My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire

by Maurice White

  The legendary giant of radio, Georgie Woods of WDAS, put on the show at the Uptown. Georgie was king in Philly. More than a disc jockey, he was a promoter, a community activist, and—in my opinion—a barometer of all things cool.

  We were always trying new stuff with our show, so I gathered the cats and said, When the curtain opens, let’s all be sitting on the floor in the lotus position, staring at the audience. The band thought I had a screw loose.

  That first night, when Georgie said, “Here’s Earth, Wind and Fire,” the curtain opened, and there we were in our lotus positions, looking like we came from some farm commune in northern California, glaring at the audience for what seemed like an eternity. They started to boo, throw things, and laugh. Then I picked up my kalimba and started playing. One by one we calmly picked up our instruments and started playing, and they gradually got into us. Before long they were clapping and feeling our musical energy. They were also staring at us, astonished by what we were putting out.

  Black audiences in Philadelphia, New York, and Detroit were always very tough. It was an “If we can make it there, we can make it anywhere” kind of thing. It would take time for audiences and the band to buy fully into the concept. I wanted every creative impulse, whether in music or performance, to be consistent with the overall idea of EW&F’s spiritual elements. By our last night at the Uptown, we were getting standing ovations. We stuck to our guns and laid a cosmic, spiritual thing on them. It was not common to see brothers sitting in lotus positions! The success of our odd opening allowed the band to start trusting me more. They began to understand what EW&F was about, and got a glimpse of what it could be. I was not afraid of the unconventional. If it was God-inspired, I knew I would be all right.

  Around this same time, I got some disturbing news from Perry Jones. His boss had told him that not only did he not like black music, he didn’t like Earth, Wind & Fire. And he definitely did not like Perry. Perry was devastated; personally and professionally, it almost broke him. I tried to encourage him not to take it personally, to let him know it’s all in the game. I wasn’t shocked by the news. Actually, I was pleased to know where I stood with Warner Bros. Records. To hell with them if they didn’t want Earth, Wind & Fire. My persistent affirmation of faith told me there was something better.

  I had received a real good education from Chess Records and all those other record labels in Chicago. I knew how cold the record business could be. All this love you get one minute, then hate the next—it was all too terribly familiar. I didn’t let the band know what was going on, even Verdine. I didn’t want them to get discouraged.

  A few months earlier I had met with a manager called Bob Cavallo, a short Italian American guy with a bushy mustache and lots of New York City chutzpah. He started out managing a club in Washington, DC, then had his first breakthrough managing the Lovin’ Spoonful, who went on to have several hit records. Bob loved all kinds of music—jazz and especially folk. I told Bob that I wanted to write songs of optimism and hope for the future. I wanted to include jazz, Afro-Cuban music, blues—every musical genre you can come up with—in some amalgamation. I wanted a concert where the audience was 50 percent black and 50 percent white.

  About a year earlier, Bob had come to see the old EW&F play at the Hollywood Palladium. He thought the music was good, but he didn’t think I had the individuals to carry it out. I also believe that the heavy percussive sound, the African clothing, and the themes of self-empowerment scared some white folks, maybe even Bob. Many were fearful of this new big-city black consciousness they didn’t understand. Lew Alcindor changing his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, the Attica prison riot on TV, and everybody talking about the movie Shaft. Even with those worldly events, my vision for EW&F had not changed or diminished—but my band’s personnel had.

  I invited Bob to come and see the new band play. Backstage after the gig, I knew I had him.

  “Maurice, I’m floored! The power, the movements, and the music was just . . . just . . . I’m speechless. Let’s do a deal.”

  “Whoa, Bob, not so fast. I’m glad you dig it, but I’ll sign with you on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you get me out of Warner Bros. and get me another major record deal. And somewhere where I’m going to get paid. No Motown records.”

  I began to become a different bandleader about the time that Bob Cavallo joined the ranks. I discovered that saying no was as powerful as saying yes. Even though we were far from any meaningful success, I was willing to say no to anyone joining my business team without first proving themselves. Bob’s proving ground was to not only get me out of my Warner Bros. deal but find me a new label in the process.

  Since I had put the wheels in motion to change management, in good faith, I asked Jim Brown to release me from my management contract. I requested a meeting.

  “Jim, I think I need a change,” I said.

  “Change? What kind of change?”

  “In management?”

  “What? Why in the world do you feel the need for a new manager?”

  “I need a more focused attention on the band.”

  Silence.

  He looked through the tinted window of his office and then suddenly shrugged his shoulders. “Well, that actually sounds legitimate. Truth be told, I have a lot going on right now.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’ll let you out of your contract on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you hire Leonard Smith and give him a full-time job.”

  “OK—done.”

  I thought that was easy. But that was Jim Brown; always trying to help a brother out—in this case, Leonard. In the short time I spent with Jim, I was reminded of one very important lesson, the same lesson Fred Humphrey back in Chicago had emphasized: Be your own man. Jim Brown was definitely his own man—big-time. He did things his way and garnered respect because of it. I will be forever grateful to him for the role he played in the Earth, Wind & Fire story.

  I was excited to have Leonard Smith on my team. I would not be taking care of him; he would actually be taking care of us. For the band, the EW&F experience was college, and Leonard was dorm superintendent. To Leonard, the members of this young band were his children. He was like an uncle taking them camping. He made sure they had the basics of life covered. He taught them everything from how to talk to women to handling their banking. He even pulled their coattails when they got a little wild. They became men under his watch.

  Indianapolis, Indiana. Hot as hell. Leonard and I walked across the street from the airport to the Holiday Inn. Leonard, sweating profusely, was dripping water on the counter. It was forming little puddles. He ran his hand across the length of his head and said, “Man, this hair has got to go.” He shaved it off that night. Leonard was a big dude, about five-eleven, with broad shoulders, a powerful chest, and big muscles. Now, with his shiny Kojak bald head, he looked like a boxer or a bouncer in a nightclub. This was a plus for me. I liked having that brawn around. The road could be treacherous. We were always dealing in cash and people trying to take it. Leonard, having a military background, brought a sense of stability, discipline, and security to the band. I was a big believer in discipline. Leonard was just what the doctor ordered. “Don’t worry about a thing,” was Leonard’s consistent response to just about every problem I brought to him.

  I had witnessed musical groups back in Chicago that had always seemed to be in chaos. Their business practices were shoddy at best. They didn’t focus on the logistics of being on the road. Who’s in charge of travel and hotels? Who’s the contact person at the venue? And, most of all, who’s in charge of getting the money? The black music business practices of the early 1970s weren’t that different from the Chicago ones of the mid-1960s. The competitors we crossed paths with on the road didn’t seem to have their shit together. They were in disarray backstage. They had no procedures in place. I was determined to be different. I presented myself as organized, as
well as mentally, physically, and emotionally pulled together.

  I was extremely committed to my health-nut regimen. I was physically fit. I could kick the top of my door arch from a standstill. Yoga made me as limber as a rubber band. I had incredible endurance. I exposed the band to the importance of eating right, yoga, and meditation. I gave them books to read on subjects as varied as metaphysics, health, and quieting the mind. I encouraged everyone to drink more water and juice and to eat as raw as possible. I told the guys to allow their body’s response to food to guide them. Don’t you feel more tired, with less energy, after we eat at IHOP? Compare it to how you feel after you eat raw or steamed vegetables. As my money got better, I made sure these edibles were available backstage.

  Early fall 1972, EW&F went through a grueling series of weeks. We missed planes. We had flat tires. Everything that could go wrong went wrong. The worst was when we arrived late to a venue depleted of energy, with a ninety-minute show to play. Leonard Smith said, “Come on, guys, let’s get in a circle and pray.” We did, and we were restored—resurrected. Leonard in that one moment started a ritual for Earth, Wind & Fire. After that crazy night, every time before we hit the stage, I shouted out, “Circle time!” We gathered in a circle, clasped our hands, bowed our heads or raised them skyward, and prayed.

  Circle time was bonding; but still the greatest challenge was to consistently engage the guys in the EW&F concept and to try to keep things somewhat financially solvent. With all those demands, I still felt blessed. Where the band was by the winter of 1972 had taken a lot of God’s grace. It had also taken hard work, faith, and perseverance.

  Bob had interested Clive Davis, who was running Columbia Records, in EW&F. In living color, Bob expressed that EW&F was a musical and spiritual concept. He told Clive that it was not the original EW&F, but a new group of younger guys that were more psychedelic and progressive-looking than the original Afrocentric lineup.

  We needed a way for Clive to check us out that would be discreet and not in a rehearsal space. We had to do it on the down-low because Earth, Wind & Fire was still signed to Warner Bros. Records. This meant that Bob Cavallo wasn’t free and clear to shop us to other labels. In addition, any label interested would have to buy out our Warner Bros. Records contract.

  Bob had a client, John Sebastian. In 1972 he had been a star for a while as founder of the Lovin’ Spoonful, a hugely successful band of the mid-1960s. John had gone solo. He was doing his own special blend of pop/folk music.

  Bob asked John for a favor. John had a booked-out show billed as “An Evening with John Sebastian,” which meant that no other act was scheduled to perform. The night of the event, the audience was expecting John and his little harmonium, Autoharp, harmonica, and acoustic guitar, but what the packed audience got was an opening by nine black cats. Clive listened to maybe three or four songs before he said, “Deal. Do it. Get someone to call me, but don’t let Joe [Joe Smith, Warner Bros. Records president] know that I’m interested.”

  I was skeptical. My Chess Records education taught me that until the ink was dry on a contract and the check was in the bank, it was all talk. My feeling has always been put up or shut up. My reservation was confirmed when Bob informed me that Clive wanted to see us perform one more time, and in Los Angeles. I greeted his request with suspicion.

  “Well, he wants to bring his lieutenants this time,” Bob said.

  I paused and thought about it. “OK, then. I guess we’ll just have to knock his lieutenants out, too.”

  I looked at performing like a boxing match. I didn’t want technical knockouts, just big solid punches. My goal was to leave the audience spent, flat-out on the canvas with nothing left. I wanted this performance/audition to be even more energetic. In preparation, we rehearsed like the devil. I booked the big room at the Sunset Sound studios in Hollywood. Clive’s lieutenants strutted in. Some had on double-breasted suits with those big 1970s-era Elvis Presley–looking sunglasses, while others wore white loafers with the big belt buckle. Their drag read, I’m a record business power player. By contrast, we had on full stage attire, with tights or bell-bottom pants; some of us had shirts and others didn’t; some of us had on platform shoes, while others were barefoot. I was rarely nervous, but that night my mouth was tight and I was swallowing deeply. There was so much at stake. I had to have success to keep this new band together. We played a powerful forty-minute set.

  I signed Earth, Wind & Fire to Columbia Records in early 1972.

  Somewhere between the Clive audition and us getting signed, Helena Dixon quit, and Jessica Cleaves from the Friends of Distinction joined. I had been trying to persuade her to join us, but she wasn’t into it until I told her we had a deal with Columbia Records. We started recording our first album for Clive, Last Days and Time, in April of 1972 at the Sunset Sound studios. Los Angeles in the springtime was splendid. It made those brutal Chicago winters seem a world away. I could relate to Los Angeles’s energy. It was multicultural and less buttoned up than the East Coast. There were girls of every hue walking on Sunset Boulevard in cut-off shorts and open midriffs, eternal smiles on their faces.

  I was in a good space. The new band and record deal had given me a renewed sense of purpose. This album needed to exceed the previous works. I wanted to musically broaden our base. A part of that broadening was to follow a long-held tradition in the music business of recording a song or two that had been a recent hit with another artist. We recorded “Make It with You,” which a year earlier had been a No. 1 pop hit for the group Bread. We also did a great version of Pete Seeger’s folk classic “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” The idea to cut those particular songs came from Clive Davis. Additional songs came from new sources. Songwriter Skip Scarborough contributed “I’d Rather Have You” to Last Days and Time. It was probably the most mature song EW&F had ever recorded up to that point. It’s where the background vocals with that ba-da-pa-da thing originated.

  From the beginning I wanted EW&F’s album titles and cover artwork to be distinctive and personal. I wanted our Columbia Records debut to respond to America’s political and racial situation. A lot of music artists were doing the same, releasing very personal music. The Staple Singers had moved from gospel to the secular with “I’ll Take You There” and “Respect Yourself.” Marvin Gaye had released his classic What’s Going On. Marvin’s decision to follow his muse and break out of his safe musical zone was courageous. Berry Gordy thought Marvin, as a Motown artist, was going to destroy his romantic image with “message” songs. Marvin stuck to his guns. What’s Going On was a milestone in that it was one of the first hugely successful albums that questioned the political and social climate of the time. I was influenced by the seriousness of What’s Going On.

  I wanted our title to have a cautionary view of 1972. Vietnam had most young Americans feeling homicidal or suicidal. In Chicago and now Los Angeles it seemed to me that the military was just grabbing brothers right off the streets like it was nothing. Hey, where did so-and-so go? Ah, man, he got drafted. One day a cat was there, and the next he was gone. In conversations I had about the war there were a lot of side-to-side headshakes, as if there was nothing anybody could do, no hope for the future. Richard Nixon was running for his second term. This environment made Last Days and Time feel like the perfect album title.

  At Columbia Records, I could pick and choose who I wanted to do the artwork for our debut album. While at Warner it was more like, This is your album cover—shut up and deal with it. With the freedom and support of Clive Davis and the Columbia Records machine, I chose Mati Klarwein. He had done cover art for Santana’s Abraxas, but I was especially impressed with his cover for Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew. Mati’s surrealistic thing was a step up for us. He did an excellent job of expressing on canvas the seriousness of the apocalyptic theme. It was just what I was looking for. Words, art, and music always went hand in hand when it came to Earth, Wind & Fire’s album presentations.

  Our first effort for Columbia was quite diffe
rent from the Warner albums. Joe Wissert is listed as the producer, but I was producing by then. The direction of any album lies in the producer’s imagination. I learned that from working with Billy Davis and Ramsey Lewis in the studio, so at Columbia I was ready, ambitious, and willing to fully take on the responsibility.

  One of the big changes in the recording process was that we simply had more time. The budget was large enough that I didn’t have to keep looking at the damn clock. We booked the studio in blocks of days rather than hours. We’d record a few days. I’d listen a few days, figure out the next step, and get back in the studio. There was less pressure, and I had more creative freedom.

  For all the hard work that went into the album, the emphasis of Earth, Wind & Fire’s life was not on recording but on performing. Building our base, we were constantly touring, trying to earn enough to keep things going. We rented Hertz station wagons over and over again. The people at the Hertz counter had to think, Here they come again, the bald guy and the red-haired hipster, for their four station wagons. I always sat in the front passenger seat. Leonard would be in the backseat with a big yellow pad, preparing for the next day’s activities. Aside from the guys driving, every one would be asleep. We had walkie-talkies to communicate between cars. Many times we got lost, but I can count on one hand the number of gigs we missed. We were disciplined, and we worked hard.

  Even though Columbia hadn’t entered the full-on rock-and-roll business yet (that’s what Clive Davis was hired for), the label was huge internationally, with stars like Julio Iglesias. Columbia Records, like most labels at that time, didn’t have full-time black music divisions. Of course it had distribution deals with other black artist-driven labels, most notably Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff’s Philadelphia International Records, which had a distribution deal with CBS/Epic and was beginning to make some serious noise.