My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire

by Maurice White

  As if that reality wasn’t bad enough, putting Earth, Wind & Fire on hiatus set off a chain reaction of broken feelings. By now everything seemed black and white between the band and me—no shades of gray. On one hand, publicly, I would be called a successful, no-nonsense leader, and, on the other hand, an egomaniac. I felt that most of the guys had lost their musical edge. They felt I had lost my mind and gone Hollywood. None of this was true on either side.

  I understand why some in the band felt that way toward me. To them, they couldn’t tell me shit—jack! My truth was that I listened to many things the band and others on my business team said. Some I agreed with; most I didn’t. EW&F should do Johnny Carson. EW&F should not spend money on going to Royce Hall to record strings. EW&F should record this or that song. EW&F should do Soul Train. EW&F should stay longer on tour. Nine African American men with nine strong opinions, not to mention the business faction—there was never a time when there were less than three strong and different opinions about what Earth, Wind & Fire should or shouldn’t do next.

  And of course everyone wanted more money, from the top of the organization to the bottom. I definitely made the biggest piece of the pie; I had some publishing interest in most of the songs that became EW&F hits and I had control over how the artists’ share of points was distributed. But my portion of pie was subdivided many ways. Tours, especially, drained me financially—but tours were what paid the band, crew, and some of the business apparatus.

  It was all coming to an end. The hiatus, breakup, or whatever the band or the press called it was the end of the EW&F glory years. In those glory years, anybody associated with the name Earth, Wind & Fire could have gotten what they wanted from the music business. Prince sought out Cavallo-Ruffalo because he wanted the guys who managed us. David Foster was a part of our studio band for about a year and a half. Right after working with us, he took off like a rocket, possibly becoming the most prolific record producer of his generation. Many unknown songwriters, after coming through the EW&F world, went on to write massive hits for other artists and gain massive money. I used to feel that the band didn’t take the opportunities it could have, especially hustling to get songs placed with other artists. Philip Bailey and I have had brief moments of strain in our relationship. At one time I felt he was a front-runner, supportive when I was winning, quick to disparage when I wasn’t. But one thing I respect Phil for is that whenever there was a break, he was always branching out. It started with his gospel thing, and it just grew from there. For all of Al McKay being pissed with me, he too branched out early. He eventually had an office on Sunset Boulevard, composing and submitting songs to different artists. I didn’t stand in anyone’s way as long as his opportunities didn’t interfere with the band or the band’s brand. I used to judge some of the cats in the group as having what I saw as a lack of initiative. But I see it differently now. They probably didn’t go get those opportunities because they, like me, were on the road so much.

  By 1984 it was very apparent that there were people who had gained more from their association with Earth, Wind & Fire than Earth, Wind & Fire had gained. That stung the band. And as a result, some in the band began, I believe, to resent the very nature of the very tough music business. They also counted me as an enemy because they believed that I was making a lot more money than I really was.

  I didn’t say or do much to defend myself. I knew I had been fair. I honored my contractual agreements with each band member. But my silence was taken as snobbery, especially in the Hollywood music world of hearsay and innuendo. There was an R&B syndicated radio show that referred to the band after we broke up as “Reese’s Pieces.” That was unfair to them, and to me.

  I know some in the band feel they didn’t get the credit they deserved for the very unique and important roles they played in the Earth, Wind & Fire success story. That’s a basic problem in band dynamics. Whether it’s Paul McCartney wanting to put his name in front of John Lennon’s, years after the fact, or the famed battles between the Rolling Stones’ Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, it’s just the way it is in a band. Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour–Roger Waters war is legendary, as is the one between the Beach Boys’ Mike Love and Brian Wilson. People are going to feel underappreciated, the leader is an easy target, and histories get rewritten through each individual’s eyes.

  Still, it is true that the guys didn’t get the credit they deserve, especially Larry, Al, Verdine, and George Massenburg. But Earth, Wind & Fire as a whole didn’t get the credit it deserved. For all our success, we still paid that “black tax.”

  I must add that one of my major failures as a bandleader was that I did not share with the group especially after 1980 my own personal misgivings and doubts—about the music business, and about the shelf life of the band. I always wanted to appear strong, decisive, and in command. Again, that never-let-them-see-you-sweat mentality. My need to keep up appearances made me seem coldhearted and indifferent to the changes some of the cats were going through.

  Even so, I continued to handle my business. But with so many people’s livelihood depending on EW&F, I couldn’t help but feel like a big brother. When the band broke up, I believed everyone would be OK. They all had houses. Johnny Graham had a speedboat and lived around the corner from me. Philip and Andrew lived in the beautiful Cheviot Hills of Los Angeles, and Philip had done his first solo record and was gearing up for another. Larry Dunn lived in a ranch-style house in Brentwood and was doing productions on his own, and Verdine had produced the band Pockets. Also, together, Larry and Verdine teamed up to produce Level 42’s album Standing in the Light. Al McKay worked with Ralph Johnson to produce the Temptations’ album Truly for You. “Treat Her Like a Lady” became the Temptations’ biggest hit since 1975! Why Ralph and Al McKay didn’t continue producing together, I don’t know. Everyone was working.

  Still, with the band’s road money gone, some of the guys were hit hard. A couple had tax trouble. Another was burned financially and emotionally in a divorce. The guys who had written some of the hits made out better as time went on due to royalties—as I like to call it, the gift that keeps on giving.

  29

  On the Solo

  Seeing

  Seeing is believing

  It’s the greatest feeling

  Knowing in your heart

  Just trust yourself

  Look ahead

  Feel the motion growing

  Love is where it’s going

  This is where our real journey starts

  —“Evolution Orange,” Raise!, 1981

  With the band suspended, I felt my psychological temperature slowly falling. The heat that had been building since 1980 started to abate. This cooling felt like a deep-rooted calming of my spirit, a sweeping feeling that put me into a much lighter and freer place. I had never felt this way before. I couldn’t believe that there wasn’t something on my plate to do with the band. I didn’t have to think about the microscopic details of an EW&F album or tour.

  Billy Joel and I had been talking about doing a record together. We thought his Americana thing would be a great match with my Chicago roots thing. We just couldn’t coordinate the time. Regardless, I still had a lot of producer work lined up. But in the summer of 1984, an urgent project came up that took priority: Barbra Streisand. I rarely got those kinds of calls. This Streisand job was a rare exception. I was brought in at the very end of the project. Columbia felt it did not have a strong first single. For a project like this, in many cases, the company will give you the songs it wants you to record. That wasn’t the case this time. I was kind of shocked that they didn’t have it together; this was Barbra’s first studio/pop album since Guilty in 1980. I had to find the songs and get going in a hurry.

  After we put the word out, a lot of songs poured in. I picked four and cowrote another with Martin Page and Brian Fairweather. In the end we recorded five songs. Three were released: “When I Dream,” “Heart Don’t Change My Mind,” and “Time Machine.”

  “Tim
e Machine” had to be sold to Streisand because of the theme. The song title was unusual for her, but not for me. Martin Page and I drove out to Malibu to pitch the concept of the song. I explained that it was a story about having the ability to look back over your life and understand its changes, the theme being that your life makes sense in the end. As much as Martin and I were thinking about her when we wrote the lyric, in the end it could have been about her or myself.

  I remember when my voice was never heard

  Many listened but they never heard the words

  In my mind I can travel back in time

  Relive the memories that kept my faith alive

  —“Time Machine,” from Barbra Streisand, Emotion, 1984

  The recording process went smoothly. Streisand is a perfectionist, and so am I, and I was happy with our work. My happiness was short-lived. I felt we had a couple of singles, and the Columbia people agreed, but Columbia didn’t have the final say; Streisand’s team did. The songs I produced were not released as singles, and that was a disappointment. Streisand doesn’t need any particular producer to do a good record. The bell-like purity of her voice stands alone in pop music. I do feel the songs we recorded were a new direction for her, and had way more feel and emotion than the other material on her album.

  The ultimate disappointment came when I discovered that they had gone in behind my back and changed one of the mixes. Now, I have absolutely no problem with an artist wanting to change a mix, which basically means, Turn this up, and turn this down. No big deal. But to go behind my back was beyond the pale of common courtesy. To this day, I don’t know what that was really about. The album was not considered a major success, even though it quickly sold over a million copies.

  By 1984 I had decided officially to do a solo record. I had been thinking about it even before the band disbanded. I was in good company. A lot of singers—Phil Collins of Genesis, Jeffrey Osborne of LTD, and Don Henley of the Eagles, to name a few—were coming out of bands to do solo albums. Still, everybody thought I was trying to follow in Lionel Richie’s footsteps, since Lionel came out of the Commodores and I came out of EW&F. I admired Lionel’s success, so from a marketing standpoint, that might have been true. In reality, though, Lionel had the personality to be a star, and I was a bandleader, not a star. Moreover, Lionel’s early foray into country music had laid the perfect foundation for his crossover and MTV-driven success.

  There were big changes all around. I decided after much soul-searching to end a long managerial relationship with Bob Cavallo. Prince was Cavallo, Ruffalo, and Fargnoli’s new vehicle, and I was kind of old hat to them. It’s just the nature of the biz. Prince loved EW&F. He had been coming to see the band every time we came to Minneapolis. He got rid of Owen Husney and hired my team to lead him to the promised land in 1979. Prince wanted his own facility like the Complex and more control over his career. By 1982 he’d released his fifth album, 1999, his milestone in terms of musical focus, success, and that inevitable word, “crossover.” Songs like “Little Red Corvette” and “1999” firmly established him as the most important pop artist of the era, even over Michael Jackson. MJ had more fame, but Prince had a far greater musical influence over his time. After 1999 came Purple Rain, and the rest is history. Even after Bob and I parted, we still remained close.

  The process of finding a new manager was bloated. I interviewed over twenty prospects. The top music managers in LA wined and dined me, picking me up in limos, renting out restaurants so that we were alone. They all made grand projections and big promises. Too bad I wasn’t impressed with that nonsense. I got the complete opposite approach from Shep “Supermensch” Gordon. Shep was managing Luther Vandross and Alice Cooper. Unpretentious with a quiet presence, he didn’t make any flashy presentations or promises.

  “Maurice, Earth, Wind & Fire’s music means something of depth,” he said. “It’s more than just another successful rock act.”

  “I appreciate that. But what does that mean in terms of my solo record?”

  “It simply means that we should present you in a classy way.”

  Shep Gordon was straight with me. No high-flying Hollywood bullshit. He concluded by saying, “We may or may not make a lot of bread, but we’re going to have a lot of fun.” I signed a contract with him two weeks later.

  After signing with Shep, I became excited about doing a solo record. I felt no strain or urgency, nothing that would encourage my high-strung nature. I felt free, as if I were at the beginning of a new romance. With Martin Page and Brian Fairweather, I felt I was on to something different energetically and creatively. I knew for sure that I didn’t want to use the Complex to record my solo record. I had to break out of the inertia of the EW&F world. I did a lot of recording at Soundcastle Studios in the Silver Lake area of LA, all the way in the northeast part of town. It was good to be in a funkier neighborhood and have a longer late-night drive home. It was like starting over in a way.

  I was feeling what Martin Page as a creative person was bringing to the table on my solo album. We had worked together on different projects for more than three years. Since I came from an acoustic way of doing things, and he and Brian Fairweather came from this synthesizer-based trip, I wanted to blend the two worlds, the contemporary with the traditional, and experiment along the way. I had to school Martin on balancing the two.

  I recruited some great musicians for the record. When we were recording “Children of Afrika,” I had Vinnie Colaiuta on drums, David Williams on guitar, and Abraham Laboriel on bass. Martin had done the preprogramming, and I was letting him guide the session. Martin heard things more synthesized and he was getting a little perturbed because the musicians were playing things differently than what he programmed. Martin is about six foot two, with a big voice. With his British accent, he could be intimidating. He was making the studio feel tense and tight; it was getting thick as concrete. I pulled him into the hallway, closing the door behind us.

  “Hey, Martin, just let the band feel their way through the song,” I said.

  “My demo is dead on,” he replied defensively.

  “Martin, you are going to have to chill—just lay back, and you may be surprised.”

  Martin hung his shoulders low and just went into the back of the control room and sat down. He was sullen. After about thirty minutes he came out from the corner because a new song was emerging. The groove turned from a techno song to a kind of Talking Heads feel, where Abe’s bass part just opened things up. Even though Martin had to learn about the divine spark of musicians, he was always expressive musically, and that’s what I was looking for. It was always about a band vibe for me—the interaction of the musicians, the collaborations, and the unexpected results.

  “Stand by Me,” a remake of the Ben E. King hit of 1961, was the leadoff single for my debut solo album Maurice White. The single was getting good reception across the board, but I had to do way more publicity than I was used to. By the late 1970s Philip, Verdine, and Larry Dunn had been doing as many interviews as I was on EW&F’s behalf. Therefore I had a somewhat misguided view on how much press one had to do to promote a record in the mid-1980s heyday. In this new solo career, it was a bit of an unnatural place for me to be. One person wanted me to throw a party at my house for about a hundred people for publicity. That was definitely not going to happen.

  I had always emphasized to the band that we had to maintain a mystique about what we were doing. I thought it was the best way for the band to have longevity and not overexpose ourselves. Steely Dan, Rush, and Pink Floyd did it that way too; they were really faceless bands. It’s not that people didn’t know who EW&F were, visually, it’s just that they knew the music more than the personalities.

  In the 1980s some in the band, as well as my business partners, felt that I took the mystique thing too far, cheating EW&F and myself personally out of a more viable place in the music business. My longtime business manager Art Macnow, in particular, always felt that I spent the better part of my career—when I
was the most successful—being the most secretive, elusive, and hidden person in Hollywood. He always was pushing me to be more like my good friend Quincy Jones, who’s everywhere, knows everybody, and goes to many events. But that just wasn’t me.

  Like many people who have been in entertainment a long time, I may have been stubborn. I was completely out of touch with the publicity demands of being a solo artist in 1985, and I did take my usual disposition into my solo record. But I think it’s critical to understand who you are, maximizing the strengths and diminishing the weaknesses. My reclusiveness came naturally to me; I never truly got over my shyness as a child. I was never that half-hug Hollywood type. I didn’t go to parties and palm-press and tell perfect strangers “I love you” after one conversation. I had admired Berry Gordy from afar. Berry too was seldom seen, but when he was, he made it special. When EW&F started to rise, I discovered that I didn’t have to do all that stuff to be successful, and I made that discovery a part of my life, for better or worse. And yes, EW&F probably paid a huge price for that.

  Don’t get me wrong—I loved success, not fame and what it brings. Success gave me resources, freedom, and the chance to meet my heroes. There was no greater honor than for Miles Davis to say many times publicly in his scratchy voice, “Earth, Wind & Fire is by far my favorite group—you can’t miss with those guys.” Since I was a jazz cat at heart, the great ones always motivated me. I wanted a friendship with Miles beyond a professional one, and we crossed paths a hundred times. A few years earlier, I had just gotten home from a tour in Europe where Miles Davis had come to see EW&F several times. The phone rang.