Still, I was cautious about commercialization. I didn’t want Earth, Wind & Fire to stand too close to any brand. Some call that sentiment “the Woodstock mentality,” in that you lose some of your authenticity as an artist when you become a pitch man for, let’s say, Wonder Bread. But Panasonic wasn’t Wonder Bread; it was an electronics giant. We would be associating ourselves with its new line of boombox cassette music players. To me, Panasonic felt like a part of the music business.
I knew we had a great album in Faces. It was global in its musical approach. The two-record set had something for everyone. The tour support from Panasonic inspired my confidence. To add to my wide-eyed expectations for the album, ABC-TV approached me about producing a feature on the band for its newsmagazine program 20/20. I agreed. Thomas Hoving was the correspondent. He and a film crew came to my place in Carmel and spent some time in the studio with us. I quickly became skeptical; Hoving’s questions made me suspect that they were going to portray me as weird.
“You guys sleep in pyramids, don’t you?”
“No,” I responded flatly.
“Don’t you guys use psychics to help you write your songs?”
“Man, that’s a weird question, but no.”
No need to worry, though—the oddball questions were left on the editing-room floor, and the segment turned out fine. But even with the 20/20 piece, the Panasonic promotional tie-in, and the requisite radio promotion, the first single from Faces, a world-music-flavored song called “Let Me Talk,” bombed. I was shell-shocked. Stunned. This was my first taste of the 1980s music-business reality: if your first single doesn’t do well, it’s difficult to trumpet the same promotional enthusiasm for the second single. The album went gold, selling half a million copies, but at this point, a gold album for EW&F was a huge commercial disappointment, and a shock that was hard on everybody. We had some great songs. “Turn It into Something Good,” “And Love Goes On,” “Share Your Love,” and “You Went Away” are some of the finest songs in the EW&F songbook. Radio just did not embrace Faces. It was a huge letdown that our audience didn’t respond to it.
I loved “Let Me Talk.” It probably sits next to “Serpentine Fire” as our most ambitious first single release. I always felt that EW&F should lead in some kind of creative way. “Let Me Talk” is like an EW&F–meets–Peter Gabriel record, in the sense that its percussive dominance put it so close to world music. Still, it’s jazzy and soulful. These world musical elements may have been too much for radio to hold on to, since records in 1980 were getting simpler and simpler. Drums, claps, vocals, bass, a dominant synthesizer part, and very little else became the radio formula.
Earth, Wind & Fire would not be the only big act caught in the crosshairs of trying to top a successful previous album in an environment of label decline and changing musical taste. Fleetwood Mac had a smash with Rumors in 1977, and then in ’79 released a double album called Tusk. Stevie Wonder put out the classic Songs in the Key of Life in ’76 and three years later, in ’79, did the personal Secret Life of Plants. Both Tusk and Secret Life of Plants were seen as commercial disappointments. Stevie was blamed for being too esoteric, whereas Lindsey Buckingham and I were blamed for being too ambitious in our production style—too polyrhythmic, too big of a sound palette. In my eyes, that just meant we were too damn good. It was the first time in years that Earth, Wind & Fire didn’t have a big new hit on the radio.
Right before Ronald Reagan refused to speak at the NAACP convention, we got an offer to go to South America to perform. I accepted. On October 9, roughly a month before Reagan was elected president, we played our first show in São Paulo, Brazil. I was glad to be out of the USA.
This was a special time for the band. We were always popular in South America, but for some reason or another we’d never gone beyond Mexico City. The people of Brazil loved us, and we loved them. I believe they embraced Earth, Wind & Fire on some primal musical level, because there’s so much of a Latin feel in all of our music. I would also be remiss in not mentioning that Brazilian women are some of the most beautiful in the world. The food, the women, and the music . . . my, oh my. I saw some of the guys in the band walking around the hotel with women, and they just had their mouths wide open, as if to say, I can’t believe how stunning she is. Even some of the business staff and crew disappeared on our days off. We all enjoyed ourselves immensely.
Coming back from South America through Mexico, we encountered a problem. We were working with a promoter who was not experienced. He had done more Broadway theatrical-type shows in Mexico than rock concerts. This was the time when, if you went into Mexico, you got a little white ticket, and you needed that ticket to get back out. Upon our arrival the promoter collected the tickets from everybody, or at least he thought he did: Art Macnow and Al McKay wisely kept theirs. After the gig was over and it came time to leave, we couldn’t find the promoter. He had disappeared, and they wouldn’t let us out of the country. Macnow and McKay left; the hope was that Art could do something to get us home once he got back to LA.
We got stuck in Guadalajara, Mexico—or, as we called it, Guadalahorror. After two or three days of squabbling, Steve Fargnoli, one of our managers, found an official who was willing to take a $5,000 cash bribe to get us passes out of the country. The official lowered his head, looked at Leonard and me, and sternly said, “You guys have to leave . . . NOW.” We hurried everybody—about sixty of us band and crew—together. We landed in Texas, chartered two small jets there, and flew everybody back to LA. The whole experience—the waiting, the rushing, the bribery, and the clandestine way we left—left everybody crazy and out of sorts.
A few weeks later, we had to go back to South America for one more gig. The band took a jet down. Al McKay, Art Macnow, and Leonard Smith were to catch a commercial flight the next day.
When Art and Leonard arrived, I knew immediately that something was wrong. They looked worn out and shell-shocked. They pulled me aside and told me that they had waited and waited for McKay, right up until the very last second before they had to board the plane and leave him behind. I was quiet—but boy, was I incredibly pissed off. I told the guys the show must go on, and we went out and did the gig. With me being pissed, and that attitude rubbing off on the band, coupled with missing McKay’s pulsing guitar, it was not the best show for us.
Now, I knew Al wasn’t happy. After our clashes during the recording of Faces, I thought he may have wanted out. I knew through the tiny whispers of other members that for years he had been threatening to leave. I think all the years of touring had gotten to all of us. I knew years earlier that my position as a leader was always going to be challenged. But by now Al was pissed off with me, and I wasn’t backing down. He was my contemporary in age, and since I was the leader, I think from the very beginning there was always a natural built-in tension between us.
As I was rushing to leave the Complex on a very hot summer day, Marlo Henderson, a great guitar player who had done a ton of work for me at ARC, followed me outside. “Man, let me play on some EW&F stuff,” he said. I laughed, and said, “Are you going to help me fight Al?” That kind of summed up the vibe between Al and me in late 1979 and early 1980.
When I returned to Los Angeles after the South American fiasco, I had calmed down considerably. A week later I met with Bob Cavallo. He simply said, “Maurice, you’ve got to let McKay go.”
I knew he was right, but it was still a tough decision. McKay was an integral member of Earth, Wind & Fire. We had good writing chemistry that had resulted in some big hits. McKay’s distinctive rhythm guitar style was one of the glues in our rhythm section, and something that we had come to rely on. Al was emotional yet strong, funny as hell yet serious. This wasn’t the cold side of business, where decisions are made devoid of feeling. No matter what bad vibes existed between Al and me, there was still that brotherhood of “the boys in the band.”
“Let me reconstruct his contract,” I said. “He may feel better then.”
“Maurice, if you
let him come back, it would set a very bad precedent.”
“I don’t think it will.”
“Trust me, if you do this, everyone will pull this shit.”
I was silent, knowing Bob was right. I had no choice. With all the people and money involved, I couldn’t take that risk. The studio is one thing, but missing gigs is an entirely different matter. It put in jeopardy the entire financial machine of the band. I sent Al McKay a letter of termination.
No matter what anyone says, Al’s not showing up for the gig was the straw that broke the camel’s back. However, in retrospect I think he probably wanted to leave anyway. Years later I found he had a lot going on besides his dissatisfaction in being in EW&F. He was hypoglycemic and really wanted to spend time with his son. His leaving should not have been the biggest surprise to the guys. Roland Bautista, who had been in the band ten years earlier, replaced Al McKay on guitar in Earth, Wind & Fire. Roland was good, but he wasn’t Al. Al’s departure from the band was a big loss, and the end of an era.
26
The Groove
Can somebody tell me why it takes so long to see
Does anyone know the why of life and its decree
Will somebody tell me why life goes the way it goes
Somebody may tell, but I don’t think nobody knows
—“In Time,” Faces, 1980
There was a blessing in disguise in Al McKay’s departure from Earth, Wind & Fire. His style of rhythm guitar playing had been a staple of R&B ever since James Brown came on the scene. But by the early ’80s, those types of guitar parts were being replaced in pop and R&B by synthesizers. Music was becoming simpler. There was much less sonic room for McKay’s style of rhythm guitar.
As a result of the musical times, our next album, Raise!, was stripped way down compared to All ’N All, I Am, and Faces. EW&F had a big sound palette. Stripped down, for us, meant less percussion, less rhythm guitar, louder hand claps and drums, and more dominant keyboards and synthesizers. The musical elements that remained consistent were the vocal sound, Verdine’s bass style, and of course the horn arrangements.
I kicked off the process of producing the Raise! album by having a conversation with Beloyd Taylor in early February of 1981 at the Complex.
“Beloyd, your song ‘Getaway’ in 1976 ushered in a fiery new era for our sound.”
“Yeah, man, I loved what y’all did with it.”
“I need you to do it again.”
“What, another ‘Getaway’-type song?”
“Oh, no, something futuristic—still Earth, Wind & Fire, but a new, simpler sound.”
Beloyd knew Earth, Wind & Fire’s sound, but his interpretation of that sound brought in a different energy. He was a good singer and guitarist, and ideas just poured out of him. The songs he submitted to me were forward thinking and had a distinctive vibe. I loved Beloyd. I had every intention of doing a solo album with him, but I just didn’t have the time. For the next three years, however, Beloyd would be involved in many projects that came ARC’s way.
Beloyd was part of the Complex family at 2323 Corinth Street in West Los Angeles. He hung out with all the guys and became good friends with Larry Dunn and Roland Bautista. All the guys had nice clean cars, and Beloyd had a blue Moped. They would tease him: “Here comes Beloyd on his Moped.” He was hungry for success, to the point that he would sometimes sleep on the studio couch. Since he hung around the Complex so much, Beloyd was my main go-to guy in those early ’80s years. Beyond his writing skills, he sounded a lot like me vocally, which made it really productive to have him around to do background vocals for EW&F and other projects. I took him under my wing.
As a result, Beloyd got somewhat caught in the crosshairs of the band’s frustrations. He told me late one night that some were calling him “Maurice’s boy,” which he hated—absolutely detested. I told him not to worry about it—it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with a band that had been together awhile. Song selection for albums was my job, but there was always unspoken competition within the band. Some guys constantly submitted songs, while others became discouraged and stopped. What added to the mix was that I was perpetually looking for songs outside of the band as well. Around this time, it was inevitable that anyone getting creatively close to me would catch some grief. It was like a little passive-aggressive attack on me. The band saw Beloyd as someone who was going to get more songs on the album, and in this case they were right. But I always moved into the creative direction that I felt was best for the group.
Beloyd came through, giving me exactly what I had asked for. He self-composed three songs for the Raise! album: “Lady Sun,” “The Changing Times,” and “You Are a Winner.” His songs set a tone for the album. Everyone assumed that “You Are a Winner,” with its aggressive contemporary bass line and forceful background vocals, was going to be the first single. Everyone who heard it loved it.
Still, I was open to new writers, musicians, and arrangers. Even if I often went with the tried and true, it always seemed that right around the corner there was some new cat ready to lay it on me.
Wayne Vaughn did just that. Wayne entered my life via my play baby sister, Wanda Hutchinson of the Emotions, whom he had married a few years earlier. Wayne had an over-the-top personality and was down-home too. I felt an instant kinship to him. Our friendship was like a return to a much younger, more innocent time in my life—before success, before money, before leadership and its responsibilities. Wayne felt like Memphis.
Wayne kept a studio in the back of his parents’ house in the heart of the hood, South Central Los Angeles. When I first started to go over there, I was always surprised that my Porsche was still there when it came time to leave! Wayne’s parents were the warmest people. They reminded me of Arkansas and Tennessee, down-home good people. His mom could cook so good, her food made you want to take off your shoes and rub your feet together!
Creatively, Wayne and I were in sync. In the early spring of 1981 I asked him to put some ideas together for the band. In about a week he gave me four tracks. Three of them I would record on Raise!: “My Love,” “Wanna Be with You,” and the little idea that would ultimately become “Let’s Groove.”
The minute I heard the demo of “Let’s Groove,” I knew it had massive potential. It was just a track, but the bass line and chords were so locked together that it just, well, grooved. I immediately heard various hooks. The “You can boogie down—down” talk box/vocoder overdub is one hook. The falsetto “Let this groove get you to move” is another hook. And the low-voiced “Let’s groove tonight” is still another. The multiple hooks over that one great groove gave the song an exciting yet simple approach. The horns are held back until the bridge, which added a 1940s big-band swing sound. Bill Meyers’s horn arrangement turned up the joyous vibe, which is why I think the song feels so good. “Let’s Groove” was the last song to be recorded for the album Raise!
When I finished most EW&F albums, I would always try to be objective, putting away all previous thoughts about what was going to be the single. But there was no pondering or objectivity here. “You Are a Winner” was out, and “Let’s Groove” was in.
I was surprised when Cavallo told me that pop radio had immediately jumped on “Let’s Groove.” The jump was so quick and unexpected that Columbia had to redo its whole marketing plan.
“Let’s Groove” became a huge multiformat worldwide smash, peaking at No. 3 pop and at No. 1 R&B for so many weeks that it became the longest-running No. 1 R&B record to that point in history. Later, we would have other songs do OK for us, but nothing like “Let’s Groove.” It has only grown in popularity as the years have gone by. “Let’s Groove” gave EW&F the wheels to cross yet another bridge. “Shining Star” was the bridge into one world; “After the Love Is Gone” was a bridge into another. Of course there were many hits in between, but to a generation of younger people born in the mid-1970s, “Let’s Groove” would be our signature song. In addition, the second single from Raise!, “Wa
nna Be with You,” won a Grammy for Best R&B Vocal Performance by a Duo or Group that year.
I felt vindicated. Our previous album, Faces, had probably been our best work and yet was viewed as a commercial disappointment, but this new win said to the suits that EW&F could still come up with a big-ass hit.
“Let’s Groove” put wind in our sails, and we hit the road. The Raise! tour was our most expensive stage production yet, costing about $700,000 in preproduction alone. Once it was up and running, it cost $60,000 a night to do the show—and this was in 1981. We had a crew of around sixty people, fourteen tractor-trailers, buses, plane costs, hotel bills, band salaries, and a host of other expenses, but we sold out just about every show in advance. I still came off the road with a loss, but not nearly as large as with previous tours.
In late December we played four sold-out nights at the the Forum in Los Angeles. Two of the Phenix Horns—Louis Satterfield and Don Myrick—cornered me before the show. “If we don’t get more money, we’re not going onstage tonight,” they said. I said nothing in response to this ultimatum, this hostage taking. I knew that saying anything at that point wouldn’t do a damn thing. But I looked at Satt and Don, my old friends, with great exasperation. Then I smiled a little and said OK. But in my slight smile they knew what I knew—that this was the beginning of the end of my association with the Phenix Horns. I had Art Macnow talk to them, and they worked something out. They would play on a few more recording sessions after that, but the business relationship was soon to be over. On the road, I could not allow anyone to hijack me before a show.
Beyond the money issue with the Phenix Horns, I believe that there was a racial component too. Since we were on the road so much, the African American Phenix Horns were part of the band. But in the studio, increasingly they were not being used as much, which I think created a little business insecurity among them. I started to use what the band not so affectionately called “the white mob”—Jerry Hey and Chuck Findley on trumpet and Bill Reichenbach on trombone. As much as I got “Hey, Maurice, why are you using those white boys?,” the Phenix Horns still respected the talent of the white mob—you had to. They could swing and were very accurate on their sixteenth-note riffs—not easy to play, and an important part of the EW&F sound. The Phenix Horns felt as if they were being pushed out—and to be pushed out by white dudes, no less, was an added sting.
My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Page 28