With payola in full bloom, many unethical record labels were not above buying radio station personnel vacations, washing machines, and refrigerators in return for getting their records charted higher on the radio station’s playlist. Perry had a different method. He would book himself into three- or four-star hotels and hold court. Then he’d break out the goodies from his mailbag and create his own swinging hospitality suite. It was his way of leapfrogging the competing R&B labels. Perry would play the music and let the good times roll. He always traveled with a state-of-the-art thirty-five-pound Sony reel-to-reel tape deck with monster speakers so the jocks could convene in his hotel room and enjoy a little taste of music—and other things—and listen to the latest hit songs, including, for example, Van Morrison’s single “Domino,” which Perry helped cross over to some of the larger R&B markets. As an experienced promo guy, Perry knew where to draw the line between getting too wasted on the road and keeping professionally cool.
I had been to the West Coast once before moving to LA. Yet many musicians from the Midwest felt an almost magnetic pull to migrate there. The farthest I had lived from Colorado was Kansas City. I thought I would have been more intimidated, because my mother had instilled so much fear into my sister and me when we were kids. Anytime we left the house, she would warn us, “Now, don’t go here,” or, “Don’t go there. Something bad might happen. Be careful!” But coming to Los Angeles was like going to Disneyland for the very first time. Sitting up in the Hollywood Hills at night, looking down at the spectacular skyline with its twinkling lights, I was starstruck. At first I was afraid to drive on the LA freeways. I didn’t know my way around and I was driving someone else’s car. I remember finally pulling over one day, looking at myself in the mirror, and having a stiff conversation with myself:
Look, either you are going to get over this or you should take the 10 Freeway and get on back to Colorado. You cannot live in fear. Either you’re going to ride the freeway to your destination or return to Denver!
At the time, I wasn’t a record company–savvy person, so I didn’t know what was going on in the record industry. I was too focused on developing my talent. The advantage of being twenty years old and at life’s crossroads is that we don’t know any better, and as we get older and become more aware of the challenges facing us from within and from without, they can paralyze us. Looking back, if I had known how difficult it would be to make it as a professional musician in Southern California, logically I might have never left Denver.
When I rolled into town, Perry hatched a plan to put some money in my pocket. Warner had just signed and recorded a new act, The Stovall Sisters, on Reprise Records. Lillian, Netta, and Joyce Stovall, from Oakland, California, were the background singers on Norman Greenbaum’s immortal hit on Reprise, “Spirit in the Sky,” and on their own sang gospel rock—contemporary Christian music well before its time—with a liturgical message that wasn’t too overt. The label had rented them a house up in the Hollywood Hills that had once been leased to the Jackson family. Back then, record companies would sign budding acts like the Stovalls and give them both artistic and practical support, like leasing a house, paying the bills, and lending them cars. All of a sudden their lifestyle spiraled up from the Oakland flatlands to the luxury of the Hollywood Hills. How well they had been treated showed me exactly how record companies operated during that time. As a hired gun, I saw how the benefits were being dispensed, and it looked like a pretty sweet deal to me.
Though Perry was constantly on the road, he hooked me up with the Stovall Sisters to help them put a band together for an imminent tour. At first the Stovalls were looking for just a percussionist, but Perry figured I could act as musical director, too. I had learned all their songs and sang them while rehearsing the material with the band. My job was to whip the musicians and the singers into shape and get them ready for their first Los Angeles gig at the noted R&B nightclub Maverick’s Flat on South Crenshaw Boulevard. While the famous Sunset Strip music venues like the Whiskey a Go Go and the Troubadour hosted mostly white rock and folk acts, successful black acts like Ike and Tina Turner, the Temptations, the Fifth Dimension, and Marvin Gaye played their gigs over at Maverick’s Flat.
Once I landed the Stovall gig, I phoned Janet with the good news, and we made arrangements for her to join me in a few weeks. The first gig I played in Los Angeles at Maverick’s Flat with The Stovall Sisters was on September 10, 1971, the day our first son, Sir, was born in Denver. The Stovalls realized I could also sing, so they gave me a number to perform before they came out.
In the end The Stovall Sisters act didn’t get off the ground. They released their record with a lot of artistic muscle flexing, but failing to score a hit record put a severe dent in their plans, and the act broke up at the end of 1971. My time spent with The Stovall Sisters wasn’t completely fruitless, though. As luck would have it, checking me out in the audience as both a percussionist and a singer the night my son was born was Verdine White! He would later report back to Reese about seeing this young singer and percussionist whom EWF had played with in Denver the previous June. After that show I went and visited Verdine at the Landmark Hotel. It was the first time we had seen each other since the Denver EWF show, and we got along well.
—
Once The Stovall Sisters gig fizzled, I had a huge decision to make: Was I going to go back to Colorado with my tail between my legs, or would we stick it out in Hollywood? I thought about sending Sir and Janet, who had only recently arrived in LA, back to Denver until I figured out what to do next. Bummer! At the time, we had just moved out of Perry’s place and into another apartment on Gramercy Place. But now I was in a bit of a bind. I had lost my gig, and the rent was due, and I didn’t have it. I figured Janet and I were going to have to move again. Times were tough, and we were already living off McDonald’s and oatmeal. My short-term plan was to share a new place with a friend for a brief time. I got ready to move our stuff, which was only our personal belongings and whatever we were sleeping on.
It’s funny how grace works, because an interesting chain of events would soon occur involving both Maurice and Perry during the holiday break between Christmas and New Year’s.
As 1971 was winding down, Perry was making progress with the new black music division on the Warner lot in Burbank. Maurice had gone into the studio with Earth, Wind & Fire after their summer minitour and emerged with their second album, The Need of Love. Perry was also making headway on the progressive-radio front. A few more underground FM rock programmers had jumped on the Earth, Wind & Fire bandwagon. Two highly influential jocks dug the band—Electric Larry from WBCN in Boston and a legendary free-form-rock programmer named Bill Ashford from KFML in Denver. But not long after I lost my gig with the Stovalls, trouble was brewing on the label’s executive horizon for both Perry and Maurice. Perry got into an intense disagreement with someone in the Warner Brothers sales department over the label’s support of EWF. According to Perry, the disagreement turned into a heated argument that produced some ugly racial insults.
“I don’t like black acts,” the Warner staffer angrily told Perry. “In fact, I don’t like niggers, period.”
Perry was devastated by what he had heard. Like me, he wasn’t accustomed to such heavy racial confrontations. He was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa—hardly an inner-city stronghold! The verbal exchange caused him to break out in tears in his office, and Mo Ostin took him aside and tried to console him. Mo admitted that those kinds of racist incidents were a part of life and that Perry would have to rise above them. But despite having Ostin’s support, Perry could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet.
With the November 1971 release of The Need of Love, it seemed like smooth sailing for EWF. Maurice was pleased with the inroads Perry was making at the label. The new album had attracted a loyal group of stations that were playing the record, and sales were higher than those of the debut album. Then, during the week between Christmas and Ne
w Year’s—a traditional closing-down time for the music business—Perry received a frantic call from Maurice.
“I just had to cut my group loose!” was the story an exasperated Maurice first told Perry. “We’re having major problems. The guys weren’t getting it, anyway. I was hearing something different than they were. Now it looks like it’s just me and Verdine. What can we do?”
Actually, Reese’s group had just walked out on him on the heels of the new record’s release! He had gone as far musically as he could with that lineup. The band members had gotten into an explosive disagreement, the issue being Maurice’s strict control of the group. They ceremoniously exited, leaving the White brothers holding the bag. Perry, realizing that Maurice would have to start from scratch and reconfigure his group, tried to reassure his friend. Maurice had a fresh direction for EWF, but he had the wrong set of musicians to execute that vision. As Perry was urging him to find the right players to help his ideas come to fruition, he flashed on the Denver showcase at which Friends & Love had shared the bill and opened for Earth, Wind & Fire at the Hilton. He then put two and two together, remembering that my gig with the Stovall Sisters had also run its course.
“Maurice, don’t worry,” Perry assured him. “You remember Friends & Love, that little group I had open for us when I steered you guys to Denver?”
“Yeah . . . those young kids,” Maurice replied pensively.
“Man, I’m telling you, the guy you need from that band is Philip Bailey. He’s perfect for you. He can sing falsetto like Eddie Kendricks at Motown. But way past that, he’s also a fantastic percussionist and a great drummer, just like you! And he’s been practicing, and he’s only gotten better since then. Plus I can get that hot organ player from the band, Larry Dunn. He’s young, but he can play his ass off! And speaking of Larry, there’s a whole bandful of talent just sitting there waiting in Denver.”
Maurice paused to consider and then said, “Can you get Philip over here? I like his range.”
“No problem,” Perry said.
10
OPEN VESSELS
I didn’t come to California to become a singer, although I knew I had the gift to both sing and play. I was still studying with a percussionist, because that was my main focus. Besides playing the congas and the drums, my teacher instructed me on marimbas, vibes, xylophone, and tympani. My original goal in coming to Los Angeles had been to become a percussionist and do recording sessions like my drummer hero, Harvey Mason.
Out of the Stovall gig, I auditioned for different people, including Latin percussionist Willie Bobo. I played congas with Willie at a gig in Hollywood at the famous jazz club Shelly’s Manne-Hole, and lasted only one night. I got fired because I didn’t know the fundamentals of Latin-style percussion. (I’d describe myself as more of a ghetto-style conga player.) After I was sacked, I approached Willie humbly and asked, “Is there any way, sir, I could come down and you could point out some tips for me?”
“Son,” Willie replied drily, “this ain’t no school.”
So I called up some guys who actually played Latin percussion and got them to come over and jam with me. There was also a crew of Hispanic percussionists who played in the park, so I took my drums down there in the afternoon and played along. Later, I got the chance to play with drummer Sheila E. and other Latino greats when we toured with Santana, and I picked up some additional Latin nuances. Even then, nothing was conclusive. The Latin musicians would debate among themselves the merits of Afro-Cuban versus Latin rhythms. They would even disagree on which beats the clave belonged.
In January 1972, after I lost my music-director gig, I was living on Gramercy Place. I had sent Janet and Sir back to Denver temporarily and decided to stay on in Los Angeles and see what I could find. Whatever happened would happen; I would cast my fate to the wind.
Then, on a Sunday afternoon—and in dire financial straits—I was getting ready to move in with a friend when Maurice and Verdine dropped by.
Prior to meeting with me, Maurice had asked Verdine whether they should consider hiring me or my former bandmate Carl Carwell from Friends & Love. Having seen me in Denver, Maurice was impressed with my voice and was drawn to my vocal range and my ability to interpret a song. “Definitely Philip,” Verdine replied. “He’s a good guy who I think could handle things for the long haul. He sings, plays congas and a little piano and harmonica.” Verdine preferred to play alongside musicians his own age, whereas with the previous lineup, Maurice was more comfortable working with more experienced players who could jump right in and think on their feet.
Once we all took our seats, Maurice did most of the talking and got straight to the point. “We’re looking to reform our band and we’re wondering if you want to join.”
Maurice and Verdine explained to me that they were restructuring Earth, Wind & Fire. I couldn’t figure out from what they told me whether the other members had left or were kicked out. I heard that the heart of the disagreement was the understanding as to who actually comprised Earth, Wind & Fire, who “owned” it, and who called the musical shots. If EWF was Maurice, the rest of the members no longer wanted to continue building equity in an entity they didn’t have a share of.
The early version of Earth, Wind & Fire hadn’t performed live much for two reasons: First, there weren’t that many places for a progressive black band to play; and second, the band wasn’t attracting a wide range of music fans. They were a bit scary to white people, and young black listeners didn’t especially relate to their music, either. Older black listeners simply weren’t on board. Instead, early EWF appealed to a fringe group of Afrocentric blacks who tended to be more educated, holistically minded, and politically aware.
I thought about Maurice’s offer to join, and although I was excited that something so opportune was coming my way in my time of extreme need, I wasn’t just going to say yes to Maurice and Verdine automatically. I wanted to make sure Earth, Wind & Fire would be the right gig for me. My experience with previous bands, particularly Friends & Love and the Stovalls, gave me pause; I didn’t need to relive the frustrations of dealing with a band that wasn’t one hundred percent serious, or wasn’t performing for the right reasons. That’s what had driven me out of Colorado.
But in the end you feel a calling that is so profound that it doesn’t have to make sense to other people. It’s a calling you can’t resist. That’s what happened with Maurice, Verdine, and me. The more we discussed it, the more it seemed to me, intuitively, that EWF was the real deal. I felt as if I were being guided in this situation. Then my idealism took over. I thought about it and said, “I’ll do it on one condition. . . .”
“What’s that?” they asked.
“I want to be in the best band in the whole world.”
Maurice smiled. “You’re in.” And that was it, right there. Done. I was a little stunned. Although they had checked me out onstage on at least three occasions—at the Denver Holiday Inn, 23rd Street East, and Maverick’s Flat—I didn’t sing a single note or audition on my instruments for Maurice.
—
Once I was officially in, I joined in the audition process to recruit the other members of the band. They listened halfheartedly to a couple of musicians, until I reminded Maurice, “Listen. I’ve got a keyboard player in Denver that you will love.”
“Get him out here,” Maurice responded automatically.
Soon after I had left Denver, when Friends & Love split up, Larry Dunn began playing Hammond B-3 in another bar band. His new group had just opened for War at a gig in Colorado when I reached him. I told him that I had put in the good word for him and that Maurice White had purchased a ticket for him to fly out to LA and meet with him and audition. I said to Larry on the phone, jokingly, “I told Maurice that you could really play and that you were a nice guy, even though you didn’t have a lot of experience.”
“Don’t tell people that!” he snapped back. Larry was only
nineteen when he got his invitation to join EWF. When he arrived in California, Verdine picked up him up at the airport, driving Maurice’s green van. As they turned onto Century Boulevard and headed toward the Hollywood Hills, Verdine began his impression of Mr. Magoo at the wheel. Larry cringed as Verdine jerked the steering wheel and made a quick turn, speeding past the turning lane and careening into oncoming traffic to a chorus of horn-honking drivers forced to swerve around him.
“Perfect,” Larry muttered under his breath as he sank farther down into the passenger seat. “First time in LA, and I get creamed in a car accident.”
Because Larry was being flown out, and the White brothers had already heard him play the organ at 23rd Street East the year before, he felt fairly poised and confident. He had memorized all of the tunes from the first two EWF albums on Warner, and by the time he and Verdine made it up to the Hollywood Hills (in one piece), Maurice had hooked up an electric piano for the audition. Verdine and Larry then played through a couple of tunes from the EWF albums. Afterward Larry segued into a taste of the Herbie Hancock tune “Maiden Voyage.” The tryout was brief, and Larry was hired.
A young drummer from Los Angeles named Ralph Johnson was also auditioned. Although he was a big Beatles fan and listened to The Byrds on the “boss jock” Top 40 stations KHJ and KRLA, Ralph mainly played professionally within LA’s R&B and jazz circles. At the time the EWF guitar chair was held down by Michael Beal, the lone surviving member from the first two Warner albums. Beal and Johnson were friends who had played together in bands at Maverick’s Flat. Johnson got the call about the EWF audition through Beal after having spent ten weeks in Japan playing with an LA band. Although he realized that EWF was bubbling far under the Billboard Hot 100, Ralph had been intrigued by their first two records as well as by the prospect of playing for a band that already had a record deal in place.
Shining Star: Braving the Elements of Earth, Wind & Fire Page 8
