My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire

by Maurice White

  There was a new kind of masculinity surfacing in music. The music of the 1970s celebrated a sensitive, self-aware, and nurturing man. Songs such as James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain,” Cat Stevens’s “Morning Has Broken,” and “It Don’t Matter to Me” by Bread were sung from a place of male vulnerability that hadn’t been heard before. EW&F, too, put forth a new kind of masculinity. “The World’s a Masquerade,” “Build Your Nest,” “Evil,” and “Keep Your Head to the Sky” espoused consciousness. We wanted our audience to realize that to be young, gifted, and black, it was necessary to be awake and sensitive to the inner as well as the outer man.

  The cover of Head to the Sky reflected what headspace we were in. It was the peak of our Flower Power days. We had abandoned the pea coats and turtlenecks of the Warner LPs and Last Days and Time. We were wearing more jewelry and took on a more ethnic vibe. Philip, Larry, and Andrew seemed to be getting “cooler” too. When they first came in the band, they were always smiling. It was annoying. I think, growing up in Denver, they were trained to look happy in public. Verdine and I, being from Chicago, were trained to have that slight street scowl, always looking serious but cool. The album photograph showed us wearing tights with no shirts. We bought clothing at Capezio, a store that sold outfits for dancing. We mixed everything up—silk with leather, suede with paisley. It worked for us as long as it was cool in our own idiosyncratic eyes.

  One thing about Columbia Records, from day one, was that they never interfered, other than suggesting that one or two songs be included on Last Days and Time. They let me cut what I wanted. Even though Joe Wissert was more of an executive producer at this point, he also didn’t have much input. I had my own artistic party going on.

  I felt at home. Creatively, we were exploring all genres of music and further establishing who EW&F was as a band. Our albums were eclectic. We featured vocal-free, instrumental jams with a strong world music vibe. Our jazz fusion side was expressed on “Zanzibar.” Written by the great bossa nova musician Edu Lobo, it gave the new band a chance to stretch out. Studio legend Oscar Brashear has a magnificent trumpet solo. Oscar played on just about all the Earth, Wind & Fire records from the Warner Bros. days all the way into our classic LPs, but he wasn’t officially in the band. Reggie Andrews also played some additional piano from time to time. Talented musicians were always willing to lend a helping hand. It didn’t matter who was playing, I liked this new world of mixed jazz, African, soul, and rock—the musical foundation we’d draw upon for our entire career.

  The new song “Keep Your Head to the Sky” became our lighthouse. It’s one of the few songs I wrote alone. I was sitting at the piano in the twilight of an overcast Los Angeles morning in the fall of 1972 when it came to me. It has given many people hope and optimism. At the time, it gave hope to young African Americans. I wanted the black men of Earth, Wind & Fire to inspire self-worthiness. I wanted to show confidence in our own heritage, but not stay stuck there. We wanted our black fans to stand tall and fulfill their highest potential from a position of cultural strength. My plan was to increase everybody’s level of ethnic consciousness, forcing them to transcend into a philosophy that embraced all of humanity for the planet’s highest good. Songs that would come later like “Mighty, Mighty,” “Shining Star,” and “Getaway” were written to that end.

  “Keep Your Head to the Sky” was written for me. The song came out of a spiritual experience that I was going through. I had for the previous twelve years been searching for a purpose through music. God knows I loved music. Music was my friend. Music was my manhood, and Earth, Wind & Fire was my baby. Yet as vitally important as this was to me, I was growing to believe that ultimately music wasn’t the rainbow’s end. Prior to writing “Keep Your Head to the Sky,” I’d been questioning my purpose. I was figuring out that my loyalty was to God—to hold on to my faith, to fight through my doubts. I wanted to keep believing that God was with me in spite of the challenges I was facing with the band. How far we had come was a blessing. “Keep Your Head to the Sky” is my response to that blessing, my true and heartfelt thank-you to God, my way of affirming that to walk through this life, so full of change, we need to stay grounded in our own atmosphere of faith.

  I was forced to evolve as a man and bandleader. I was realizing that I was responsible not only for myself but for the entire band. The organization was getting larger, and the payroll was gradually expanding. To protect the image of the band, however, I was becoming more and more selective. I turned down several gigs because the venue was too small, there were too many acts on the bill, or the promoter was unscrupulous. Still, no matter where we performed, I emphasized that we give the same effort. I believed being responsible in small things would inevitably reward us with the big things.

  Success in the music business is a crapshoot. You need grace or luck, depending on how you look at it. I wanted to win, but win in the right way, without sacrificing my psychological or spiritual principles. I was giving it my best shot by eating right, meditating, practicing yoga, and exercising. I wanted us in top form. We rehearsed all the time. We rehearsed between gigs and when there were no gigs. I hated winging it. I took a purposeful approach to everything we did in building Earth, Wind, & Fire.

  In early June of 1973, Bob called and told me that Clive was gone. Less than three weeks after the release of our second Columbia album, Head to the Sky, to everyone’s surprise, Clive Davis had been fired as president of the CBS Records Group, accused of misappropriating money. It was all total bullshit. It wasn’t about whether Clive did or didn’t use company cash to his own end; people had been misappropriating funds before him at all the major record labels, and they kept on doing it and after him. It was no big secret that money was spent in corrupt ways at record companies: it was the way business was done. In Clive’s defense, no matter what historians write about his managerial style and how it may have contributed to his downfall at CBS, he should forever get the credit for changing that label. CBS Records became hip with him at the helm. He completely set it up to become a powerhouse in the 1970s and ’80s.

  Still, like any other artist, my main concern was with what Clive’s firing meant for my band. I soon got the word that Walter Yetnikoff was to become the president of CBS Records, although it wasn’t official until a year or so later. Walter had a bigger-than-life personality. He was the top dog and had the bark and bite to go along with it. Walter soon became our record man—the guy who knew the business in and out, from street hustling to getting your record played to being backslapper in chief. He assured me, through Bob, that everything was going to be OK for EW&F.

  The power shift at Columbia took time to settle. In the meantime, within the band, certain members were becoming standouts. Everyone had stepped up their game. Jessica’s out-of-this-stratosphere falsetto vocals at the end of “Keep Your Head to the Sky” and her musical expressiveness on “Zanzibar” established her as a serious singer. Verdine’s bass style was starting to take on personality. On “Build Your Nest” he used notes that were outside the scale, which added an odd intensity to the track.

  As electronic keyboard technology started to come of age, Larry Dunn dove right in. He got into the Minimoog synthesizer, which was literally the sound of the future—people in rock, soul, and even progressive jazz started to use it in different ways. No one could touch Larry on the Minimoog, when it came to getting the right sound. With its pitch wheel that could bend the sound of the note, presenting the opportunity for highly individualized expression, it was a game changer in music.

  Larry couldn’t have been more pleased when “Evil” was chosen to be our first single from Head to the Sky, released on June 22, 1973. His Fender Rhodes part kicked the song off and was dominant in the mix. For Larry, as the youngest in the group, being a featured performer on a song was a confidence booster. I loved the song because it was lyrically philosophical and driven by strong instrumental sections. It’s a simple song about the human condition of our duality, how our light and ou
r darkness walk side by side. Whichever side is leading the show ends up being our own personal story of cause and effect. Philip had been singing one melodic line, and we grew the song from there.

  In the summer of 1973 Jessica Cleaves left Earth, Wind & Fire. She had gotten married to some dude who was out in Kansas, and he wanted Jessica to come and be with him. This didn’t pain me; in reality, it spared me a firing. Jessica had substance abuse issues, and she wasn’t going to last long in the band anyway. From Sherry Scott to Helena Dixon to Jessica Cleaves, women had been an awkward fit in our band. Even though nothing went on with the boys, as far as I know, having a female in a group of young guys was a challenge. The simple practical issue of accommodations alone was difficult. I always had my own room, and so did Leonard. But early on, the band bunked two to a room. In groups with mixed genders like Fleetwood Mac or the Fifth Dimension, generally there was a romantic couple among the group, which made road life easier. But we didn’t have that convenient situation.

  Bob Cavallo was closely following the progress of “Evil.” I would call, no matter where I was on the road, so he could inform me which stations had added it to their playlists. I was ecstatic to learn that “Evil” was becoming our first breakout single. This was largely due to WDAS in Philadelphia and DJs Georgie Woods and Joe “Butterball” Tamburro. Disk jockeys were all-powerful—Godlike. They could make or break a song, or your career. Many of the legends of the music business would have never become legends without a certain DJ in one city deciding to play their record. The DJs had autonomy. If a record label promoter could convince them to play a song, it had the potential to become a hit. One station in the right market could make your career. Today it’s different. Corporations dictate what songs to play to the stations they own. DJs can’t even pick their own music, which is a crying shame.

  On August 13, 1973, at the 6,500-seat Bangor Auditorium in Maine, we started a tour with the British progressive rock band Uriah Heep. These guys were pure hard rock—great musicians and unique for their time. Bob Cavallo said to me, “You want to be treated like a rock band, well, here ya go, pal.” As the opening act, we had about an hour to do our thing. To Uriah Heep, we were this weird black group with weird clothes and weird movements. We slammed into our show and quickly had the audience clapping with the beat and singing with us in a church-style call-and-response. These audiences were 99 percent white, and they dug us. They called us back for encore after encore. When we left the stage, the audience was so worn out, so depleted, so tired, that they had nothing to give Uriah Heep. This went on for about a month before somewhere in the Midwest, we were unceremoniously told to go home. We’d been kicked off the tour.

  The short-lived Uriah Heep tour garnered some publicity that we would not have gotten otherwise. Publicity meant record sales, and record sales meant we could charge more for an Earth, Wind & Fire concert. More money meant sustainability, which Bob reminded me of constantly. Still believing I was too finicky, he kept bringing me things that he thought would fit with my mind-set. Consequently, in late September 1973 we, along with the Rolling Stones and the Doobie Brothers, recorded the premiere episode of Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert on ABC-TV. We performed “Evil” and “Keep Your Head to the Sky,” wearing outfits designed and tailored especially for us by Martine Colette, an up-and-coming costume designer in Los Angeles. The outfits were flashy, but since they were made for us, it at least felt like an upgrade.

  I wasn’t pleased with the performance. We were rushed in and rushed out, and I felt slighted. Even though we looked scruffier, our performance on Soul! a year earlier had been more organic, more distinctive and quirky—more of who EW&F really was. The Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert performance reminded me that television was an unforgiving medium. If we were to continue messing with TV, we would need some control over the entire process, including staging, lighting, and sound.

  The next morning I went for a long walk up into the hilly streets behind my house. I looked over Los Angeles, feeling frustrated. The lessons I’d learned the day before were too clear to ignore. We were putting a lot of effort into our live show, and I was still disappointed. Was I expecting too much? I realized that my expectations weren’t too high, but maybe I was expecting too much too soon. I needed more patience. If I kept my vibration in the right place, the universe would ultimately bring us people and resources, and put me in the right place to get what I wanted from our live show. But I had to trust the process.

  10

  Step

  Born of the Earth are nature’s children

  Fed by the Wind, the breath of life

  Judged by the fiery hands of God

  —“Earth, Wind and Fire,” Spirit, 1976

  Head to the Sky had finally made it to certified gold status. It was gratifying, but I was unsettled. I didn’t want to get trapped in worldly success. I also didn’t want some “suit” to say, You’ve jumped this high, now you must jump a little higher. That kind of pressure could cause someone to jump into the loony bin or to have low self-esteem and feelings of inadequacy. Chess Records had burned that kind of hurdle-jumping out of me. I’ve seen demands like these make guys lose their hope, pride, and direction. Of course I wanted all the success in the world, but I just didn’t want to be shaped by it. I never wanted to be motivated from an outside source, only from within. I wanted to set, run, and jump my own personal hurdles, hurdles I’d created myself.

  Our achievements inspired me to enhance our lyrical and musical dimensions. I wanted to publicly voice how I felt about God. I also desired to express my belief that overindulgence and too much hanging out was bullshit. I believed I had the right individuals in the band to pull it off, but I needed another ally to help me reach a higher musical dimension.

  Verdine instinctively knew when I was up to something, and he couldn’t help being nosy. “Who you talking to?” he often asked. I told him, I’ve recruited Charles Stepney to help us out on this next record, and he’s flying to Los Angeles next week.

  “Man, this musical thing I’m getting ready to throw you into,” I said, “it’s going to make you a legend. It’s going to take all of us to the next level.”

  “How?” Verdine asked.

  “In every musical way possible.”

  Verdine liked hearing that. He always liked the feeling that we were off on yet another new adventure. He was consumed with being in Earth, Wind & Fire. His bright enthusiasm was present in everything he did, whether it was voice lessons or dance lessons.

  Step, as I sometimes called Charles Stepney, was a brilliant musician. Whenever I was in Chicago, I would always check in with him. I never failed to remind him, “Step, as soon as I can afford it, I want us to work together again.”

  After Charles joined us in the studio, the guys recognized that he was not a man to mince words. Along with a short fuse, he had that Chicago bite that could be harsh, encouraging, and loving all at the same time. Years of producing experience had made him an expert psychologist. He instinctively had a feel for musicians’ emotional makeup, quickly identifying their strengths and insecurities. I hired Charles because he knew the nuances of music. He quickly let us know what was working and what wasn’t. He had a way of communicating with the guys so that they would not become defensive. Being a master arranger, he knew all the instruments. His sophistication as an arranger suited the band, and he instructed each musician in a way that made us receptive. He gave the guys a new understanding and appreciation for what they were doing musically. I think the guys got to the point where they actually wanted to please Charles, and as bandleader I benefited greatly from this paternal dynamic.

  Charles sometimes, like Ramsey Lewis, called me Rooney Tunes—a takeoff of Looney Tunes, because, he said, I always had a new song. One thing he believed in strongly was the power of the producer. He often told me, “The Beatles without George Martin would just have been a bar band.” I didn’t agree with that, but I got his point.

  He also told me, “Rooney, you�
�ve got a great bunch of young talented guys here, but the more direction you give them, the better off you’ll be.” This advice wasn’t a big revelation, but Charles was always trying to push me.

  Going back to our Chess days, Step had done six albums with the Rotary Connection, an interesting band with a psychedelic soul vibe, kind of like Sly Stone meets the Fifth Dimension. Minnie Ripperton, their lead vocalist, had a five-octave vocal range. Minnie would later score a No. 1 hit with “Lovin’ You,” one of the simplest, sweetest, and most intimate love songs of the 1970s. Her vocal footprint is unique in American music.

  Minnie’s voice, coupled with Charles’s arranging ability, contributed to his ability to work with high-pitched voices. Philip and I together had a falsetto background sound. With Charles as our guide, we learned to establish a sound together. Charles saw our voices as a tool he could use with his arrangements. One can hear it later on “That’s the Way of the World.” Andrew’s soprano sax and flute against the high range of our background vocals on “Feelin’ Blue” are an example of the many things that Charles introduced that would class up the sound of EW&F. He really knew how to voice piano chords in a way that they left melodic space for the vocals. He stayed away from cluster chords. His arranging ability gave my musical imagination the space to experiment, allowing me the freedom to be even more daring and aggressive with my musical vision.