Diana Ross: A Biography

by J. Randy Taraborrelli

  After about an hour and fifteen minutes, the girls closed with “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You.” Diana directed the first few bars of the song as a ballad to a flustered member of the audience. Just as she slowly sang the lyric, “But, gold won’t bring you happiness,” Florence interrupted her. “Now, wait a minute, honey,” she exclaimed. “I don’t know about all that!” Her delivery of the line was droll, evoking the great Pearl Bailey. The place broke into laughter. It was then that Sammy Davis Jr. stood up and shouted, “All right, girl! You tell it like it is!” It hadn’t been much, but at least Florence had her moment, and the expression on her face indicated that she’d never expected such an enthusiastic response.

  The selection of “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You” as a closing number seemed, somehow, prophetic; it drew raucous applause and enthusiastic shouting of “More! More! More!” By this time, the group had taken a number that Diana really didn’t like and had turned it into a real handclapping showstopper. As everyone stood around them and cheered, the Supremes took final, deep bows. It was as if the standing ovation from friends, family, fans—and about half a dozen very proud, very tired, Motown instructors—would never end. Indeed, after everyone’s hard work, Berry’s girls—the Supremes—had triumphed at the Copacabana and all of Motown would now stand to benefit from their success. Opening night for everyone was rare, like gold dust. No one would ever forget it. No matter what might unfold for them in the future—good and bad—they would always have the Copa.

  After the show, the Motown entourage—except for Berry—crowded into the stars’ small dressing room, all hugging and kissing each other. It was very emotional. It was as if, in that moment, they weren’t breathing the same oxygen as everyone else in the world. Theirs was a rarified existence and they knew it.

  Florence and Mary, with tears in their eyes, greeted well-wishers, many from the projects. Wrapped in her white terry-cloth robe and still wearing her wig and exotic stage makeup, Diane stood in a corner by herself seeming a little stunned, maybe by her achievement or just by the fact that it was over … and it had been more than she could ever have imagined. Ernestine Ross, her sister Bea and Bea’s friend Mabel Givens had taken a train to New York for the opening night. “What can I say about those moments after the first show?” Mabel Given asks rhetorically. “There was such a sense of pride and accomplishment, and also a sense that big things were going to be happening for everyone.”

  Ernestine, Bea and Mabel approached Diana, almost afraid to speak to her because she seemed so preoccupied with her thoughts, alone in a corner of the room amidst so much confusion. “Diane?” Ernestine said as she touched her on the shoulder. For a second it was as if Diana didn’t even know her own mother. She looked dazed. Then she embraced her and practically collapsed in her arms.

  “What’s wrong?” Ernestine asked. “Are you not happy with the show?”

  “No. I’m just so, so … relieved,” Diana said emotionally. “And I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m so lucky. I just can’t believe that this is my life, Mama.”

  “Well, believe it, baby,” Ernestine said, patting her on the shoulder, “because it is. You earned this. This is your night.”

  Diana pulled away for a moment and began searching the room. “Is Daddy here?” she asked.

  Ernestine and Bea shared a quick look but didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, he said he would see you when you girls come to the Michigan State Fair in September,” Mabel said, speaking up. In that moment, Diana looked crushed. Feeling her sadness, Mabel went to embrace her. As they hugged, Diana whispered in her ear, “I knew he wouldn’t come. I just knew it.” Mabel whispered back, “Everything is fine, baby. Your daddy loves you, and so do we all. So, just enjoy your night.”

  It was then that Diana pulled away, as if noticing someone else walking into the room over Mabel’s shoulder. It wasn’t Fred … but, in a sense, it was close. It was Berry. The two locked eyes. He passed both Florence and Mary as he made his way through the throng, without acknowledging either one. It was Diana he was focused on. He stepped in front of the people she was speaking to and whispered in her ear. As she listened, her face lit up. He kissed her gently on the cheek and embraced her. They then turned to the room and held court for a time. Berry and Diana—individually they were powerhouses, but together they were unstoppable. Everyone in the room knew it. Especially Florence and Mary.

  Florence: “I’ll do it my way”

  The next morning, the Supremes were scheduled to pose for publicity photos in the club’s lobby. The three of them, dressed in smart clothes, posed in front of a poster with their picture on it and the accompanying statement: “The Copa Rains Supremes!” Indeed, these three black girls from the Motor City who had dubbed themselves the Supremes and sold millions of records had become more than just a coup for black music—they were now a social phenomenon. Their music was heard not only at dimly lit, sweltering Saturday-night cellar parties in the black neighborhoods of urban America but also at sweet-sixteen parties in the homes of white middle-class suburban teenagers, and now in the first of what would be many dozens of white-oriented supper clubs in America.

  After the session, Berry pulled Florence aside. “Not bad, Blondie, the way you delivered that little line in the last song,” he told her. “Real funny stuff.”

  Florence recalled that she wasn’t sure if he was complimenting her or just being sarcastic.

  “Diane loved it,” he continued.

  “Oh, she did, did she?” Florence said dryly.

  “Yeah, we’re gonna keep it in the act like that. Maybe give Mary a line, too. But listen, next time I want you to say it a different way—”

  “Hold it right there, Berry,” Florence interrupted him. “My way worked. I’ll do it my way. Or I’ll come up with a new way.”

  “Fine,” Berry said. “Suit yourself.” Then he walked away, shaking his head. Florence stood alone with a satisfied smile on her face, as if she had won a victory of some kind.

  In a sense, Florence’s attitude was understandable. Much of what she’d been through in the last few months felt as if it was solely for Diana’s benefit. It was always all about Diana, wasn’t it? However, if she was only going to have just one small moment for herself in such a complicated show, and not a single lead vocal in the entire repertoire, she was determined to claim it for her own and do it her way. Of course, Berry was used to giving direction. It was how he felt invested in his artists’ success. Whether or not Florence was interested, Berry’s coaching of his artists had only just begun after the Supremes’ success at the Copa. Now, all of the Motown artists would be enrolled in his artist development classes.

  In truth, Diana wasn’t thrilled with Berry’s constant critiques, either. “The information was helpful, it was always geared toward improving our act,” she would say years later, “but Berry behaved like a tyrant and his way of talking about our performance and pointing these things out was heavily judgmental, discouraging and ultimately very hard on us.” Still, she tolerated it because she knew it was the smart thing to do. Imagine how Berry Gordy might have felt about Florence Ballard had she been as eager as he thought Diana was to hear his opinions.

  And then imagine how he felt about her, knowing that she wasn’t.

  Coming home

  It was 17 January 1966 when the Supremes opened at the Roostertail nightclub in the heart of Detroit—only four and a half miles away from the Brewster Projects, but a million miles away in experience. All the success on the road and abroad thrilled them, but it didn’t mean quite as much as acceptance in their hometown. Not that there was any doubt that Detroiters would warmly welcome the Supremes’ return.

  During this engagement an interview was scheduled with a reporter from the Detroit News in the Motown offices; its angle had to do with “Hometown Girls Make Big.” It was just another of the many interviews that the group had been doing of late. In the middle of the conversation, Diana suddenly an
nounced, “I’d like to say that, from now on, I’m going to call myself Diana, not Diane.” It was an odd announcement. Mary and Florence would later claim that it was the first time they heard of the name change, but actually she had already been called Diana on the liner notes of Meet the Supremes (December 1962) and on other albums released after that. Moreover, Berry often referred to her as Diana. Even if Florence and Mary had known about it, the way Diana broke the news to the press probably made them feel it was just one more facet of her master plan to separate herself from her singing partners. As was the nature of their relationship, they never discussed the matter.

  When the girls, wearing their floor-length yellow chiffon gowns, walked out onto the stage for their new opening number, “Tonight” from West Side Story, they peered out into the packed house to a sea of recognizable faces—close family members, distant relatives, former schoolmates and teachers, record wholesalers, disc jockeys and Motown employees. It was one of the most exciting nights they’d ever experienced, and neither jealousy nor bitterness could dampen the joy of coming back home. Each girl was just about twenty-two years old and a hometown champ. It was during the opening number when Diana spotted her father at a table close to the stage. She wasn’t sure he would be present and was ecstatic to see him—even if he did seem a bit restrained in the crowd of enthusiastic patrons.

  The show was a huge success, as expected, and afterward the trio headed to their dressing room. Before she went, however, Diana peeked around a curtain from the wings, looking out to the house. Friends and family surrounding Ernestine and Fred were congratulating them for their daughter’s triumphant return to Detroit. Not surprisingly, though, it was Mrs. Ross who was shaking most of the hands that were thrust toward them. Fred sat quietly with a pleasant smile as his wife welcomed the waves of praise for their daughter. Minutes later, they made their way backstage and greeted the group in their crowded dressing room.

  “Congratulations, dear,” Ernestine said as she hugged Diana, then moved to Florence and Mary. “You girls were all wonderful,” she said.

  Diana watched as her mother stepped away; she then looked back at her father. A crowd of relatives gathered, as if to hear Fred’s reaction. It was well known that he hadn’t been very supportive of Diana’s career.

  “What did you think, Daddy?”

  He nodded silently, the smile from before still present, but now fading a bit from overuse.

  “Could barely hear you during that last number,” he said. “Someone needs to tell that trumpet player to take it easy.”

  Diana crumbled a moment.

  “But what about the rest? What did you think?”

  “You could always sing, Diane. That’s no surprise to me.”

  “Oh c’mon, Daddy …” she began.

  “You can still sing, so that’s good,” he continued. It was faint praise … and barely that.

  Ernestine summoned Diana for a photograph with the group. Diana stared at her father a moment, perhaps hoping for more. She then left him to join the ladies, as requested. Florence and Mary leaned in from either side as Diana took a deep breath. She gathered herself, then looked at the camera’s lens and did what she would have to do for the rest of her life. She smiled.

  No Flo, no show

  In the winter of 1966, the Supremes were booked into the Americana Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico. By this time Diana and Berry were sharing a suite and didn’t seem very concerned about what anyone thought of their romance; no one dared question it anyway. Still, it was a tad weird; Mary’s and Florence’s mothers were both in San Juan with their daughters during this engagement and couldn’t help but wonder what was going on and why they never saw Diana. Indeed, her days were all spent with Berry, walking on the beach or gambling. She continued to seem mesmerized by him.

  When the Supremes were booked into the Copacabana again 17 to 23 March 1966 at double their original salary—now $5,000 a week—Florence began complaining of a nagging flu. A tour of West Germany and Scandinavia had been planned, but Florence’s doctor recommended that Berry cancel it. Reluctantly, he did. “It was difficult enough to stay centered and cope with the touring, the stress of performing every night, the massive publicity and the exhaustion,” Diana would much later recall. “If that wasn’t enough, whatever energy we had left was being drained by Florence’s moods and inconsistencies.”

  In February 1966, after the girls had a week at home in Detroit, Berry scheduled a recording session. An album of spiritual songs was being planned as a tribute to his recently deceased sister Louyce, and the Supremes were scheduled to record the spiritual “He.” Diana, Mary and Berry waited for Florence for over an hour and when she didn’t show up for the session, which was to be produced by Harvey Fuqua, Berry became annoyed. It was not the first time Florence had missed a recording session. “But she’s sick, Berry,” Mary insisted, trying to defend Florence.

  “I talked to her doctor and she’s not sick anymore,” Berry shot back. “She’s lazy, Mary. That’s her problem.”

  “And not only that,” Diana injected, “but it’s costing us money.” The group paid for its own recording sessions and Diana never forgot it.

  Diana and Mary stared each other down.

  “Okay, that’s it. Go home, Mary,” Berry finally said. “This is not about you, anyway. It’s about Florence.”

  Then he turned to Diana. “And don’t be all mad at Mary,” he told her. “At least she showed up.”

  Diana shrugged it all off and went into the recording booth. For the “He” session, she recorded alone. She finished it in about thirty minutes. “Now, that’s what I call cost-efficient,” Berry decided in a producers’ staff meeting, according to Mickey Stevenson, who was present for it. “No more sitting around waiting for those two girls to get it together. If one doesn’t show up,” he decided, “you guys send the other one on her way and then record Diane alone. It’s quicker,” he said, “and it’s cheaper. No aggravation. Diane’s a pro.”

  That week, Florence Ballard continued to miss important rehearsals for the upcoming Copacabana return engagement. Berry was losing his patience with her. Was she truly sick? Or was she just sick of him?

  Gil Askey remembered another staff meeting that took place in February 1966 to analyze the new Copa show and how they were going to proceed without the benefit of rehearsal. Should they just revert to the old show? He recalled:

  Berry called together a bunch of his closer confidants—me, Maurice King, Harvey Fuqua and a few others—and raised the simple question, “What would happen if we replaced Florence at the Copa?” We all looked at him like he was crazy. He started chewing on his tongue like he used to do and he asked: “Is Diane good enough to carry the show regardless of who she is singing with?” Everyone started to agree that, yes, Diane could be put with any two girls and people would still be impressed. Berry seemed unsure, but relieved. He said that he was pulling Flo out temporarily, that she would return to the group after the Copa. He was hoping to teach her a lesson.

  After the meeting Berry told Diana that he would find a new third girl for the group. She was very anxious about it. It just seemed an impossible notion, and if there was one thing she could always count on it was that Mary and Florence knew what they were doing behind her, thereby giving her the security to put on a good show. “This worries me, Berry,” she said. “I don’t like this.”

  “Look, don’t worry about it,” he said, being dismissive. “All you have to do is sing.”

  “But Diane wasn’t that much of a pushover,” Gil Askey remembered. “‘Look, I want to know who the hell I’m going to be singing with,’ she told him. ‘Whoever this girl is, she has to meet with my approval if she’s going to be sharing my stage.’”

  Harvey Fuqua suggested that Marlene Barrow might join the act since she and her group, which was called the Andantes, had already worked with some of the producers adding additional background vocals to some Supremes recordings. That’s what those girls did: they augmen
ted everyone’s records at Motown with additional voices. The public didn’t really know it, though; it was pretty much a company secret. Anyway, Diana and Berry agreed that the attractive and talented Marlene would be a suitable replacement for Florence, and Mary was charged with teaching her the routines. This was tough. Mary and Florence had started the group together and had an alliance. Now, Mary would be breaking in Florence’s replacement. She agreed to do it, though, not that she had much choice. She could have said no, but then someone else would probably be breaking in her replacement.

  “The next thing I knew I was working day and night at Mary’s house, trying to learn the Supremes’ act,” Marlene Barrow recalled. “When I was finally ready, Diana, Mary and I appeared at a debutante party at the Grosse Pointe Country Club in Detroit. The show went pretty well, as I recall it. Diane, Mary and I then went to do shows in Philadelphia, then Ohio, and finally Boston, where we played as sort of a dress rehearsal for the Copa. Basically, though, I never saw much of Diana,” Marlene continued. “I actually don’t remember ever rehearsing with her, only with Mary. All of my dealings with Diana were onstage.”

  Berry flew to Boston to see how the show was faring. “He was impressed with it,” Barrow said. “I was nervous, wondering if the audience would question who I was. I was told to say Florence had the flu, and that was that. The audience was appreciative and Diana was wonderful, working harder than ever. There was a standing ovation.”