Rock Bottom: Dark Moments In Music Babylon

by Des Barres, Pamela

  Marvin would later say that the only good thing that happened during his stint in the service was that he finally got laid. He had crude sex with a disinterested, obese cathouse hooker, which triggered a lifetime of similar tawdry encounters. In a 1982 interview with the French magazine Actuel, he admitted to “needing” prostitutes: “Prostitutes protect me from passion. Passions are dangerous. They cause you to lust after other men’s wives.”

  After his air force discharge, Marvin feared facing Father and crashed on friends’ couches, plotting his music career. Along with Reese Palmer, James Nolan, and Chester Simmons, he started the Marquees, a doo-wop group that Marvin claims was named after the Marquis de Sade. “I identified with his wicked ways,” he said. “He had a power to raise the blood pressure.”

  The Marquees played local dances and school assemblies, where Marvin’s shy sensuality drove the girls wild. “My singing covered up for the action I wasn’t getting,” he admitted. “I saw that I was reaching for girls on a mystical level. Almost like I was one of them.” The Marquees were eventually brought to the attention of rhythm-and-blues pioneer Bo Diddley, who produced their first record. When “Hey Little Schoolgirl” failed to chart, Marvin got work as a stockboy and then as a dishwasher at People’s Drugstore, an establishment that catered to whites only. Every day the black Sinatra had to eat his sack lunch out on a park bench.

  Through Bo Diddley, Marvin met a man he would later call his mentor, singer/songwriter Harvey Fuqua, who was quick to spot Marvin’s steamy potential. In 1959 nineteen-year-old Marvin headed for Chicago with the latest version of Harvey and the Moonglows, where they were soon recording for legendary Chess Records. None of the songs were hits, but Marvin got his first big dose of the road, hitting the “chitlin circuit” (chitlins—pigs’ intestines—being the cheapest meat), with Big Joe Turner and Etta James, being refused accommodations, sleeping in a station wagon or outside on the “cold, hard ground.” “Ran into all kinds of racist shit,” Marvin said. “I thought about Joseph and Mary being turned away, but that wasn’t comfort enough. Jesus turned over the tables in the temple, and I was ready to break down the doors.” In the summer of 1960 the Moonglows played to a packed house in D.C. Marvin didn’t even know if Father was in the audience.

  Harvey Fuqua shared the dream that, with his easygoing, alluring charm, Marvin could become a successful crooner, and after the doo-wop craze died down, they hit Detroit and quickly linked up with Berry Gordy and Motown Records. “As soon as Berry saw how big my talent was, he made a bid,” Marvin declared, “and that was it.” When his contract was sold to Motown, he thought he had landed on Easy Street in Motor City, but soon realized he was just another struggling employee in a large stable of talented musicians.

  A determined and shrewd businessman, Berry Gordy had started his Motown venture with the royalties earned from Jackie Wilson’s “Lonely Teardrops,” turning it into the largest black-owned enterprise in the history of American business: “The Sound of Young America.” His employees were paid a very low wage, the royalty rates were much lower than elsewhere in the industry, and Gordy kept the copyrights to the songs written by his musicians, but despite everybody jockeying for position, he somehow created a tight, family feel. Marvin, of course, wanted to get closer to his boss, and because of Gordy’s longtime friendship with Smokey Robinson, Marvin began his Motown career playing drums for the Miracles, making five dollars a session. In early 1961 Motown had its first million-seller, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’ “Shop Around.”

  At twenty Marvin began a love affair with Berry Gordy’s thirty-seven-year-old sister, Anna, and a lot of people saw it as a calculated attempt to cut in front of the long line at Motown’s recording studio. Even if there is some truth to this, Marvin found Anna to be an adoring partner, a wise and worldly teacher who encouraged and inspired him in his pursuit of stardom. The two married in 1961, and Anna called good-looking Marvin her “fine young thing.” “We were hot characters,” said Marvin, “with hot ambitions.” Hoping to slide into the white pop market, with Anna’s help, Marvin did get into the studio to record his first album, The Soulful Mood of Marvin Gaye. But when the record failed to cause any kind of stir, he was plagued with self-doubt and full of resentment that he needed anybody’s help. Outwardly calm, suave, and impeccably cool, Marvin seethed with the pent-up desire to succeed. He watched his boss, Berry Gordy, the international playboy, seemingly on top of the glitzy world, and wanted to run his own empire, move people around like so many chess pieces. He called Motown “the gestapo,” but added that since Berry was “a loving cat,” it was a loving gestapo. Marvin Gaye wanted to fit in, but he couldn’t help but stand out.

  Marvin recorded six more albums that didn’t sell, which kicked his pumped-up delicate ego into a private rage. He slogged around the country as part of a Motown package with Mary Wells, the Supremes, the Marvelettes, and “Little” Stevie Wonder, making sixty dollars a week. He continued to play sessions, but when he started writing, Marvin got his first taste of victory with “Stubborn Kind of Fellow” in 1962 and “Hitch Hike” in 1963, followed by his first crossover hit, “Pride and Joy,” written for Anna. But instead of enjoying his hard-earned good fortune, Marvin worried about it being snatched away from him and was in a constant state of angst.

  Hit followed hit, and Marvin bought his parents a large, comfortable home in a good neighborhood. He was proud that his mother no longer had to work, but his visits were infrequent. He didn’t want to be reminded of his unhappy childhood, and although Marvin ached for his father’s approval, he couldn’t stand to be around him.

  In 1964 “How Sweet It Is (to Be Loved by You),” another declaration of love to Anna, went to number six on the charts, but Marvin wouldn’t be satisfied until he got to number one. That same year he headlined the Motor-town Revue and recorded Together with Mary Wells, the first of many successful duet albums. Clean-cut and boyish, Marvin sang directly to his fans, and they imagined being wrapped up in his arms. More than a few had their wish come true.

  Baffled and overwhelmed by his fame, Marvin admitted to being on a “star trip,” which was causing serious friction in his marriage. In an attempt to tighten their bond, the Gayes adopted a child in November 1965 and named him Marvin Pentz Gaye III. “I was torn,” Marvin said. “I liked the tradition of naming my son after me, but I also didn’t want to be reminded of my father. When Marvin arrived, I made the decision: Tradition had to be upheld. That’s what we learned from the Old Testament.”

  Touring gradually became difficult for Marvin, his stage fright reaching paranoid proportions. Sold-out concerts were canceled at the last minute, establishing an erratic lifelong pattern. Falling in line with the Motown program caused Marvin to refer to himself as a “slave” and slowly eroded his fragile self-respect. Because his father was an alcoholic, Marvin stayed away from the evils of liquor but found he could appreciate life through a hazy filter of marijuana and the powerful rush of cocaine. “I’m passionate about good cocaine,” Marvin asserted. “No one will ever tell me it’s not a good feeling. A clean, fresh high, ’specially early in the morning, will set you free—at least for a minute.”

  The murder of Malcolm X, followed by the Watts riots, caused Marvin to question the validity of his music. Gordy just wanted to sell records, and Marvin went along with him, but the seed of truth-telling had been planted and started brewing.

  The Gayes had a volatile marriage and would often break into loud physical arguments at home and in public places. They took other lovers but still seemed to need each other even though the relationship had started to break down. Once Marvin found Anna at a motel in bed with another man and just went back home. The couple would stay together until 1977, but stagnation had set in. When Gordy moved into his mansion on Boston Boulevard and gave his old house to his sister and brother-in-law, Marvin couldn’t help feeling like a poor relation who had lucked out.

  Despite the success of his duet records with Kim Weston and Tamm
i Terrell, Marvin was frustrated by the even bigger success of the Supremes and the Four Tops, who were busy touring the world. He saw much grander things for himself.

  Young and spirited, Tammi Terrell was too independent to rouse Marvin’s passion, but as a singing partner she was perfection. “While we were singing,” Marvin said, “we were in love.” During the next two years Marvin and Tammi would record three albums and have nine singles on the charts, beginning with “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” early in 1967. When she collapsed in Marvin’s arms during a concert in Virginia, he carried her offstage and his world slowly began to disintegrate. She had six brain surgeries during the next three years, and Marvin spent a lot of time by her hospital bed. When Tammi died in March 1970 at age twenty-four, it was announced that she had a brain tumor, but it was rumored that she had been beaten in the head by a jealous boyfriend. At Tammi’s nighttime funeral, Marvin was disoriented, sobbing and speaking aloud to his former singing partner. He saw Tammi as a victim of love. “My heart was broken,” Marvin claimed. “My own marriage to Anna had proven to be a lie. In my heart I could no longer pretend to sing love songs for people. I couldn’t perform. When Tammi became ill, I refused to sing in public.”

  Marvin threatened to kill himself for the first of many times. He would hole up with a gun, but could never bring himself to pull the trigger because he believed suicide was a mortal sin. Already in his own private hell, Marvin didn’t want to incur the wrath of his Lord.

  In November 1968 Marvin finally hit number one with “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” but joy eluded him. In 1969 the deeply personal album M. P. G. was released, an expose about his crumbling marriage and immeasurable loneliness. Though he hungered for huge success, he didn’t really feel he deserved it and still refused to tour with his hits. Spending more and more money on drugs, Marvin didn’t save any for Uncle Sam. He had learned to despise the government and was bitter about his money paying for the war in Vietnam. He had also come to hate the hustle and hypocrisy of show business. Marvin turned thirty and went into seclusion.

  Eager to prove that he could do something outside of the music industry, Marvin went through a strange few months when he decided to become a pro football player. Along with friends from the Lions football team, Mel Farr and Lem Barney, Marvin trained vigorously, running six miles a day, cutting out cigarettes and drugs, intent on becoming a superstar athlete. Motown, of course, killed the idea, but Marvin continued to pursue his passion for sports, later investing in several prizefighters.

  He still wasn’t performing, but Marvin continued to expand musically and started producing. His first record for the Originals, “Baby, I’m for Real,” cowritten with Anna, went to number one on the soul charts. But Motown wanted Marvin to play Vegas and wanted him to grind out another hit record of his own. Restless and edgy, he watched what was going on around him. The murders at Kent State incensed him, and when his brother Frankie returned from Vietnam and recounted the horror stories, Marvin said his “blood started to boil.” He demanded an answer to the nagging question “What’s going on?”

  Frankie recalls telling Marvin about his terrifying experiences in Vietnam: “There was so much pain over there, so much hurt. You hear about things that go on, but there’s nothing more terrible than war. Human life becomes cheap. You have to do something to yourself to keep from crying all the time, to keep from being afraid all the time. Every minute seemed like an eternity. We talked at length about Marvin knowing my feelings. Him being a part of me, it was devastating for him. We cried together. He could feel my pain. ‘What’s Going On’ was his way of fighting. It was his Vietnam.”

  Using his brother, Frankie, as an inspiration, Marvin came up with his musical centerpiece, an offering of peace and hope, the uplifting and demanding What’s Going On, the first Motown album to be produced by the artist himself. After the record was initially rejected by the company as “too long and formless,” Marvin threatened to never set foot inside a recording studio again unless the album was released. Marvin won this particular war, though his own personal battles continued to rage within. Seen by many as the first concept album, What’s Going On would be Marvin’s most successful record, revolutionizing soul music by revealing the inner workings of the artist’s own soul. By gently reminding us that “war is not the answer,” and pleading with us to “save the babies!” Marvin was able to tap into his divine nature and sell a whole lot of records in the process. “When would the war stop? That’s what I wanted to know … the war inside my soul.”

  Adoration beckoned, and Marvin crawled out of hibernation to receive accolades and awards for what was being hailed as his “masterpiece.” On May 1, 1972, he played a triumphant “coming out” concert in Washington, D.C., where he was given the key to the city and called “a hero” by the mayor. He made a little speech at his former high school about drug abuse, despite the fact that he was stoned out of his head. Nobody seemed to notice. His mother rode in a motorcade and waved to the crowds. Marvin later said that he felt like he made his father proud that day.

  Due to the massive success of his socially conscious million-seller, Marvin believed his next politically incorrect single, “You’re the Man,” would also steam up the charts. He was wrong. If he couldn’t count on social issues to sell records, he would go to Hollywood and score a movie soundtrack. Trouble Man was a cheesy blaxploitation film, enhanced by Marvin’s bleak and moody score, which sold well. While he was in Hollywood, Marvin decided he would write screenplays and might even do some acting. His boss, Berry Gordy, had relocated to Beverly Hills, so Marvin followed suit, moving his entire family to the West Coast in 1973.

  Diana Ross was fast becoming a polished actress, and Marvin saw the same for himself. He signed with the William Morris Agency but only got a couple of bit parts in low-budget movies. The screenplays never materialized. He tried to hustle a place in the Hollywood scene but was hustled himself by people who talked him into shady investments. He was soon back in the studio, recording another duet album, this time with Diana Ross, but there was zero chemistry between the two top Motown stars and the pairing failed to live up to expectations.

  Ego and soul continued their intense warfare. In an interview with Crawdaddy magazine Marvin said, “I don’t compare myself to Beethoven. I must make that clear. I just think that I’m capable of all he was capable of.” In the same article he announced, “We’ll just have to become gods. The world’ll be like it started. Maybe God will know Himself. Perhaps He’s using us to help Him learn who He is.”

  During the recording of Let’s Get It On, the long-planned follow-up to What’s Going On, Marvin met sixteen-year-old Janis Hunter and fell in crazy, obsessive love. She was seventeen years younger than Marvin. Marvin sang the entire album to Jan, usually coming up with lyrics on the spot, likening the process to the way a flower grows. Jan was placed on the Madonna pedestal that Anna had occupied, being alternately worshipped and scorned, depending on Marvin’s quixotic, chemically induced mood swings. He wouldn’t divorce Anna until 1977, further complicating his life. Marvin took his new lover to a Topanga Canyon paradise, hiding her from the prying eyes of the public, his mortified wife, and his ever-demanding family.

  Meanwhile, the new album’s title track, “Let’s Get It On,” was an instant smash, going straight to number one, and Marvin held out for huge tour dollars. He was worried about Anna getting all of his money and still had a loathsome fear of performing live. After canceling one concert in November, he finally agreed to appear at the Oakland Coliseum on January 4, 1974. As usual, he drove the women wild.

  “To know that women love me is gratifying,” Marvin told Rolling Stone. “Dudes love me too; I can feel it. I sing to everybody. But the first ten rows are always women.” Marvin reclaimed his major sex symbol status on his first tour in five years, traveling with four female backup singers, a twenty-piece orchestra, his pregnant girlfriend, his mother, and Frankie—grossing over $1.5 million in August alone. “I was sor
t of a personal manager,” Frankie tells me. “I know what he liked. I knew how to get it right for him, how he liked the stage set up, what should be there for him—the lemon and honey, when to have it there. It had to be the perfect temperature. It couldn’t be too hot or too cold. If it’s too cold it closes the throat muscles. We had to time it between songs, so that when he’d go to sip it, it wouldn’t be too hot, ’cause then he’d burn himself. It was an art.” Despite Frankie’s brotherly concern, touring made Marvin jumpy, and he tried to snort and smoke his jitters away but could never get enough. It seemed he couldn’t get enough of Jan, either. He felt she held him in the palm of her hand. When she gave birth to his daughter, Nona (nicknamed “Pie”), Marvin tried to cancel the rest of the tour but was threatened with lawsuits. He traveled using fake names. Sometimes he wore disguises. When he got back home, he moved his new family into a high-rise in Brentwood, determined to start his life anew. Early in 1975 Anna filed for divorce and Jan became pregnant again.

  Marvin saw the divorce action as a personal attack and stopped sending Anna money. He built himself a state-of-the-art recording studio on Sunset Boulevard, complete with a custom-made king-size waterbed and featuring numerous Messiah-like oil paintings of Marvin himself. As a seeming snub to Anna, he bought a five-acre estate for his new family, adding stables, spas, a pool, hot tubs, and a regulation-size basketball court. He already owned fourteen cars, including a vintage Mercedes and a Rolls-Royce. His wife and Uncle Sam be damned.