My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire

by Maurice White

  The racial ticket challenges reflected the times. Full integration was just an idea in 1976. Black people could legally live where they wanted, but that didn’t mean they were welcome. In many cases debates about busing and affirmative action kept blacks and whites in neutral corners. In the very public arena of a large music concert, people could not segregate themselves. I know now that with our multiracial audiences, we were living out the great American experiment, a racial experiment where music let us rise above the barriers of suspicion and anger. The music and message of Earth, Wind & Fire, more than any other arena-music act of our time, naturally brought different races of people together, even if it was only for a night.

  18

  The Best of My Love at the Best of Times

  Without a song, each day would be like a century.

  —Mahalia Jackson

  Writing songs is creatively rewarding, but so is recognizing when a great song drops in your lap. Putting the right song with the right artist is always a complex gamble, but it’s a big part of being a record producer. Wanda Hutchinson of the Emotions was hanging at my home away from home, Hollywood Sound, Studio B, one day. I had been trying to piece together more songs for the next Emotions album. I had developed a bad habit of inviting folks—mostly songwriters who wanted me to hear a new song—to the studio for brief meetings. There were many people coming in and out in those days, waiting to see me—cats at the studio passed the time by playing pool as they waited for their session or meeting—and it made me uncharacteristically scattered. I was still biting off more than I could chew. My schedule was getting unmanageable.

  “Go upstairs,” I told Wanda that day. “There’s a guy I want you to meet. He’ll be playing the Wurlitzer.”

  She rushed back downstairs. “Reece, Reece, there’s a short, light-skinned guy up there, but he’s just sobbing and sobbing at the piano.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, baby,” I said. “That’s Skip, and he’s got a smash for you. Let me quickly walk upstairs and give you guys a proper introduction.”

  She followed me upstairs.

  “Hey, Skip,” I said, “this is Wanda Hutchinson of the Emotions.”

  His eyes still red from tears, he said, “How are you doing, young lady?”

  “Skip, tell her about the song.”

  Skip looked down sorrowfully at the piano, touched a few keys, and said, “My wife and I separated.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Wanda said.

  “Her friends fed her stories about me—not one of them true.”

  I patted Skip on the back, as he was clearly depressed. He went on to tell Wanda how his wife didn’t even talk to him. She believed the liars and just started divorce proceedings. He was heartbroken; he couldn’t believe she hadn’t come to him first. He then started playing and singing the song “Don’t Ask My Neighbors.”

  The pain in Skip’s voice was so strong that tears came to my eyes. Skip Scarborough was the most beautiful and sensitive of songwriters. In touch with his emotional side, he could put his most vulnerable feelings in song, and yet he was still an optimist. He was a musical and emotional teacher to me. I’m still trying to absorb his lessons about emotional availability.

  You’re wondering if I care about you

  Is there some cause that I should doubt you

  Oh, I can see, boy, that you don’t know me very well

  You’re so unsure

  And you run here and there to ask my feelings

  Friends only guess, they can’t say really, oh

  Don’t ask my neighbors

  Don’t ask the friends I hang around

  —The Emotions, “Don’t Ask My Neighbors,” Rejoice, 1977

  A few weeks after Skip played “Don’t Ask My Neighbors” for Wanda, Al McKay gave me a cassette of a track he was developing at his home studio. It had a real nice and simple chord progression, but it was slow as molasses. At first I had a melody that sounded like a horn line. I sang it for McKay, and we kind of looked at each other, and neither one of us was enthused. After putting it aside for a few weeks, we revisited it, only this time we sped it up—and bam. After that I was quickly able to finish the melody and lyric to “The Best of My Love.”

  In early January we recorded the track. I knew it felt right. Beyond the punctuated intro to the song, to me the tune has one of the all-time great simple-but-oh-so-good bass lines. This bass groove was Al McKay at his finest. You can never truly tell what is going to be the smash, but when we cut the basic track, it damn sure felt like one. It had that Chicago swing, a plucky rhythm guitar line, an energetic gospel-like melody, and the EW&F horn pocket.

  Clarence McDonald, who coproduced the entire album with me, would lend his piano-playing talent. Clarence and I had a kinship in the department of groove—he was always emphasizing the feel of a track.

  Bringing the girls in to record the vocals was an adventure. I had recorded the demo for “The Best of My Love” an octave down from where I wanted it sung. When Wanda hit the first note of the first take, I quickly stopped the tape. I was like, Whoa—I didn’t even know she could sing down that low and so distinctly.

  “Wanda,” I said, “you’ve got to sing it an octave higher.”

  “Reece, you didn’t tell me that! I’ve learned it in the same register that you had it. You know I usually sing guttural, like Mavis. Maybe Sheila should sing this one, Reece—she’s the high singer.”

  “No, Wanda—you can do this, I promise you. Remember, when you’re doing the ad libs, you’re in that high register anyway.”

  Poor sweet Wanda wasn’t used to starting a song that high and with that level of intensity. She thought she would not have anywhere to go energetically or melodically toward the end of the tune. She was more familiar with doing things like Gladys Knight and Mavis Staples—starting low and building. But I was adamant—the upbeat and positive “The Best of My Love” wasn’t that kind of song.

  A little pissed off, she stood in front of the microphone, hands on her hips, as if to say, I’m going to show you something, Mr. Maurice White. With a look of great annoyance on her face, she belted out that first take with an intense edge. It has all kinds of squalls, peaks, and pops. She showed her authority over her vocal gifts and delivered a hot and joyous vocal track. And, lo and behold, that very first take was the one we ended up using. She was surprised, and I was overjoyed. It was a remarkable performance.

  On May 3, 1977, Columbia released “The Best of My Love,” the first single from the Emotions’ second album, Rejoice. Though its climb up the charts was slow at first, it remains the biggest single that I have been a part of: it went No. 1 pop, No. 1 R&B, and No. 1 disco. According to Billboard magazine, “The Best of My Love” is the fourteenth biggest song of the entire decade of the 1970s. An unconditional smash!

  This made me hot as a firecracker. The invitations to work never stopped coming, and I turned down many opportunities to produce other artists. I was more interested in building up Kalimba Productions, where I had more control and more of the profit share. Still, Mo Austin, president of Warner Bros. Records, contacted me about producing Prince’s debut album for the label.

  The backstory to this is that before Prince signed with Warner’s, he was shopped over at CBS. The company wanted Verdine to produce the record, and of course that wasn’t going to work for Prince. I sincerely wondered if Prince wanted me—or anyone else, for that matter—to produce him. He sent a letter to his then manager, Owen Husney, stating that while he respected my worth, he wanted to pursue his own vision as an artist.

  Years later Prince would tell me he looked at songs like a movie, feeling that visuals could be turned into sound. Prince was truly ahead of his time—a vanguard artist. Initially I thought his first few albums were old hat. But by Controversy, even I got it. He had hit his stride, a solidification of his musical and performance vision. Producers are to this day copying his combination of powerful rhythm guitar and a previously unheard-of creative use of s
ynthesizers and drum machines. He also made inventive use of many different vocal sounds and textures—tenor, falsetto, and even a monotone low voice, in a vocal fusion reminiscent of Sly’s band.

  Prince’s vision also had an open-minded sexuality that made people pay attention. Songs like “Soft and Wet” and “Head” paved the way for “Controversy.” I give him a lot of credit for sticking with his concept. He caught a lot of hell because his persona and sound were so atypical. I remember well that a lot of black folks in and out of the business first looked at Prince with some embarrassment when he was strutting around in stockings and lace. Obviously, sexual stuff in song was never my bag, but I have major respect for anyone with a finely tuned idea who is willing to hold out until the world catches up. My brother Prince was courageous.

  I believed then, as I do now, that you can’t accomplish anything without courage. In my book, courage is a high spiritual quality. It gives you the freedom to let go of others’ expectations of what you should do or who you should be. Prince’s later fight with Warner Bros. over the ownership of his recording masters took fearlessness, and it was a fight worth having. Personally, however, I find his spiritual transformation most noteworthy. Leaving behind his public persona as a sexually free spirit to express his devout belief in a journey of faith took a lot of courage too, and I applaud him for it.

  19

  All ’N All

  Nothing succeeds like success.

  —Alexandre Dumas

  After the Spirit tour and the completion of the Emotions’ second album, Rejoice, and Deniece Williams’s second effort, Song Bird, I had to face the fact that I was worn out. Nineteen seventy-six and early 1977 were draining emotionally, spiritually, and physically. I got a real bad case of hives. My doctor couldn’t really find a direct cause other than stress and exhaustion. He told me to slow down. Fortunately, after a month or two the hives dissipated.

  A year and a half earlier, with the financial fruits of That’s the Way of the World and Gratitude, I bought a twelve-and-a-half-acre mountaintop property overlooking California’s Carmel Valley. It was a great deal, and a truly beautiful and magnificent place. It would later become a family compound, with Verdine, Fred, and I all building homes on the land, but at this time, the homes were under construction.

  I had to get away, and fast. The longer I stayed in LA, the more phone calls I’d receive, meaning more business questions, more responsibilities, more work. I chose to take what was really the first vacation of my life. I took off almost two months, which was a huge deal for me. I traveled all over South America—to Brazil, to Machu Picchu in Peru, to Buenos Aires, and to the breathtaking Iguaçu Falls.

  There’s a sound track to my memories of Brazil; every remembered picture has a melody or groove. I had always loved Latin music, from those days down in Chicago’s Old Town neighborhood, but the deeper rhythms and the Afro-Cuban influence opened me up. This wasn’t Sérgio Mendes and Brasil ’66. This was a tribal, earthy, barefoot-in-the-dirt experience. Brazil’s music contained a heavy emphasis on drumming. I discovered there were these little drum schools all over Brazil. I visited three of them and roamed around those rooms like I was a hall monitor in junior high. The talented young musicians had amazing flavor: I soaked it up. I hadn’t felt that way since I was a kid back in Memphis with Booker T. and Richard Shann, listening to the new jazz records of Monk and Coltrane.

  I met two guys down there who would help me in the next musical voyage of EW&F. The writer/arranger Eumir Deodato embraced me. He and his wife invited me to his home, and we went out to dinner several times. We talked about music and life—which in Brazil, I realized, are one and the same. I also met the one and only Milton Nascimento. Since Milton and I didn’t speak the same language, we would communicate through a funny sign language of sorts. Between those two incredible musicians, the rhythm in the country’s very soil, the food, and the beautiful Brazilian people, I left there floating, fully inspired.

  Brazil saved me. I enjoyed going there more than anything I ever did in my life. I returned to Los Angeles ready to pour that experience into the new record, to bring the sights, sounds, and smells of Brazil to the palette of Earth, Wind & Fire. The music of Brazil, hiring new arrangers, and the production assistance of Verdine and Larry Dunn would soon create the next musical reality for EW&F.

  Even after the breathing spell of Brazil, I still had not learned to take time to get away, not just to my place in Carmel but to another place where perhaps I could have relaxed and rejuvenated myself. My calm and inspiration all revolved around music.

  However, there was a positive change in my routine at this time: I got deeper into tennis. I had started playing a little in 1976. Now I was playing as often as possible. It got into my blood, and quickly became my principal form of exercise. I would take a tennis racket on the road, keep one in my car and one at the office. I had always enjoyed running and yoga to keep my cardiovascular health strong, but tennis was new and exciting to me. Once I had a handle on the fundamentals, another level of performance kicked in. I discovered you had to be relaxed and yet have an intense focus to succeed. It was like yoga in some ways: to become one with your body, you had to remain calm and concentrate. As I grew in this energy, tennis became another form of meditation.

  I was spending a lot of time reading, and I didn’t want for much. Still, music was first, and I was very much at peace with that. My relationship with music was what I trusted. It was my joy and, in turn, my connection with God. Everyone in and around my life knew my priority. I only came up for air when life demanded it. Some of my relationships were fractured because people needed more than I could give. With others, bonds were strengthened as they accepted where I was or where I was not.

  At the time, it felt as if I were driving a very fast car and rushing to cross an unseen finish line, looking to neither side but only straight ahead, accepting what I could not control and controlling what I could. My hand was firmly on the wheel of the Earth, Wind & Fire rocket car. I watched for the signs that would keep me progressing. There was no looking back. Mama’s “Keep moving forward” rang perpetually in my psyche.

  The worldwide success of “The Best of My Love” increased my business opportunities. Bob Cavallo had convinced me earlier in the year to form my own record company through Columbia. This made compelling and practical sense, since Kalimba Productions was already running like a mini record company. What was key for me was that I wanted my own facility to work in. Not only state-of-the-art recording studios but offices with a rehearsal and sound stage. This venture was the result of a relationship that had developed between Walter Yetnikoff, Bruce Lundvall, and my managers Bob Cavallo and Joe Ruffalo. EW&F’s success had created an atmosphere where they had all become buddies.

  Since I was in the middle of putting together our next album, All ’N All, I did not go to New York in the summer of 1977 to start to piece together the deal. Bob, Art Macnow, Joe, Eric Eisner (who would later be president of David Geffen’s label), and Harold Berkowitz flew in to make the transaction. Berkowitz was the toughest, most prominent lawyer in Hollywood at the time. Known for his keen negotiating skills, he had been a heavyweight in Hollywood since the 1950s. One of the great things success brings is the opportunity, if you decide to take it, to deal with businesspeople with gravitas. Berkowitz really helped in that department. My team met with Walter and Bruce and their business affairs people at the Pierre Hotel. We had played the right card at the right time. EW&F by this time had a string of hits, and with the success of Deniece Williams and the Emotions, I was a consistent moneymaker for Columbia.

  It was a huge deal for Columbia Records. They’d never done anything quite like that—buy a studio and all the rest, and give the right to use the name American Recording Company, the original name of Columbia Records and the oldest label in the world. While my team was working out the particulars of the deal, I was feverishly working on All ’N All, which some consider to be our best album. That Brazilian vibe
definitely made it an exciting process, but I know it wasn’t me at the helm. I felt like the Creator was just bringing the perfect musicians into my life at the perfect time.

  A strong example of that timing was when Larry Dunn came by and played a project he’d produced on a jazz fusion band, Caldera, for me. Larry was proud of what he had done, and he should have been—it was stellar progressive work, truly some badass stuff. I told Larry to get Eddie Del Barrio, the cat who wrote that material, to call me. Larry and I had already started writing the Latin-flavored instrumental “Runnin’,” but we didn’t have the bridge section. Eddie waltzed in and in no time flat wrote these beautiful jazzy South American–feeling chord changes. I told him to write it down and come by the studio the next day, and we’d cut the demo.

  The next day Eddie got to the studio early. It was just Eddie, George Massenburg, and myself. I suggested that we try to write another song quickly before the guys arrived. I sat down at the drum set, closed my eyes, and thought about this one beat I’d heard over and over in Brazil. My version of it was slowed down, but the best way I can describe it is a samba-like shuffle on the hi-hat with a straight kick drum. It was almost the beat drummer Jeff Porcaro would years later make a career out of on songs like Toto’s “Africa.” Eddie raised his head, slowly closed his eyes, and began playing a series of chords against my groove. I started singing a melody, and we just flowed along for a good fifteen or twenty minutes. This brainstorm would ultimately become the song “Fantasy.” We wrote the entire track and most of the melody, with the exception of the turnaround, in no time flat. It poured right out of us.