Shining Star: Braving the Elements of Earth, Wind & Fire

by Bailey, Philip

  You never knew who you might run into. Singer-drummer Buddy Miles might be sitting next to you. One night Verdine met Jimi Hendrix, who showed up unexpectedly at a party. Although he was venerated as a rock god, Jimi sat down next to Verdine without any pretension and asked, “Whath’ up, brother?” (Jimi spoke with a lisp.)

  We’d head over to Shelly’s Manne-Hole, the jazz club on North Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood. Verdine told me about the time he went to see Cannonball Adderley all four nights of his gig there! Cannonball had some seasoned New York veterans in his group: Roy McCurdy on drums, Joe Zawinul on piano, and Walter Booker on bass. Verdine, young and wide-eyed, approached Booker and told him that he played in a new group called Earth, Wind & Fire. Booker burst out laughing—he thought it was a big joke.

  By 1972 black exploitation films—called “blaxploitation” movies—were happening big-time on the screen. EWF, by having recorded the soundtrack for Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, helped set the pace in the marketing of a new kind of motion picture to black audiences. With the success of Sweetback, and later Shaft and Superfly, plus dramas like Sounder, Hollywood realized that African Americans were a viable audience willing to support black cinema. Each of those films had a musical connection via hit soundtrack albums: Sweetback to EWF, Shaft to Isaac Hayes, Superfly to Curtis Mayfield, and Sounder to Taj Mahal.

  Black music was not just finding a broader audience, it was expanding its horizons. When Marvin Gaye’s Motown masterpiece, What’s Going On, was released in 1971, Maurice and Verdine were living at the Landmark Motel. Upon first hearing the album, Verdine nudged his brother. “One day, Reese, we’ll be able to cut a record like that . . .”

  Maurice looked over at his brother, shook his head, and answered wearily, “We’re not ready yet. We haven’t lived long enough. Not ready yet.”

  12

  THE IMAGINARY LOCK AND KEY

  When the new youthful lineup of Earth, Wind & Fire arrived on the Warner Brothers film lot in Burbank to continue rehearsals, the band encountered a huge set of teeth sitting there, left over from a Pepsodent toothpaste commercial shoot previously held on the sound stage. Larry Dunn, our resident smart-aleck keyboardist, saw it as an omen for our new musical mission. He climbed up on top of the seven-foot pearly whites and proclaimed, “This band is going to be gigantic.”

  During the 1950s and 1960s, not as many African Americans populated the studio session circuit in Los Angeles as they did at places like Chess Studios in Chicago. Top LA session cats like the Wrecking Crew, who were regularly employed by Phil Spector and other Southern California producers, included pianists Leon Russell, Jack Nitzsche, Don Randi, and Larry Knechtel, bassist Carol Kaye, drummer Hal Blaine, singer Sonny Bono, and saxophonist Steve Douglas. While the Wrecking Crew was primarily white males (the exception being drummer Earl Palmer), change was in the air. In 1972 Berry Gordy moved his Motown Records operations to Los Angeles but briefly maintained its stable of predominately black session musicians, nicknamed the Funk Brothers—a group that included the legendary bassist James Jamerson and pianists Earl Van Dyke and Joe Hunter—in Detroit. Would Maurice be the one to bust open the doors for more African Americans working alongside the top white studio players in Los Angeles?

  The original lineup of EWF had logged studio time with Warner staff producer Joe Wissert. Wissert was a supportive figure for the band, and worked in the studio mostly in a supervisory role, giving Maurice and Verdine plenty of hours and the leeway to hone their skills on both sides of the glass. Joe was more like an executive producer, as it became clear that nobody could produce EWF but Maurice. He knew what he wanted and had the foresight and vision to bring it about. Nobody could tell him otherwise.

  One day Maurice confided to Wissert that he wanted to find a new manager to replace Jim Brown’s BBC organization. Wissert recommended that Maurice speak with an East Coast music industry transplant named Robert Cavallo and his partner, Joe Ruffalo. At the time, Bob Cavallo represented one of Warner’s most progressive, up-and-coming rock bands, Little Feat, originally a four-piece led by Southern California guitarist and singer Lowell George. George and Little Feat were label favorites, and Warner Brothers had high hopes for them.

  Bob Cavallo got his start in the entertainment business in the early 1960s in Washington, DC, running a legendary nightclub in nearby Georgetown called the Cellar Door. At that time he met two talented folkies named John Sebastian and Zal Yanovsky, who were headquartered in New York’s Greenwich Village along with their production partner, Erik Jacobsen. Cavallo became involved with Jacobsen in the creation of a fantastic folk-rock band called The Lovin’ Spoonful. When the band entered the studio in 1965 to record their timeless debut hit, “Do You Believe in Magic”, Cavallo found that he hadn’t the temperament and patience for the studio recording environment. So Bob and Erik made arrangements for Jacobsen to take over the recording and production duties while Cavallo and Erik would comanage the band.

  When it came time to shop the band, nearly every major label slammed the door in The Lovin’ Spoonful’s faces. Cavallo ultimately signed the group with Kama Sutra, a subsidiary label of MGM Records. By 1965 The Lovin’ Spoonful had become a household name and enjoyed a long string of hits. “Do You Believe in Magic” became a monster Top 40 smash, and the band was one of the first American rock bands to balance quality musicianship with expert songwriting skills that would rival the work of Sebastian’s Greenwich Village buddy Bob Dylan. In 1966 the band recorded a masterpiece album entitled Hums of The Lovin’ Spoonful. Counting double-sided Top 40 hits like “Nashville Cats” and “Full Measure,” the Lovin’ Spoonful mined more than a dozen hit songs throughout their short but fruitful career.

  After the Spoonful hit it big, Cavallo relocated from Washington to New York City. When the affable John Sebastian left the Spoonful in 1968, Cavallo took him over as a client and brought him to Warner Brothers as a solo artist. Sebastian’s career flourished after his appearance at Woodstock and in the subsequent acclaimed 1970 documentary on the festival. Later Cavallo relocated to the West Coast and settled in the Los Angeles area of Tarzana in the San Fernando Valley.

  Shortly after Wissert’s conversation with Maurice, Joe met with Cavallo to tell him about EWF’s desire for new management. Wissert made arrangements for Cavallo to see the group perform live, just before the first lineup made its final exit. Cavallo listened to the original band’s set and later told Wissert that he was unimpressed with the band’s heavy jazz fusion leanings and lack of commercial potential.

  Wissert asked Cavallo for a personal favor. Would he speak with Jim Brown anyway on Maurice’s behalf about BBC’s no longer representing EWF? The next day Cavallo sat face-to-face over lunch with the imposing former football star, unsure whether or not he would draw Brown’s ire by broaching the subject. Bob decided to tackle the matter (so to speak) with brutal honesty.

  “Jim,” Cavallo said to the ex-Cleveland Browns running back, “I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I don’t think Earth, Wind & Fire are going to make you a lot of money.”

  Instead of reacting angrily, Brown appreciated and respected Cavallo’s honesty. During their discussion he dropped his guard and told Cavallo that he was willing to amicably part with the group and grant Maurice’s wish to leave BBC management. In addition, Brown wouldn’t demand a huge payout. The matter was seemingly settled. Then Cavallo received a call from Maurice asking if the two could meet over lunch to discuss EWF. Having just broken up the first lineup, Maurice wished to persuade Cavallo to represent a new version of the group and to discuss with him his ideas and ambitions.

  “What’s your plan?” Cavallo asked Maurice candidly.

  Just as he would with me and the other newly recruited members, Maurice laid out his lofty plans for a new and improved Earth, Wind & Fire. In an attempt to recruit Cavallo to his cause, Maurice explained the Concept. According to Cavallo’s recollections, Maurice laid
out an articulate explanation of the band’s universalistic goals, of how he wanted to inspire greater musical messages of hope and optimism and span many influences and genres. Maurice envisioned a fifty-fifty, multiracial lineup. The performances would be highly spontaneous. He explained that if the band members were moved to dance, there would be no planned choreography as in the old-school R&B vocal groups and doo-wop bands. They would be dancing onstage strictly for the moment. As Maurice described his vision, Cavallo felt drawn to his unbridled enthusiasm but gave him two important pieces of advice, having seen the original lineup play live and feeling lukewarm about their future. Unlike his frank dealings with Jim Brown, Cavallo framed his comments with upbeat optimism.

  “Maurice, this is a fantastic idea, but you need to pursue things from a different angle. There are so many talented and unknown kids out there, that’s what you should draw from.” Because Maurice’s vision was pure, idealistic, and almost wholesome, Cavallo pictured the journeyman jazz drummer surrounded onstage by a troupe of fresh-faced young musicians. “If you could enlist some younger players in their early twenties to join the group, I believe you could have a major success on your hands.”

  The two men shook hands and parted ways after their luncheon discussion, and weeks later, after Cavallo assumed the EWF matter was closed, he received a surprise follow-up phone call from Maurice.

  “I took your advice, Bob.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I have a whole new group of whiz kids. Wanna see?”

  “Sure,” said Cavallo, who was admittedly taken aback that someone as driven and self-confident as Maurice had taken his advice so literally.

  “Let’s meet at SIR, Studio Instrument Rental. I’ll have the group there ready for you to see.”

  Cavallo, admittedly intrigued but not knowing what to expect, brought along his partner, Joe Ruffalo. We took the stage and performed a short set for the two men. It was a full dress rehearsal designed to impress potential management. A lot of the material we had rehearsed would appear on our next album.

  We were on a mission, and we wanted to blow these guys away. As young players desperate for a break, we didn’t feel the least bit awkward or anxious about auditioning for a tiny audience of two. We gave it all we had, as if we were performing for several thousand. Cavallo and Ruffalo witnessed Maurice’s bright new lineup, funky homemade long-john wardrobes and all, plus a fiery and exciting vocal front line that included Maurice, Jessica Cleaves, and me. After the last song, Maurice approached his two guests.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  Cavallo was speechless. It was a far cry from what he’d seen weeks earlier on the concert stage. Rather than try to play it cool, Cavallo instead made a rather grand gesture to illustrate how blown away he was by what he and Ruffalo had just witnessed: He walked over to the SIR rehearsal room door and “locked” an imaginary lock, placing the imaginary key in his pocket, as if to say, “No one is leaving this room until we’ve signed a deal!”

  “That was fantastic! This band is remarkable,” Cavallo jubilantly told the band. Maurice smiled with delight. Cavallo and Ruffalo had fully grasped the Concept.

  13

  WILL I HEAR THEM FROM MY DRESSING ROOM?

  Following our gangbusters audition with Cavallo-Ruffalo, Maurice made arrangements to meet up with Bob Cavallo to finalize management discussions for Earth, Wind & Fire. He brought the whole band along in his green van to Bob’s Tarzana home, with all eight members ready to put their signatures on a contract! Cavallo cordially met with us all and then sent the entourage home. He made arrangements to meet with Maurice individually for a one-on-one sit-down at a later time. After Cavallo had seen the new, improved model of EWF, the two men were on an equal footing, and each had something that the other wanted. Maurice could bring the band fresh representation, while Cavallo could add a potentially hot act to his burgeoning lineup.

  Cavallo asked Maurice one more time, “What’s your plan?” and Reese laid out his hopes and aspirations.

  “Bob,” Maurice insisted, “I’ll sign with you on two conditions. First, you’ll have to get me off the Warner label, and second, you’ll have to sign me up with a major record company that is going to pay me.”

  In other words, Cavallo surmised, reading between the lines, Maurice wanted to be on a large East Coast–based, traditional full-service label so that the group could get the specialized attention it required. Maurice wanted to steer clear of the traditional R&B labels, like Berry Gordy’s Motown or Stax or Chess, that might pigeonhole the group and limit its potential mass appeal, or worse, not pay its members fairly.

  “I know exactly where we should go,” Cavallo replied confidently. The two men laid out their plans, and Bob set to work. His first order of business was to visit Warner Brothers and work out a release from the Burbank record company. Cavallo sat down with label executive Joe Smith, an old friend with whom he had a good working relationship through Little Feat.

  “I’m managing Earth, Wind & Fire now,” Cavallo announced.

  Smith was stunned. “Jesus, Bob, why?” he asked.

  “No, no,” Cavallo continued, “they’re really good.”

  Smith paused. “But . . . they’re so . . . militant.”

  It was an innocent comment, a sign of the times, and Cavallo just smiled at the remark. Sitting across the table from a macho ex–football player like Jim Brown might be enough to scare or intimidate anyone, but EWF’s message was anything but militant. At that point it became obvious to Cavallo that Maurice had not showcased the new lineup to Warner. Smith was basing his judgment on the older personnel and the first two albums, or he probably wouldn’t have considered letting the group go.

  Cavallo continued to play his cards close to the vest and asked, “Joe, what can I do to get them off the label?”

  Smith explained to Cavallo that, although the group’s sales were modest, EWF was still in development and the label was roughly forty thousand dollars in the hole. As a result, Smith would require an “override,” extra financial compensation in order to spring the group from the Warner roster.

  With Joe Smith’s assurance that EWF could leave Warner with a forty-grand-plus buyout—not exactly chicken feed to someone like me—Cavallo set out to implement part two of his grand plan. Cavallo-Ruffalo had their sights set on New York–based Columbia Records as a new home for Earth, Wind & Fire. Cavallo was sure that label president Clive Davis would be as enthusiastic as Bob had been when he first saw us play at SIR. The next logical step was to set up another private showcase at Sunset Sound, just like the one Cavallo and Ruffalo had attended.

  Clive Davis was (and still is) one of the most charismatic record executives on the music industry scene. He took a stodgy New York–based corporate entity known for releasing middle-of-the-road records to a much higher (and diverse) creative plane by attracting and signing top contemporary talent. A Harvard-educated lawyer, Davis had joined Columbia at the age of twenty-eight as a general counsel for the label. He rose through the ranks quickly and in 1966 became both vice president and general manager of Columbia. By 1967, when the label went through a massive creative reorganization, Davis became president, replacing longtime executive Goddard Lieberson.

  Davis boldly pushed Columbia Records beyond its super-square image as a label primarily known for Broadway musical soundtracks, Sing Along with Mitch (Mitch Miller) albums, and MOR crooners like Robert Goulet and Johnny Mathis, and put it on a fast and hip track, concentrating on signing exploding countercultural rock acts like Santana and Janis Joplin and her band, Big Brother and the Holding Company. He had also taken on an African American gospel/folk-rock act from Los Angeles called the Chambers Brothers, whose groundbreaking album The Time Has Come enjoyed phenomenal sales and wide airplay across both Top 40 outlets and underground FM radio. Davis helped diversify the appeal of jazz icon Miles Davis toward a younger audience by introducin
g him to the rock press, and competed with Warner/Reprise head-on by inking progressive artists like Laura Nyro; Blood, Sweat & Tears; a young singer-songwriter named Bruce Springsteen; and a fresh new horn ensemble called Chicago Transit Authority. It was clear that getting Clive Davis on board with Earth Wind & Fire would be the keystone of our success.

  In the summer of 1972 Maurice excitedly called a band meeting to inform us that Cavallo had made arrangements for Clive Davis to fly out to Los Angeles to see us perform. He was pleased with the fast-track progress his new management team was making. At the time, I was operating strictly on the creative level and wasn’t involved in any of the talks regarding management and business decisions or label strategies. It was Maurice’s responsibility to get us a record deal.

  We set our sights high by aiming for Clive. Columbia Records believed in artist development, and their support would be unprecedented for us. Plus, they had the patience and resources to hang on for the long haul with a unique band like ours. I pictured the band progressing gradually through a series of albums: At first we’d sell a respectable 50,000 copies. After that, through tour support and gaining a fan base, we might progress to 100,000 or 200,000 in sales. Soon after, we would sell 500,000 units to score our first gold record, and after that, zoom our way to the top with platinum million-selling status and superstardom. Hey! As a twenty-one-year-old transplanted country bumpkin from Colorado, I was entitled to dream. The brass ring was within reach. and I had already come a long way from playing Top 40 songs in Denver bars.