Charles’s presence brought a sea change to the life of Earth, Wind & Fire, forever altering our destiny.
When we started recording our third album for Columbia, I was on a mission. Finally, the revolving door of various band members had stopped spinning. This EW&F would be the configuration the world would come to know, as we strived to be the best band in the world. It was the start of a new era. In November of 1973 we chose the Caribou Ranch to record Open Our Eyes, intentionally selecting the pristine mountain environment to inspire us creatively.
Caribou Ranch was a recording studio that producer Jim Guercio owned on 4,000 beautiful acres in the Colorado Rockies. Some of the guys had trouble adjusting to the high altitude. Other guys struggled with the temperature. “It’s cold as hell out here,” I remember Al saying. Andrew and Larry were comfortable, as they were used to the weather. We were only an hour or so from Denver, their hometown. Ironically, even though Philip was from Denver as well, he did not like the cold weather.
Elton John recorded a few albums at the Caribou Ranch, as did Chicago, Blood, Sweat & Tears, and America. Bob was the one who suggested that we go away to do the album. It would help us to focus; we could work our craft without the distraction of telephones, visitors, and the crazy Los Angeles energy. The studio had opened in 1972, and we were the only black act who went up there during its early days. It was part of my vision of wanting to have the same opportunities as the big rock acts. Bob knew that it would send a message to Columbia Records that EW&F was not just another black act that it could treat as a second-class citizen.
Caribou Ranch, 8,600 feet high in the Colorado Rockies, was part studio, part retreat. We each had our own cabin. The cabins were nice, almost like a hotel. When Jim Guercio’s wife, Lucy, ushered me into mine, before dropping the key in my hand, she said, “This furniture set belonged to President Grover Cleveland. I bought it at an estate sale in upstate New York.” The cabin was beautiful. The dresser had a huge oversize mirror, and the floor was covered with expensive throw rugs. Additionally, it had a great sound system and a color TV. A huge stone fireplace was the focal point of the room.
A powerful incident shook me to my core my first night in my cabin. I couldn’t sleep, and was tossing and turning in my bed. I opened my eyes, and there was this thing standing right at the foot of my bed. At first it looked like a hologram, a projected image. Then it took the form of a tattered sheet with holes in it. I froze in my bed as the ghost stared at me. After a few seconds I picked up a shoe and threw it at the vision. The shoe went right through it. I yelled, “Okay, motherfucker. I’ll get your ass.” I threw another shoe. It passed through the ghost and broke the window. The image ultimately moved right through the wall. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It wasn’t a dream. It was real. Studio owner Jim Guercio said Elton John saw it, as well as one of the cats in the band Chicago. Charles Stepney said he saw it, too.
The next day, we started recording. Although I had obviously played straight-ahead jazz with Ramsey, Earth, Wind & Fire had never put anything close to that on a record. “Spasmodic Movements,” a jazz tune written by sax legend Eddie Harris, was one of those songs that Charles guided the band through. Andrew Woolfolk, our saxophonist, played the melody. I had every faith and confidence in Drew, who’d studied jazz under Joe Henderson, but he was scared to death. “Spasmodic Movements” had similar chord changes to John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps,” and he didn’t know if he was going to be able to do it. He loved jazz and all that, but he didn’t feel that he was a John Coltrane. Giving him confidence, Stepney schooled him line by line, chord by chord.
Philip and I had written a song, “Devotion,” steeped in a simple spiritual truth. Philip sang his ad libs a few times. His notes were fine, but not working on an emotional level. Charles stepped in. In addition to his technical training, Charles had a sixth sense about communicating with musicians, a necessary skill in the creative and sensitive atmosphere of a recording studio.
“Philip, I want you to try it one more time. But this time, think of your mother.”
“OK, I’ll try, Charles.”
Philip closed his eyes and belted out the lyrics with a conviction that I had never heard from him in the studio. I had heard it onstage, but not in the studio. Step had gotten the emotion and the believability out of him. Philip’s vocal touches gave me chills. His performance was delicate and graceful.
Larry Dunn, our keyboardist, was challenged by Charles more than the other members because Charles was a stellar pianist. Larry wasn’t the best reader when he joined the band, but he had a marvelous feel. Charles would stand behind him, closely observing his finger movements, saying, “That’s good, that’s very good, Larry.” However, with the studio clock running, Charles’s patience wore thin. He would take his butt and slightly scoot Larry from the piano bench to demonstrate how he wanted the song played. Larry would then carefully look over Step’s shoulder and observe his technique. He was getting a university class in piano skills.
Charles was harsher with me than with the rest of the band. He would be all over me if I made the tiniest mistake on the drums. He didn’t feel he had to spare my feelings, since I had a lot more studio experience, and he didn’t have time for me to be screwing up. Privately he confided, “Man, if I get on your ass, the kids won’t take my barking so fucking personally.” It was always with a wink and a smile.
We pressed on with the sessions. I felt a slight sense of panic before I walked into the recording booth to do the lead vocal for the song “Open Our Eyes.” The song was played heavily in Chicago by the legendary DJ Herb “The Kool Gent” Kent, who would play it at the end of his shift on the Chess-owned radio station WVON (Voice of the Negro). Written by Leon Lumpkins and made popular by Jessy Dixon and the Gospel Clefs, it’s a beautiful song written like a prayer, a plea. Philip sang the lead first, but Stepney and I thought his falsetto sound wasn’t right for the song.
I had tried for more than three years to avoid being the lead vocalist for EW&F, though I had ended up as such by default. Since the time I created the band, however, I had limited myself to up-tempo songs. I didn’t trust myself with the vocal isolation of a ballad, especially a gospel ballad. For us black folks our music conservatory is the black church. Singers that come from the church are some of the best in the world. On this night, I had to become a singer.
I stepped outside the studio to ask God to lead me through the song. My face was hit by the cold Rocky Mountain night wind. I was startled by its briskness. All of sudden, out of nowhere, I was consumed with thoughts of Mama. Pictures of her flashed across my mind. I was back in Memphis. I saw her in the sparse living room in the Lemoyne Gardens projects, rocking back and forth, humming with Mahalia Jackson on the Sunday-night gospel radio shows. I saw her at Rose Hill Baptist Church sitting in the pews, singing hymns in her alto voice while cooling herself with a paper fan advertising a funeral home. Call it the Holy Ghost, because right then my Christian roots fell upon me. Mama’s spirit walked with me in the vocal booth. I closed my eyes and locked on to the melody.
Father, open our eyes, that we may see
To follow Thee, oh Lord
Grant us Thy lovin’ peace, oh yeah,
And let all dissension cease.
Let our faith each day increase, oh yeah,
And master—Lord, please—
Open our eyes, open our eyes
—“Open Our Eyes,” Open Our Eyes, 1974
I felt like my performance that night was my homage to Mama and the God of her understanding—the Christian faith that gave her strength to endure. “Open Our Eyes” represented a turning point. It showed me that I had come a long way from the Christian roots of my childhood. However, I did not disrespect my mother’s religion. I honored her convictions. Her faith was a blessed gift to me.
In the months following our recording in Colorado, I found myself at a spiritual crossroads. Between my studies of God, astrology, and numerology, I had hit a wall. I was spiritually re
stless. I felt alone. My anxiety was not about belief or non-belief. I still believed in a “Christ consciousness,” which I define as a blending of divine mind with my own. I did not believe in Christianity as defined by the dominant American culture. I was just unsure of where to place myself in the world of religion. Was there a space between the gods of cultures—American, Asian, Indian, and Israeli—that I could call home? I had long ago determined that I would never be involved in spiritual thought that relied on fear or had a God-is-out-to-get-you mentality. I was not interested in hellfire and brimstone or a hanging judge. God is not to be feared, in my book. God is to be respected.
I didn’t see astrology or numerology as religion, but as divine sciences. I didn’t see Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Judaism, Islam, Native spirituality, Taoism, or anything else as having the exclusive rights on God. If God is a loving, celestial being—bigger, brighter, and more magnificent than I could ever imagine, bigger than culture—there had to be more to my spiritual path than the randomness of where I was born or how I was raised. I had a burning desire to once and for all get past the cultural specifics of God and simply get to God. I felt this was my destiny.
As much as I was seeking the Creator’s guidance, I now realize that the Creator was also seeking me. I am not special. As in the biblical parable of the lost sheep, I believe he seeks out each and every one of us through a host of different paths, not necessarily religious. It could be just healthy psychological and emotional functioning. I like this acronym for God—Good Orderly Direction. I’ve always been mystified by the disunity of faiths. I was passionate about spiritual harmony. A special enlightenment for me was found in The Sufi Message by Hazrat Inayat Khan. In fourteen volumes, Inayat Khan lays out the principles of Sufism. Volume 9, The Unity of Religious Ideals, turned me out. He made plain the unity of all faiths.
Moving through 1974, I started to connect with Eastern/New Age philosophies. I don’t like the term New Age because so many of the great truths are actually ancient, but of course we should interpret spiritual literature to fit our present-day situation. Reading and studying books on Eastern philosophy, I became captivated by the premise of Metaphysics 101: Change your thinking, change your life. I started to realize that most of us, including myself, are bred into our beliefs, behaviors, and desires. I wanted to be truly free of the limitations handed down to me by the dominant culture. I wanted to be free in my mind and spirit. I wanted to embrace the mystery of God—a God who can never be fully known but only experienced—and to this end I started to see God in terms of energy. I learned about the chakras, the seven centers of spiritual power in the body that energy flows through. People’s vibrations, thoughts, and energies were real. More than ever, I resisted people and situations I deemed to be negative.
Part III
To Sing Our Message Loud and Clear
11
True Pride
Just be proud of the land
Where your blood comes from
No one can take away what you have done
Hold your head up high, cultures stand eye to eye
One people living under one sun
—“Heritage,” Heritage, 1990
In 1974 African Americans were moving on up. We were getting jobs in corporate America. We were integrating neighborhoods. We had a greater presence on television, where seeing us became less of an event. Still, I was feeling that a lot of black folks were unhappy and depressed. Civil rights advancement is one thing, but healing is another. I was determined that EW&F’s musical pulpit would provide some healing. Between “This World Is a Masquerade,” “Keep Your Head to the Sky,” and “Evil,” the groundwork had been set.
I was also convinced that racism’s legacy in America had left many black folks confused. Our history had been stolen and hijacked. Consequently, we were drawing our cultural self-respect from fraudulent sources. Our rich culture didn’t start on slave ships or in cotton fields, and it sure didn’t start in the Cabrini-Green projects of Chicago. It started in Egypt. Knowing where you came from gives you confidence and pride that can’t be easily taken away. Egypt gave the planet mathematics, astronomy, science, medicine, the written word, religion, symbolism, and spirituality. Despite what centuries of distortion have told us, the civilized world did not start in Europe: it started in Egypt. This is the core reason I turned to Egyptology: it encourages self-respect.
Many of the EW&F fans were attracted to our music simply because it made them feel good. I hope that my work has been a small part of the process of uplifting my own people, while ultimately touching the world at large in a positive and meaningful way.
I wanted EW&F to use the symbols of Egypt in our presentation, to remind black folks of our rich and glorious heritage. And not just African Americans: today we have scientific proof that all of mankind has African origins. We are all brothers. Everybody is connected. On some basic, primal level we all are a reflection of the universe, and in that reflection we are connected to one divine source, God.
On February 1, 1974, “Mighty Mighty” was released as the first single from our new album, Open Our Eyes. The song professed that people could overcome seemingly impossible obstacles with determination and self-belief. It encouraged listeners to ignore negativity. Our message of empowerment urged our audience to seek education and embrace solid values. The message was for everyone, especially African Americans, since some people feel that white folks’ ice is colder than ours. I couldn’t ignore racism. It was everywhere, from street corners to boardrooms. But I didn’t believe that anybody should permit color to stand in the way of achieving goals. There may be a tiny bit of denial in that statement, but sometimes denial is the little extra edge that makes the difference between greatness and mediocrity. The principles of “Mighty Mighty” would be one of EW&F’s recurring themes.
I was pleased when “Mighty Mighty” became our first breakout record. Bob Cavallo believed the song could have been bigger if some hadn’t perceived it as a black power message—or, as he used to joke, “Mighty Mighty—kill the whitey.”
Open Our Eyes, the full album, was released twenty-one days later. By then the band was already back on the road, continuing to build our base. As “Mighty Mighty” started to gain radio traction, we never wavered from our plan: to expand our audience across cultural lines. Our college tours now went to 60 percent black colleges and 40 percent white ones. College kids were open. They weren’t hung up on the race of the band. This was in direct opposition to the promoters of the day, who thought in segregated terms. I spent hours talking with Bob Cavallo about ensuring that Earth, Wind & Fire would not be regulated along color lines.
First, I knew that a diverse fan base would give us a far better chance to keep the businesspeople out of the studio and out of the creative process. I saw what interference from the suits at Chess Records did. I had heard the legendary stories about creative interference at Motown: This is the song you are going to record. Period. Shut up and get in the vocal booth. I didn’t want any part of that—no way, nohow. I refused to stuff the band’s musicality into a box. If we were successful, Columbia would not have the balls to demand that we mimic the musical flavor of the moment.
Second, in 1974 Columbia Records was just getting its feet wet when it came to what it considered black music. Clive Davis, who had signed us, came across to me as a “free music thinker,” but he had been fired. I had to reignite my advocates at Columbia. This would be my first one-on-one exchange with the charismatic, irrepressible Walter Yetnikoff. Standing in Walter’s large corner office, overlooking Manhattan, I gave him my long-winded one-sentence pitch, with artist references I thought he could appreciate.
“Walter, I want the world music vibe of Santana, along with the psychedelic/soul of Sly and the risk-taking jazz of Miles Davis, coupled with a firm commitment to higher thought in our lyrics.”
“That’s great, Maurice,” he said, “as long as you have a hit.”
His short, direct response sums up the
way of the world according to record companies. Columbia didn’t care about my vision for EW&F, with all its diverse music and spiritual aspirations. Yetnikoff’s knee-jerk reaction was another reminder that even with the power of Columbia Records behind me, when it came to my comprehensive philosophy of the band, I was still on my own. I was fortunate, however, that Sly and the Family Stone and Santana were on the label. At least a divergent music group wasn’t completely foreign to Yetnikoff and his minions.
I began to accept that if I was going to pull off my dreams for the band, there would be no miracle moment—no one performance, no one song, no one album. It would happen in stages, in small and large deliberate steps in every area of our expression—recording, performance, and visuals.
In time it became clear that those deliberate steps would require bringing in outside musicians or more businesspeople. Sometimes it was tough on the band. Sometimes it was tough on my business associates. But it wasn’t personal. One of our first challenges was with the drum chair. EW&F is a band of drummers. I played the drums, and so did Ralph, Philip, Al, and Fred. In the studio I commanded the drum chair. Ralph played on some songs in the studio, but not many, to save having to explain how I wanted things played. Ralph was the drummer onstage, and a good one—he’s always had strong skills. But by this time, my baby brother Fred had started to gradually but persistently put the bug in my ear. “Hey, man, you’re gonna need a strong drummer with a big bass-drum foot for this gig,” he would say. “You need to let me do this one show.” He didn’t say he wanted to join the band, just, let me do this particular gig. Those gigs would always be the ones in the bigger markets, like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Page 15