My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire

by Maurice White

  I reached out to my old friends from Chicago, Louis “Lui Lui” Satterfield and Don Myrick. With the addition of Michael Harris, they would become the Phenix Horns. Everybody liked what the horns added to our show, giving our sound more punch and power on the stage. Their integration into the band was an adjustment, however, and for me the adjustment was personal.

  The main challenge was that Satterfield and Don saw me as I was in 1961—a shy kid. Satt was the one who taught me how to stand up for myself, but I had evolved a lot. Once I had looked up to him, but now I was in a position of authority. The Phenix Horns would consistently challenge my leadership. I would always have to gently but firmly let them know that I wasn’t still that kid. I can’t tell you how many times I had to pull them aside and say, Let me talk to you all for a second. There were a lot of mini confrontations. Some were about music, some were about money, but they were always about power. Both guys were born under the astrological sign Aries, and they felt the need to sit at the head of the table.

  When I first left Chicago for LA, I had approached Satt about coming with me. He said he was going to stay in Chicago, since he had a good steady gig at Chess Records. Later, when the Chess Records thing fell apart, he came to LA to join up with me. It was a new chance for steady employment. Satt’s sense of humor and his positivity tempered his Aries side.

  My relationship with Don Myrick was different. Don was my roommate for a brief time when I was at Crane Junior College. When I left for LA, Don was already in the army. He played on “Sun Goddess,” but other than that, we hadn’t spent any time together. My role as bandleader never sat right with Don. I didn’t take it personally; even Satterfield used to say, “Don never really accepted leadership from anybody.”

  In Chicago back in the day, Satt and Don were also part of the Pharaohs, an eccentric jazz and soul group that was kind of a collective of different musicians at different times. Born out of the Afro-Arts Theater in Chicago, they had a very Afrocentric point of view, which was inspiring to me. They had made a couple of albums on their own, but Earth, Wind & Fire was the future for them. Since they knew I wasn’t going to fire them, given our long history, I think they felt they could push it a bit with me, which meant I had to put up with a lot of stuff.

  What I couldn’t deny was that our new horn section was a shot in the arm to the live show. It gave our music more dynamics, more hot and cool moments, more musical drama, and more fire! Music overruled any feelings on their part or mine.

  “Shining Star,” the first single from That’s the Way of the World, was released on January 21, 1975. The response was immediate and overwhelming. Everywhere we went crowds were singing the repeated tag at the end of the song, “Shining star for you to see what your life can truly be.” Two decades later, on the Today show, Bryant Gumbel would credit us with inventing crossover. It all started with “Shining Star.”

  Crossover to the rock and pop and soul worlds of the 1970s meant, “Oh, you have a black face but you sell as many records and tickets as white acts and you have black and white fans.” To be sure, if white audiences were digging us, it was because of the music and our performances. To me, it meant that we transcended boundaries. Still, we endured the same segregation as any other black artists: we had to get to the top of the black charts before we were worthy enough to be promoted on pop or “white” radio.

  I would fight that reality my entire career.

  We were the first black act to top the Billboard pop single and album charts simultaneously, on May 24, 1975. That’s the Way of the World would quickly sell almost two million copies. The success gave the band a new start. Long gone was the very personal sting of the first group leaving; long gone was the revolving door of getting the new and right guys. Hertz station wagons had become limos and custom buses. Holiday Inns had given way to four-star hotels.

  Everybody who rides down this music business road is searching for that elusive thing called a hit record. It’s what we all seek. The ego boost of it is like a drug. As a bandleader I can attest to the fact that there is nothing so good for the morale of a band as a hit—the audience response, the paycheck, and, in our case, feeling more and more like we were innovators. That moved us to the next level.

  With greater stardom came more press, and along with that came misquotes. A British music magazine article quoted me as saying that I’d played with John Coltrane. I never played with Coltrane. I saw him many times, but never played with him. That rumor has gone on forever. Decades later I was sitting, waiting to board a plane, when a gentleman approached me and said, “McCoy Tyner wants to talk to you.” I was ecstatic. McCoy, the legendary pianist, had been an idol of mine forever. I happily walked across the airport concourse, eager to meet him. He was with a couple of people when I approached.

  He glared up at me. “I was with Trane a long time, and I don’t remember you ever playing with him.”

  “I didn’t,” I said.

  “Well, I heard that you said you did.”

  “Well, that’s been a rumor around a long time.” I turned around and walked away, dejected.

  On another occasion, I was at a party. “You know, Maurice White from Earth, Wind & Fire is supposed to come here tonight,” someone standing beside me said.

  “Oh, really?” I responded.

  “Yeah, he’s a friend of a friend of mine. I’ll introduce you if you want!”

  I still laugh about it today.

  Our music had begun to reach beyond the restraints of culture. Still, I wanted to find the right vehicle to break us out globally. Black acts like ours didn’t go to Europe unless it was to back someone up, or with a conglomeration of six or seven acts as some kind of “revue.” We used our relationship with the legendary promoter Bill Graham to help win the foreign market. With Bob’s arm-twisting and Bill Graham’s blessing, we went on tour to Europe with another big Columbia artist, Santana, in September of 1975.

  Thirty shows in twenty-six cities—the experience was overwhelmingly positive. Carlos Santana was musically expansive. He allowed a generous amount of time for solos. The entire band had a dynamic and elastic sound, stretching out in whatever way the spirit took them. Carlos’s mystical and spiritual vibe made us feel right at home. It was a perfect fit for us.

  Although we had risen far beyond being an opening act, since Bill Graham was doing us a favor, and Santana was already wildly popular in Europe, we agreed to go on first. We still took no prisoners during our performances and continued to kill audiences. We had a scorched-earth mentality for our live show. Carlos and the boys, no punks, followed strong with raw musicianship. It was great! It was the first time we had played with guys who matched our energy and musicianship. Even though we did gigs with Weather Report, and they were musicians of the highest order, they couldn’t touch us in our energy, or our performance-art thing.

  Carlos’s cosmic energy resonated through his musicians. There was a mystical quality to their performance. The audiences had a cultlike appreciation. There also wasn’t any of that adolescent rock-and-roll nonsense. The guys weren’t rowdy druggies, as far as I could tell. They didn’t tear up hotels.

  The performance venues were only six- to ten thousand–seaters, which led to a superior musical experience. The intimate environment actually allowed us to hear ourselves better. The sound wasn’t reverberating back from five hundred feet away, so we could really be in tune with the music onstage.

  But we were still the opening act. Mounted like a monument on the side of the oversize black speaker enclosures was a clock—a big clock. It counted the minutes and seconds down like we were on a television game show. A red light at the top of it would light up like police flashers to indicate that our set was running overtime. It was intrusive.

  Bill Graham, the promoter, became a friend to the band. In later years, when we’d work with him at the Cow Palace and Fillmore, he’d invite us over to his place for an after party. He had a beautiful rock-and-roll home, his walls decorated with Andy Warhol an
d music memorabilia. Graham, a Holocaust survivor, told riveting stories about his early life and his life in the music business. He didn’t have wild parties, but relaxed sit-down dinners.

  On the Santana tour, however, Bill had cut corners. As a result, I had to reduce my support staff. Graham was always carrying a clipboard. I would see Frank Scheidbach talking to him, and Bill writing stuff down feverishly. Scheidbach never wanted to bring me problems unless absolutely necessary. He was the most can-do guy in my camp. I saw him in Glasgow, Scotland, standing on a street corner handing out money. What in the world was going on?

  “Frank, what are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m paying thirty pounds a man,” he said. “We just don’t have enough roadies.”

  “Damn,” I replied.

  “Do you believe this venue has no ramps? Really, no ramps—and no forklifts!”

  They had a different way of doing things, the European venues and Graham. Frank didn’t believe in twenty guys lifting a gigantic piece of gear. Rather than back injuries, he believed in forklifts. Even in early 1975 we were still carrying around a lot of gear—including a forklift. We were still hoisting Verdine in the air, somersaulting the grand piano, and rotating the drum riser, which took a lot of energy, equipment, and planning. We needed hands, technicians, and knowledgeable people. The venues were much older and smaller than the ones in the States. We also didn’t have that many days off. The entire time over there, we were constantly rolling. We endured the long hours because of minimal staff.

  Despite the inconveniences, it was still a great tour. Santana would watch us play, and we would watch them. Even the sleep-deprived crew, who usually slept during show time, stayed up to watch the performances. Bill Graham started to increase our time onstage. The tour rolled on.

  In early October I walked out of the bathroom at Pionir Hall in Belgrade. Looking far down the long hall, I could see several of the guys bending over and rolling in loud, raucous laughter. Satterfield was holding court, telling one of his stories. He was strutting around, eyes bulging, describing something obviously very funny. Cats were in tears. This was a sign to me that our new horn section members had fully melded themselves into the band.

  Naturally, I love seeing that. I believe being across the pond, with all the different food backstage and all the restaurants, made it more of an experience of enjoying life, rather than just another tour. All the musicians from both bands were bonding on their various instruments. In the hotel lobby Ralph and Fred were walking toward me, beaming.

  “Man, you guys sure look happy,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “We just got back from the Paiste cymbal factory in Lucerne, Switzerland,” Ralph replied.

  “How did you guys get over there?”

  “Ndugu”—Leon “Ndugu” Chancler, Santana’s drummer—“took us and introduced us to the head guy.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Man, they laid some great stuff on us. Gave us every kind of cymbal you can imagine.”

  Ralph and Fred had their first endorsement deal with Paiste. Soon they scored another endorsement with Tama Drums.

  When I look back on that Santana tour, I think it taught us more about being Earth, Wind & Fire than any other tour. We had opened for everyone—Rod Stewart, Sly, Uriah Heep, and every kind of act imaginable, black or white. But the Santana tour was an education in the veiled power of music. There was the finest musical interplay between our bands. We were enjoying each other’s chops, yet competing. But as the years ahead brought more victories, I started to understand that you really compete with only one person, and that’s yourself.

  15

  Gratitude

  I believe that He belongs not solely to Christianity, but to the entire world, to all races and people—it matters little under what flag, name or doctrine they may work, profess a faith, or worship a God inherited from their ancestors.

  —Mahatma Gandhi

  The members of Earth, Wind & Fire evolved as musicians, songwriters, and entertainers. The guys were roughly ten years my junior by the time they came into the band. While they were still searching, I definitely knew the kind of man I wanted to be spiritually. I believed that my calling and purpose for the band were to shine a light on the beauty of the one God concept, which encompassed embracing the big truths of all the religions. In hopes of the message being further conveyed through our music, I continued to give the band books on diverse viewpoints that I found interesting. Firmly settled in my lifestyle of meditation, yoga, and eating the best things for my body, I avoided preaching my philosophy to the band, but I also wasn’t shy about touting the benefits of calming the mind, positive thinking, understanding personalities, and eating right. Some of them embraced meditation and astrology, and some did not.

  During the Santana tour of 1975, Brother Leon Patillo, the singer with Santana’s band, showed that he was a magnificent Bible teacher. The guys in the band who were raised in Christianity felt a natural kinship with him. On several occasions Leon, who wore a turban, went to the back of the bus with his Bible in tow and sat near Andrew Woolfolk, Philip, Larry, and Ralph. They were gobbling up Leon’s teaching like hungry babies. His reading of the Bible struck a chord with them. Leon was giving them stuff out of the Good Book that they had never experienced before. The way he presented the message made it a living Bible to them.

  Philip Bailey later told me that Leon had been teaching from the book of John the whole time that we were over there. Before he heard Leon’s unique viewpoint, Philip had thought of me as his guru. Philip claimed that the whole band followed me. Though I emphasized things such as better eating habits and having the discipline to resist the temptation of drugs, the whole students-of-life thing could take him only so far. Philip believed that he found his own growth in realizing that I wasn’t a little deity. Through Leon, Philip had found God in Christ Jesus, and I no longer held such a special place in his life.

  I knew the band members looked to me for leadership, and they couldn’t fault the positive lifestyle things I was sharing with them. But as Andrew, Larry, Philip, and Ralph got deeper into their Christian roots and more organized religion, they felt that our religious differences caused a rift in our relationship.

  I didn’t feel that rift. Maybe that was because my philosophy was the public philosophy of the band. Moreover, I never saw the guys who embraced their Christian roots as anything but positive. We may have debated here and there about history and origins, but as Gandhi said, I really believed that Christ belongs to Christians and non-Christians alike. His messages are too vast to be limited to one religion. I think the difference in the universal view of God is that it is open to other diverse viewpoints, so that it’s always evolving, always growing. This is why I am not an organized religion guy. There will continually be a mystery in God, questions no human can answer. But within that mystery, I deeply believe, there is a unity. To believe in this universal path is not to wish to dissuade anyone from his or her personal creed, but to preach the commonality or communion of all spiritual paths. In my humble opinion, mankind went astray when it started fighting over religious differences, rather than sharing our religions’ commonsense values. That was my trip then, and it still is today, my calling to communicate to the world. As I’ve seen all kinds of religious fundamentalism and extremism grow, it’s become evident to me that I’m on the right track.

  Despite our religious differences, the band’s bond was still tight. There was one thing we all agreed on: that music was sacred, to be taken seriously in our thoughts and our effort. After spending almost three hundred days and nights together, in 1975 we were more bonded than ever. Our alliance only grew because the band saw that our uplifting, spiritually minded brand of music was having a positive effect. Everyone in the band could feel that we were touching people’s hearts and minds.

  We returned to America feeling great, on cloud nine. The tour with Santana had been so validating musically that we felt a bit more cosmopolitan, too. But we
soon found out that a part of our audience didn’t give a damn what cosmopolitan status we thought we had acquired. And to crystallize that reality, Philip did something sooooo stupid.

  Soon after returning from Europe, we played at one of our usual haunts, Hampton Coliseum in Hampton, Virginia. Before Philip started singing “Reasons,” he went into this monologue: “We’ve just returned from Europe,” he said, “and we’ve just gotta say that America is the greatest country in the world.” The 50 percent black audience shouted out Boooooooooo, booooooooooo! We had never ever been booed—it was shocking. We were stunned. Philip froze—and forgot the lyrics!

  I knew America was the greatest thing going, but in 1975 black folks didn’t want to hear that stuff. Between the fall of Saigon, ending the war, and all the president’s men starting to go to jail, black folks weren’t identifying with the red, white, and blue. Instead, we were identifying with a black aesthetic. Ali had defeated George Foreman. Hank Aaron had broken Babe Ruth’s record. We felt that we had an authority on what was true in America, that our cultural, historical, and psychological consciousness was spot-on, even if we were the minority in a majority culture of white skin.

  After the enormous success of That’s the Way of the World, Columbia Records wanted another album like yesterday. We had just gotten back from Europe, and we were still in demand performance-wise here in the States. The tour revenue was coming in, and I wasn’t going to turn down anything but my collar when it came to gigs.

  But there was a solution. In getting material together for the movie, we had recorded our shows. Back then, multitrack mobile recording was just coming of age, and I took advantage of it. Multitrack meant that two 24-track machines could now be linked together in a mobile truck. This allowed us to record way more tracks, so in the end we could have a better, more discrete mix. Good ol’ Wally Heider recorded many of our performances. Heider was a wonderful spirit and a recording legend who recorded many of the most important records of the late 1960s and 1970s. He single-handedly created mobile recording as we know it today.