by Renée Rosen
“Think about it,” said Harry. “Atlantic has its own publishing arm. So does RPM and all the other independents. Now, I know you boys don’t have time to be worrying about copyrights and that’s where we come in.”
Leonard sat back and listened to their spiel. When he started making records with Evelyn, he didn’t give a crap about copyrights and publishing. But the business was changing. Now songwriters were joining associations like BMI—Broadcast Music, Inc. A few also belonged to ASCAP—the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers. Those organizations collected royalties on any copyrighted songs for musicians and publishers from radio stations and appearances. Now everyone registered their songs to make sure they’d get what was due them.
Those organizations had already forced Leonard and Phil to rework their arrangements with songwriters like Willie and Leeba. Now songwriters were “work for hire” employees, which meant that after Chess paid them a flat fee for their songs, whatever was recorded became property of Chess Records. Unfortunately there were no loopholes like that for the artists, but at least Leonard and Phil were able to keep the royalty rates low.
Gene Goodman jumped in. “What we’re proposing is that the four of us form our own publishing company for Chess Records. We split the pie four ways. Twenty-five percent apiece.”
“Listen, guys,” said Harry. “We know you don’t wanna be screwing around with copyrights and all that other bullshit. We’ll make it a standard arrangement. You’ll get your share every time a piece of music gets played. That amounts to two cents per drop. The songwriter gets half and the publishing company gets the other half.”
“And what about the artists?” asked Phil.
“That’s all separate. They get paid just like before, straight royalties.”
They talked awhile longer and a week later, Leonard and Phil agreed to the deal. They decided to name the publishing business A Record Company and called it Arc Publishing for short. Leonard didn’t give it much thought after the Goodmans went back to New York. He had bigger matters to tend to and told Phil to handle the Goodmans, who were calling nonstop. They were going through the catalogue and registering all the songs. They wanted to put those songs out there and see if any other artists wanted to record them. Fat chance, thought Leonard. They wanted to draw up new agreements that made sure they got their cut if anyone bought the sheet music or an instrumental version or if they wanted a song for a motion picture or a play. Leonard threw up his hands. To him it was busywork. He had no more interest in Arc than he did in making out the will that Revetta had been on him about.
Just that morning the two of them had been sitting at the breakfast table when she brought it up. Again. Sunlight was poking through the curtains and Leonard felt rested for once. Finally got a decent night’s sleep. Marshall and Elaine had already left for school and he was a bit irked that Revetta hadn’t woken him up in time to have breakfast with them. He’d hardly seen the kids all week and Susie was napping. Always napping. His youngest daughter and he didn’t even know her.
Revetta poured him a cup of coffee and flung a newspaper at him. “See,” she said. She pointed to an obituary of someone named Raymond Cunningham. “He was forty-three years old.”
“Who the hell’s Raymond Cunningham?” Leonard set the newspaper aside and reached for his coffee.
“You’re missing the point.” Revetta’s cheeks turned pink like they always did when he flustered her. “He was forty-three and he died. You need to meet with the lawyers and draw up a will.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t need a will. You know who has wills? People who are about to die. And people like that poor schmuck.” He pinged the obituary with the back of his hand and grabbed his pack of cigarettes.
“You and your superstitions. And these aren’t helping matters.” She plucked the cigarette from between his lips and broke it in half, letting the tobacco rain down. “None of our tomorrows are guaranteed. Any normal, responsible human being—especially one with a family—makes out a will.”
“I’m not ready to draw up a will. I ain’t going nowhere yet, so don’t rush me.”
He felt guilty when he left the house that day. He wanted to get Revetta something special to make it up to her so he went to Saks Fifth Avenue. He’d been fighting with himself for weeks not to go there. He’d heard that Shirley had gotten a job there, working in the jewelry department.
He saw her right away. She was waiting on another customer when he got up to the jewelry counter. Her auburn hair was pulled back off her neck and she was in a simple black dress with a strand of pearls hanging down. The woman she was waiting on was making a return. He took off his coat and folded it over his arm as he stood to the side watching while Shirley took down some information, placed a telephone call and chewed off her lipstick. She looked tired and all he could think was that if she’d married him instead of that putz her father picked out, she wouldn’t have had to work at all. Revetta never had to work.
It wasn’t until Shirley finished with the return that she looked up and saw Leonard. A hand went to her throat when he smiled, waved.
“Leonard.” That was all she said.
“How are you, Shirley?”
“Surprised. I’m very surprised.” Her hand was still at her throat.
“I was hoping you could help me pick out a gift.”
Shirley coughed softly. “Of course.”
Leonard spent the next hour having Shirley show him necklaces and earrings and bracelets and brooches for Revetta. He ended up with a pair of pearl drop earrings set in fourteen-karat white gold. He even went so far as to have Shirley try them on so he could see how they looked. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, just trying to make a point, thinking how later that night she’d call her father and say, You’ll never guess who was shopping in Saks today . . .
“Your wife’s a very lucky woman,” Shirley said as she wrapped them up in shiny paper and white satin bows. “I’m sure she’ll be very pleased.”
Leonard turned and left with the package, but before he made it back out to his car, he thought about how much money he’d just spent and had an urge to return the earrings.
THIRTY-ONE
• • •
“Jealous Kinda Love”
LEEBA
There were more threats, scribbled down on sheets of paper, crumpled and shoved under the door. Each one left Leeba shaking. But nothing terrified her more than the night someone wrapped that hate around a rock and hurled it through their bedroom window. She woke with a start, shards of glass everywhere, the rock lying like a bomb on the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to read the note that was attached. Red looked at it and fisted it up in his hand. She never did ask him what it said.
After that Leeba and Red got a dog. A German shepherd with a menacing bark heard all the way down the hall. They named her Sophie and she never left Leeba’s side. According to Red, she moped whenever Leeba wasn’t home and lay in front of the door waiting for her return. But underneath Sophie’s sweet nature was a vicious watchdog that alerted them at the first sounds of a stranger’s footsteps in the hallway, who went mad whenever someone rang the buzzer or knocked on their door. Leeba and Red hadn’t had any trouble since they got her.
• • •
Life had returned to normal and one drizzly June evening, as rain pelted the windows, Leeba made dinner for them: a pork shoulder smothered in mustard and peppered with cloves. Pork, treyf, what would her family say! Red opened a bottle of wine and Leeba put on a record, Big Joe Turner’s “Honey Hush.” They had a stack of 78s waiting their turn in line. Red set the bottle down and grabbed her hand, spinning her to the music. Sophie was on her hind legs trying to get in on the act. Howlin’ Wolf was up next with “How Many More Years” and Red pulled her in close. They kissed through most of it even with Sophie yelping, poking her snout in between them.
A few more songs and it
was time for dinner. She was asking Red about his upcoming tour with Muddy while she lifted the pork from the roasting pan and set it on a platter. “You’ll get yours later,” she said to Sophie as she carried it to the table.
While Red carved the roast, the phone rang. It was Leonard calling.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, one hand on the receiver, the other holding Sophie by the collar to keep her away from the roast.
“We’re gonna do it. We’re gonna release ‘Jealous.’”
“What?” She let go of Sophie and gripped the phone with both hands.
“As soon as we get the pressed records, you, me and Aileen are leaving. We’re heading down South.”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I’m going with you?”
“We gotta do this and we gotta do this now. And I need you down there with me to keep Aileen in line. I don’t need her mouthing off to anyone or going off the deep end.”
It had been at least six months since they recorded “Jealous Kinda Love” and suddenly now Leonard decided the time was right. No one, not even Phil, understood what made Leonard release a record when he did.
She hung up the phone and turned to Red. “He wants me to go down South with him and Aileen. But . . .”
“But what? That’s fantastic. That’s what you’ve been working toward.”
“But you’re going on tour with Muddy next week. What am I gonna do with Sophie? I have to do laundry, pack, pay all the bills. I can’t just pick up and leave without any notice.”
Red went over and cupped her face in his hands. “Listen to me. Leonard Chess is going down there to distribute your record, to sell a song that you wrote. Who cares about laundry and paying bills? Baby, you’re going down South with Leonard.”
• • •
Three days later, Leeba dropped Sophie off with Revetta, who had agreed to watch her while they were gone. Leeba, Aileen and Leonard piled into the Cadillac and hit the road, with the girls taking turns riding up front. They listened to the radio and sang along when a good song came on.
Other than their train ride from Ellis Island to Chicago, Leeba had never been outside the city and the idea of exploring new parts of the country seemed daring and adventurous. She’d never imagined herself making such a journey. As they drove through the back roads of Illinois and the southern tip of Missouri, Leeba noticed everything starting to change. Gone were the traffic lights, the billboards touting Burma-Shave and Maxwell House, gone were the buildings and factories with their smokestacks.
When they crossed the Tennessee state line they stopped at a filling station and that was the first time Leeba saw two water fountains side by side and a set of signs, one that said “White” and the other “Colored.” It made her recoil and seemed to bother her more than Aileen, who drank from the “Colored” fountain like it was no big deal. Aileen had family down South, she’d been to Georgia, Mississippi and Louisiana before, so maybe she was used to it. But Leeba wasn’t.
The deeper they traveled into the South the more disturbed she became. They passed a sign out front of a general store that read: “No Dogs, Negroes or Mexicans.” They couldn’t go more than half a block without some sign reminding them that coloreds go here, stay there, don’t go here. And to think she thought she was mistreated as a Jew.
Knowing they’d never find a restaurant that would serve them at the same table, Revetta had packed a cooler with sandwiches and bottles of soda. When they made it to Memphis ten hours later, Hotel Clark, the only colored hotel in town, was full. The three of them couldn’t very well waltz into the Peabody, or any other hotel, so Leonard arranged for them to stay with a friend, Morgan.
Morgan was a tall, skinny colored man who’d lost most of his teeth. He had a modest house with broken shutters and a busted-up porch swing. He lived on the outside of town, in the middle of nowhere. His closest neighbor was a quarter mile down the road. Morgan’s wife cooked up fresh catfish and corn bread and after dinner they all sat on the front porch and listened to Morgan playing an old beat-up guitar with only three strings that he made sound like six.
That night Leeba and Aileen shared a lumpy mattress in the spare bedroom. Leonard slept out on the couch. They could hear the springs squeaking through the wall each time he moved. Other than that, it was quiet and peaceful. There were no sirens going by, no horns honking like back in the city. It was almost too quiet. Leeba couldn’t sleep, and neither could Aileen.
Leeba thought about all the signs she’d seen that day. She reached for Aileen’s hand. “How can you put up with this?”
“With what?” Aileen rolled over. “What are you talking about?”
“I had no idea it was like this. When I see the way they treat Negroes down here, it makes me sick.”
Aileen squeezed her fingers. “But that’s the way it is. Especially down here.”
“But it’s not fair. It’s not right.”
“It ain’t so great for us back in Chicago, either. And down here, well, that’s all these folks know.”
“How can you not hate them?”
Aileen turned onto her back. “You gotta remember, we all grew up in the church. God’s all about forgiveness. I remember my daddy used to say bitterness and hatred will poison you from the inside out. The best thing you can do for yourself is to forgive.”
“You’re a bigger person than I would be.”
Aileen yawned and mumbled, “You don’t do it for them. You do it for yourself.”
• • •
The next morning they went to Sun Studios to see Sam Phillips. Marion Keisker, Sam’s office manager, greeted them when they arrived. She had wavy blond hair resting on her shoulders and a wide mouth painted in the brightest red lipstick Leeba had seen since the days of Evelyn Aron.
They had showed up unannounced and Marion invited them to wait while Sam finished a recording session. Guitar music and a tremulous voice leaked out from the studio. Leeba peered through a small cutout window and saw Sam Phillips through the glass. She’d met him before when he was in Chicago. He was a clean-cut white man with a sprig of hair that rested on his forehead. She couldn’t see who he was recording.
“You hear that?” Marion gestured toward the studio. “He sounds nervous now, but I’m telling you, that kid’s got a million-dollar voice. I predict he’s going to be huge. Nobody else sounds like him.”
Leeba closed her eyes and listened. After a few more takes the singer grew bolder, louder, more confident.
“See?” said Marion. “What’d I tell you?”
When they finished their session, Sam came out with a young man with jet-black hair and pasty white skin. Leeba was shocked because he’d sounded like a colored singer.
“That was you in there?” Leonard looked at the kid and then back at Sam.
“This here’s Elvis. Elvis Presley.”
“Motherfucker.” Leonard shook both Sam’s and the singer’s hand. “And people say I sound like a Negro.”
Elvis gave him a curious look like he didn’t understand.
“Go on,” Sam said to the boy, “we’ll finish up tomorrow.” After Elvis left, Sam turned to Leonard. “So what brings you down here?”
“I’m shopping a new record and I couldn’t come to town and not drop by.” After Leonard had made the introductions, he said Aileen was the female Howlin’ Wolf. “Wait till you hear her. Give this a listen.”
He handed Sam the record and they all followed him back into the studio. Sam put the 78 on the record player and Leeba watched him shuffle his weight from leg to leg while “Jealous Kinda Love” spun around and around.
Phillips tapped his foot, nodding. “That came out of you?” He smiled at Aileen. “She’s got a new sound,” he said to Leonard. “That’s for sure. Who’s the songwriter?”
“I am,” said Leeba.
“You?” Sam half smiled, searching Leonard’s fa
ce for confirmation.
Leonard nodded.
“Well, I’ll be.” Sam planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “I like it, but—”
“What do you mean, but?” said Leonard.
“But you’re breaking all the rules here. I don’t know if people are ready to accept that kind of a sound coming out of a woman. And I sure wouldn’t let anyone know that a white girl wrote it for her.”
Leeba felt dismissed. She’d worked hard on that song. It came from her. Sam didn’t seem to have a problem with Elvis being white and singing on a race record. Why did he think people would mind her writing one? It would be the first time that she felt discriminated against for her skin color.
“What do you say?” Leonard said to Sam. “You gonna call your buddy Dewey at the station and help me get some airplay for this or what?”
“I’ll put a call in to him, but you’re on your own after that.”
Sam sent them to WHBQ in Memphis, where Daddy-O Dewey was the number one deejay in town. Dewey was in his booth and motioned for them to come inside. The floor was full of broken 78s that he’d smashed on the ground because he didn’t like them.
Dewey gave “Jealous Kinda Love” a listen and while he didn’t break their record on the floor he didn’t play it on the air, either. As he put it, “I’ve got a respectable white audience—you know that, Leonard. They don’t wanna hear a woman growlin’ and groanin’. Even if she is colored.” He turned to Leeba and Aileen. “Sorry, ladies, this one just ain’t gonna fly down here.”
From there they went to WDIA, an all-Negro station. But their reaction wasn’t all that different from Dewey’s. Even after Leonard slipped the deejay a twenty.
“I don’t know,” said Leroy LaRoy as he pocketed the money. “That’s a woman sounding like a three-hundred-pound man. I don’t know nobody that’s gonna wanna hear that.”
Leeba and Aileen were discouraged, but not Leonard.
