Verdine, Johnny Graham, Philip, and I left NYC and flew to Chicago while the rest of the guys went back to LA. On August 8, 1974, I walked up the steps into Paul Serrano’s brownstone-looking studio. Ramsey greeted me at the door, and I gave him a big hug.
But once we got started, to my disappointment, the track was just not feeling right. I really think I needed Al McKay on this one. I had built up “Hot Dawgit” to Ramsey, and it wasn’t working. We changed the tempo several times, and it finally felt good. Thank God! In the end it took three days to wrap it up. Rams was pleased.
Feeling a sense of accomplishment, I said to Ramsey as the band was packing up, “Brother, I almost forgot, we got this other little song.”
“What kind of vibe?” he replied.
“It’s got an EW&F Latin rhythmic chug, and the melody’s good.”
“Is it as good as ‘Hot Dawgit’?”
“Oh no! It could never be a single. It’s really just a good groove for soloing.”
“Let’s give it a shot.”
I quickly called my old roommate from Crane College, Don Myrick, who was living in Chicago, to come in and play tenor sax. I hadn’t seen Don in a while, and I’d forgotten how much I loved his playing. Don always had touches of John Coltrane in his sound, which was my weak spot.
It took only one day to record what would become “Sun Goddess.” We cut the track, and Don took an incredibly long, hot solo, which we just let ride. This was jazz, after all. Ramsey did a solo, and we forgot about the length of the song. We were feeling it. Philip and I did some percussion overdubs. We went back in the control room and listened to the track. I realized we needed some voices. Philip and I cut some nonsensical phrases—“Way-o, way-e-o”—and we stacked it a few times. Philip and I were in such sync vocally, it was effortless. The title “Sun Goddess” was a last-minute thing. The original idea was a track that I wrote with Jon Lind, a young up-and-coming writer that I signed to a publishing deal.
Columbia released “Hot Dawgit” first. Much to my disappointment, it sank like a stone. A few weeks later, I arrived in Oakland, California, for a show. Bruce Lundvall, head of CBS Records USA, called me at my hotel. He was so excited, I could barely understand his words over the phone.
“We can’t keep it in the stores!” he shouted.
“What—what?” I said.
“Sun frigging Goddess.”
“You’re kidding. Really?”
“All the distributors are saying reorder, reorder, reorder.”
“Sun Goddess” turned out to be one of those complete flukes of success. At first it was not released as a single. After all, it had ended up being eight minutes long! But the Sun Goddess album was selling like hotcakes. People were going into the stores and asking for the album with “Sun Goddess” on it. Black radio in the South had jumped on it first, and all the other major markets quickly followed, playing the song despite its length. Columbia Records wanted me to edit to make it shorter, but I resisted. I believed the album was selling because DJs were playing the full version. Still, against my wishes, they eventually did a 45 rpm edit.
The Sun Goddess album went No. 1 on the Billboard black albums chart, No. 1 on the jazz chart, and No. 12 on the pop chart. It was an unbelievable achievement for a progressive jazz record, Ramsey’s greatest triumph following “The ‘In’ Crowd,” and one of the biggest-selling jazz records of all time at that point. I couldn’t have been more pleased with the success of Sun Goddess. It was like my life had come full circle, completing a cycle of a mentor/mentee relationship. Rams and I would remain close. The “Sun Goddess” win was yet another link in our many-decades-long musical bond.
13
That’s the Way of the World
All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence.
—Martin Luther King Jr., Strength to Love
“You can’t have an R&B album based on a Bible story!” This is what I was told more times than a few when I informed folks that EW&F was going to do a musical suite based on the fascinating biblical story of the Tower of Babel. It was another one of my ideas for EW&F to stay true to its idiosyncratic self. I put it on hold when I got a phone call from Sig Shore.
Sig wanted Earth, Wind & Fire to do the sound track to a movie he was producing and directing, That’s the Way of the World. He had just scored a huge hit as a producer with Super Fly. Even though Super Fly is a classic of the blaxploitation film era, the sound track recorded by my Chicago buddy Curtis Mayfield actually made more money than the film grossed. Curtis did a great job in creating songs about the dark world of pimps and drug dealers with honesty, and yet with a strong moral clarity.
That’s the Way of the World, the film, would be an often-told story of corruption in the record business. They wanted us to act in the film as a group simply called “the Group.” The plot was that the Group would be upset because they were continually pushed to the back burner of the recording schedule. A saccharine, milquetoast group called the Pages was the record label’s darling. Harvey Keitel played the lead, and even Bert “Here She Comes, Miss America” Parks was a member of the Pages.
In pulling together the sound track, my first call was to Charles Stepney, who ended up having several cameos in the film. “Rooney,” he asked, “do you really think you should do this?”
“Well, actually, I’ve already committed to do it.”
“You know, a lot of these things turn out to be nothing, and then you’ve wasted an entire album of hard work.”
“I think it could actually help us.”
“OK, but just remember, as goes the film, so goes your record.”
Stepney could be rough, but I appreciated the way he always told me what he thought. Wise in all things musical, he had high standards and absolutely no patience for treating music like a stepchild.
That’s the Way of the World would not be a sound track in the traditional sense. I made sure that the EW&F concept would be reflected in the score, which meant no departures from our established themes.
Before we started recording the album, Bob Cavallo had been riding me pretty hard. Bob liked to use the word pal when he wanted to persuade.
“This has got to be one, pal,” he said.
“I know, Bob, I know.”
“All that stuff you want to do, pal, with the magic and the sound, ain’t going to happen without having a big one.”
A big one. A breakthrough success. A million seller. Our records were hovering around 600,000 to 700,000 units sold per album, and that was great for any band, especially a black one. However, a million seller could broaden our audience, give us international acclaim, and more money to do the things I wanted to do with the band, especially live shows. I knew where Bob was coming from, and his intentions were noble. The only thing I could do was to try to create an atmosphere that would facilitate our best work.
Charles and I had breakfast in Beverly Hills. His plate was piled high with bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, and pancakes. I had fruit, boiled eggs, and toast.
“Man, you gotta stop eating that shit, Charles.”
“OK, right after I finish,” he joked.
We started talking about the record. Pointing his fork at me, Charles said that if I was going to do a score for a film, it should sound like a score—with a full orchestra on as many songs as possible. It was just a matter of getting a bigger budget from Columbia. This was not a problem after the success of “Sun Goddess.” I could have asked for the moon.
I chose to return to Caribou Ranch in Colorado to record the basic tracks of the sound track album. Charles did not dig Caribou Ranch. He hated the food and it was too quiet and rural for him. So for this trip he had previously recorded the sounds of the Chicago streets on a cassette so he could hear the flavor of the city in his cabin when he slept.
That’s the Way of the World was the beginning of our big horn-section sound. We also began to use a full string section from this album
forward. About four years earlier, when Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On was out, Verdine said, “Man, I hope one day we can cut a record like that.” “We’re not ready yet,” I said. “We ain’t lived enough yet.” But on this return to the pristine Rocky Mountains, we were ready. The band was rock solid.
To complete our unit, I added a new member to the team who represented a big leap forward in terms of sound and technology. Back then George Massenburg was a young, nerdy, pimple-faced kid who was polite and modest. He traveled with us to Caribou, serving as our full-time recording engineer. George would ultimately become integral to the EW&F sound. He had an impressive work ethic, and in every studio we went into, he was always modifying a piece of equipment or tearing it down. He required that things work to his specifications. When I first hired him, George seemed perpetually frustrated and restless. As I got to know him, I realized that this agitation was actually his creativity breaking through. He was raising the standards of recorded music with his innovations.
George was thrown into my world unceremoniously. He endured a lot at the beginning. I remember Charles barking at him, “Shut up, you white motherfucker.” He had recorded one song for us, and we were all in there listening to the playback. One by one, the band left the control room. When I stepped out in the hallway, they cornered me. “Reece, this white boy ain’t happening.”
“Man,” I said, “he’s a cool cat, give him a chance.”
I thought all they needed was the playback turned up louder. George would gradually gain everyone’s trust and respect, even Charles’s, as they came to recognize his competence and creative genius. George may have looked young, but his technical skills made him wise beyond his years.
That’s the Way of the World was a tough record for us to cut. Everybody had to play with more discipline, restraint, and focus. We began a practice that we would continue for the following five albums: recording maybe eight to ten takes per songs, picking the best one later. Charles needed a rock-solid foundation from the rhythm section to complement his expanded orchestrations. At the same time, I didn’t want to lose the band’s vital, primal energy. My conviction only strengthened the cooperation between us. We were all taking good direction from one another. Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey had written one of my all-time favorite EW&F songs, “See the Light,” which starts out in the odd time signature of 7/8. Larry showed Verdine how to approach it on bass. Al McKay was an absolute master at setting tempo, guiding the rhythm section perfectly into the groove, and Charles and I were instructing everybody on everything.
With the addition of George Massenburg, our sound became richer, larger, and full of more depth. Between George’s technical ambitions, Charles’s arranging passion, and my all-around guidance, the band had written most of the songs for That’s the Way of the World in a few weeks. The song “Shining Star” was born out of a hook Larry Dunn was working on. I delivered some vocal rhythms, and Larry put chords under it, working out the harmonic and chordal structure. The title and theme came out of a walk Philip and I had in the Colorado woods late one night. The moon was real bright, to the point where it looked like daytime. We were looking at the stars, and we could see the whole Milky Way. It felt like we were close enough to reach up and grab one. We had a pleasant conversation, talking about women and life. The atmosphere set the tone for a creative spark. The remaining melody and lyrics flew out of us. It was a perfect Earth, Wind & Fire song. My hammering in of the band’s concept was bearing fruit. There’s a kind of creative grace when you understand your creative identity. For Philip, Larry, and me, writing “Shining Star” was easy, because we knew who Earth, Wind & Fire was.
Outsiders saw us as a cohesive unit, always working together. That’s a part of the romantic mythology that often surrounds bands. In real life, though, there were subsets; some members worked better with one another than others. In addition, each individual had his own personal struggles and successes within the structure of a band. And musically, some cats just had it harder than others.
Back in Los Angeles, I know Andrew Woolfolk had it tough when we expanded to our big horn-section sound. Drew was bad. He could play his ass off, and he was explosive onstage. We went into Sunset Sound on a Monday afternoon to do additional recording for That’s the Way of the World. I had hired all these older, weathered studio session guys for the horn overdubs, and I could see that they had a little chip on their shoulders when it came to the young Andrew. Even though he was a member of EW&F, they treated him like the new kid on the block.
Andrew felt like a rookie on a football team, the guy who always catches hell. He sensed that the hired guns thought he didn’t deserve to be there sitting with them. The very look on their faces questioned his playing ability. From the first day of recording the brass section on That’s the Way of the World, Andrew did not get a welcoming vibe. The horn players were as cold as ice to him. It was scary for him at first
On this particular day the studio was chaotic. Several musicians had brought flunkies, hangers-on. After those were kicked out, I got the true vibe of how the players were treating Drew. I didn’t say anything, figuring he could handle it. One of Andrew Woolfolk’s distinguishing traits was that he was highly competitive, almost to a fault. He always wanted to outdo everybody, whether it was basketball, tennis, or chess—everything! Tell him he couldn’t, and he’d show you how wrong you were. Drew didn’t let the old veterans push him around for long, but quickly shut them down with the power of his saxophone. He let the outside musicians know that this was his band.
In that session there was no doubt: Andrew embodied the raw energy that surrounded the band. EW&F often carried its energy from the stage right back into the studio. “Happy Feeling” was composed out of that straight primal jam-band energy. Written by myself, Al, Larry, Philip, and Verdine, the song was an organized jam driven by Verdine’s running bass line, my kalimba, Andrew’s tenor sax octave-jump melody, and the anthemic falsetto background vocals of me and Phil. We recorded the anthem in the studio, but we also recorded a live version with a mobile recording truck at a roller rink in Camden, New Jersey, for a scene in the movie. That version was so hot and joyous, we ended up using it.
During our long hours together, I had meaningful one-on-one conversations with everyone in the band. The more downtime we had, the deeper the conversations became. “Man, this women thing is crazy,” Phil said. “I like it, but I don’t always feel good about it either.” I knew Phil looked up to me, but I didn’t have any real answers. We went back and forth, discussing the abundance of women always around us, desiring to hook up. The song “Reasons” was born out of that conversation.
The lyrics raise a simple question: Can we trust ourselves with our sexual appetites? Are our romantic motivations just a lie we tell ourselves to get off? It was a struggle for all of us to be somewhat decent about our sexual appetites. So-called groupies were very real; they would follow us around for weeks. Some girls were so beautiful that they were damn near irresistible—what I called erection machines. But one thing I can say about my guys: they were all for the most part respectful, especially compared to our contemporaries on the road. This doesn’t mean we sometimes didn’t cater to our horniness. Certain guys carried guilt because of their marriage or relationship status. Still, on the whole, we just didn’t look too bad having sexual dalliances. It was that old showbiz trick of trying to do the wrong thing the right way.
For all our good intentions, “Reasons” was completely misunderstood. People would use the song at weddings as a musical expression of endless, undying love, when in fact it’s a cautionary tune expressing the opposite.
The music we recorded for That’s the Way of the World was beautiful and energetic. The production took longer than most because of the many breaks in the recording schedule for gigging, but our bond with one another continued to grow throughout the process.
Our live show was gradually getting bigger. We were doing a trick with Larry Dunn’s piano. While he played, we wou
ld spin the piano upside down and around and around. We were quickly adding more equipment, lights, and roadies. After a show in Mobile, Alabama, Leonard approached me as I was walking out a backstage door.
“Reece, last night two of the roadies jumped in the car before the band,” he said.
“What is wrong with them?”
“They’re just incompetent idiots.”
Nonprofessionals were becoming a cancer inside our crew. We had roadies who were more interested in the after party and the women than in the incredibly hard work of moving us in and out. Leonard Smith and I found a quick solution. We had three weeks off. In that time, I fired our entire road crew, top to bottom. Then we promoted Frank Scheidbach, who had been already working for us as our full-time production manager. Frank oversaw our entire live operation. A stable, reliable, hardworking professional, he would be the foundation for every great tour we had from that point on.
The first thing Frank did was hire top-drawer professionals who had tons of rock-and-roll experience. In 1975 our new crew was only around twenty-five or thirty guys. Though the new roadies cost a lot more, it was worth it because they were truly pros; they gave us a smoother, more comfortable feeling on the road. Everything we did was more efficient. With that said, even the best rock-and-roll crews of the mid-1970s could be a rowdy bunch.
At that time we were all, band and crew, staying in the same hotel. A typical setup would be the crew on the first and second floor, and the band on the third and fourth.
One morning not long after we hired the new crew, Leonard got a call from a screaming Holiday Inn hotel manager, saying that the roadies had destroyed his building, and he made no distinction between the crew and the band itself. “I’m going to sue you little Earth, Wind & Fire motherfuckers to high heaven!” he shouted.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Leonard calmly responded, trying to defuse the situation. “I’ll pay for any damage to the rooms.”
My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Page 17