d run across a cat back in Denver playing with Sonny Charles and the Checkmates that they thought was good. I called Roland Bautista and invited him over. Verdine and I alone auditioned him. Roland had a kind of a rock vibe, but he and Verdine hit it off. They had chemistry, not only with their playing but also in their physicality together, which made them good performance companions. Again, Verdine’s endurance was so over-the-top, he needed as many bandmates as possible to keep up with him. Roland Bautista was in.
Perry Jones kept harping on me about Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey, the two guys Verdine and I had briefly met in Denver at the Twenty-Third Street East nightclub. Philip had moved to LA at Perry’s request, and he soon became the Stovall Sisters’ musical director. Philip at the time was living at Perry Jones’s duplex on Crescent Heights Boulevard. This made me a bit cautious. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Perry, but his house was truly a hangout for a lot of entertainment types. It seemed there was always a party going on. I had a built-in distrust for homes where people were constantly coming in and out. I hated hangouts. Little Richard or even Sly Stone could be over there, and I wasn’t interested. I was also suspicious of drugs and guys who seemed to talk more shit than they got done. But Verdine saw talent in Philip Bailey, whom he’d seen at a gig with the Stovall Sisters, who were also on Warner Bros. Records.
Soon Philip’s wife, Janet, joined him in LA. They had just had a baby boy, named Sir. Philip quickly moved from Perry’s to an apartment on Gramercy Place. All of these factors made me see Philip in a better light. A young family man was more stable, less prone to craziness. Verdine and I met with Philip, and the conversation was short and direct. He wanted to be in the greatest band in the world. I wasn’t thinking so much about his talent when I offered him the job. I knew he had that. I was more interested in his receptivity. Could he embrace the concept? Could he respect my leadership? Was he flexible enough to deal with the inevitable ups and downs on the journey to greatness?
I was eager to start rehearsals with Philip. I wanted to incorporate his voice and conga playing into the band. During the first rehearsal I said to myself, Man, can the kid sing high—and hard. He had the classic falsetto sound of great singers of his era such as Eddie Kendricks and Damon Harris of the Temptations, Russell Thompkins Jr. of the Stylistics, and William Hart of the Delfonics. They all had sweet falsetto voices. But Phil’s falsetto displayed a coarser edge, sweet but earthy. He could scream in falsetto—hit the high register of his voice, and still have control over it. It distinguished his voice in my eye. His falsetto voice installed in EW&F a sound that was a mainstay in soul music. Having a falsetto voice in a band, as opposed to a singing group, brought a unique element to EW&F. Phil’s percussion chops only added to the pot. Phil’s presence in the band was a relief to me; I had never wanted to be the lead vocalist of EW&F.
After Phil came on board, Perry Jones continued to talk up Larry Dunn. It wasn’t so much that I was for or against the idea; it was just that I had a lot of other practical and business issues going on at the time. Some of the business revolved around me being cloak-and-dagger in my dealings with Warner Bros. Jim Brown was on Warner’s ass to hire a black staff to handle black music. I didn’t want to complicate things by letting them know I was changing band personnel until I had a new band firmly in place. Another concern was at least appearing stable. I started a practice of having individual meetings with everyone from band members to businesspeople, just to keep everything focused and sharp.
Phil went back home to Denver and saw Larry doing a show at Manuel High School. His band opened up for the group War. According to Phil, Larry took an outrageous ten-minute Hammond B-3 organ solo, turning the crowd upside down. Under Perry and Philip’s persuasion, I invited Larry out for an audition.
I didn’t know how to respond seeing Larry Dunn walk through my door. He looked sooooo young, like he was thirteen or fourteen. He had much more of a baby face than I had remembered. I wanted young guys and all, but this was a bit ridiculous. I almost wanted to ask for a note from his parents. Larry sat behind the Fender Rhodes and played a few of the early EW&F songs, as well as Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage.” Larry had great nimble, talented fingers. He was a joker too, always keeping things light.
Meanwhile I told Doug Carn, a jazz artist I knew, that I was looking for a sax player, and he recommended Ronnie Laws. I knew about his brother Hubert, because everybody in New York was talking about his virtuosity on the flute. Ronnie came in and auditioned. He just blew me away. He was smokin’. He had the perfect musical foundation to accomplish what I wanted. I was always quick to compliment him. Often I would say, “Man, you were burning tonight!” I thought he was the best musician in the band.
Any way you look at it, putting a new band together is like cooking. You don’t know what you’re going to have until it’s done. We had Ralph Johnson, Roland Bautista, Helena Dixon, Philip Bailey, Larry Dunn, Ronnie Laws, Verdine, and myself. Even though I drilled the concept of EW&F, everybody joined the band for different reasons: some joined because of timing, some liked the brotherhood, and some even liked the concept. But everybody wanted to be successful playing music. We were playing clubs, colleges, old arenas, and some of the big new arenas that they were starting to build, especially on the East Coast. I kept booking them, all with the hope that I could hold the band together, just to give us a chance to gel. We gradually started to open for bigger acts.
Yet things were still precarious. I walked through the brightly sunlit Los A
ngeles airport concourse many times to deliver the bad news to the guys that yet another gig had been canceled. That’s how I would often get the bad news—right at the airport, right at the last minute. But I presented this information to the band with a strong tone of conviction. I was learning that composure is a big part of leadership. Anyone can drive the boat when the sea is calm. I would often say to the guys in times of disappointment, “The universe just has something better for us.” I never wanted to communicate a drop of negative energy.
One of the more significant shows we played at this time was at the Uptown Theater in Philadelphia. A beautiful art deco building, the Uptown Theater was a historically significant place for black artists. It had been a part of the chitlin’ circuit for decades. It gave many artists their start. It was considered the Apollo Theater of Philadelphia as a nexus of black entertainment. It was a traditional theater, with big, heavy burgundy curtains and ornate art deco wall carvings that gave it a grand feel. When we played there, the Uptown Theater was in its last days of glory—but it was still a big thing for us.
In those days at the Uptown Theater, they’d have two or three shows a day, with four on the weekend, consisting of several acts. We weren’t used to that. One of my principles that I emphasized to the band was that we were a concert act, a band meant to play in arenas just like the big white acts of rock and roll. You play your show, and then you head to the hotel, to the airport, or back in the station wagons. I didn’t want us playing clubs, or even theaters like the Uptown. It may have been a financial mistake not to take every little gig that came along in those days, but I had an unwavering belief it would be better for EW&F in the long run.
My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Page 11