Diana Ross: A Biography

by J. Randy Taraborrelli

  “What I’m telling you is that I need a vacation,” Mary said. She had learned long ago that if she didn’t stand up for herself and demand what she wanted when she wanted it, she would most certainly not get it.

  “Fine,” Berry told her. Instantly, he no longer cared; that’s how fast he could turn it off if he knew someone wasn’t willing to meet him at his level of interest. “But one day you’ll be sorry you didn’t work every day you could,” he told her. “You’ll look back on this, Mary, and you’ll regret it.”

  Mary didn’t know if that was advice, a promise or a threat. All she knew was that she wanted a vacation. So she flew to Los Angeles to finalize the purchase of a new home there, and then she took off for Acapulco with her boyfriend, Duke Fakir of the Four Tops.

  Although Cindy was in Detroit when “Love Child” was to be recorded, Berry decided that there was no point using her if he wasn’t using Mary. So, she wasn’t going to be on the record either. “Well, then who do we use in the background?” one of the producers asked Berry, as if this was new terrain.

  “What the hell difference does it make?” he fumed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just get the Andantes.”

  The session for “Love Child,” which took place on 17 September 1968, went well. Diana breezed through the song as she usually did, in a couple of takes with the first one being the best. Later, when Gil Askey ran into her in the studio, he asked her if Mary and Cindy were anywhere to be found. He wanted to talk to them about a new stage routine. “How should I know where they are?” Diana asked angrily.

  “Well, I just figured—” he offered, meekly.

  “Look, Gil Askey, you figured wrong. Okay?” she said. “As always, I was by myself in that studio, working while they’re on vacation. I even heard that Mary is in Mexico … with the Four Tops! And Cindy? I never see her in the studio,” she said, now venting. “And we have Berry to thank for this. To work me to death, that’s his goal, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry, Diane—”

  “Oh, please,” she said as she rushed by him. “Everybody’s so sorry for Diane. Meanwhile, Diane will probably be dead in two years. Then, maybe people will really be sorry for Diane.” As she walked down the hall, she kept talking: “And even then they’ll be putting out my records and making money off me, so they won’t be that sorry, will they?”

  She certainly wasn’t very happy, as Gil Askey would remember it years later … but, still, it had been a great recording session.

  There was a lot of excitement surrounding the official debut of “Love Child” on The Ed Sullivan Show in September 1968. In truth, the group’s admirers around the world would have been stunned to learn that the other two Supremes weren’t on the song, and probably wouldn’t have even believed it, anyway. In a sense, Diana’s solo recording career was in full swing—two years before she would leave the group. In fact, after Florence was fired, Mary and Cindy never appeared on another Supremes’ single, other than on those released in tandem with the Temptations. “One day, Mary and Cindy came to me with ‘Love Child’ and said, ‘We need some dance steps for this song,’” recalled choreographer Cholly Atkins. “As we were rehearsing with the record playing in the background, I realized that they didn’t know it at all. I said, ‘You girls just recorded this damn record, how come you don’t know it?’ Mary looked at me and said, ‘Because we’re not on it, Cholly. We are not even on the damn record. That’s why.’”

  Mary and Cindy may not have been on most of the recordings at this time but, as entertainers, they fully understood show business to be mostly illusion, anyway. Their job was to promote the songs on television and in concert, and that’s what they did—and they always gave it their all. In the end, they would be paid the same royalty as they would have had they actually recorded the songs. Today, Mary still makes money on records like “Love Child.” Cindy, however, signed her royalties away to Motown in the 1970s for a lump sum during a time when she was having financial difficulties.

  When they debuted “Love Child” on the Ed Sullivan program, Diana and the Supremes wore their hair in a natural fashion along with ragged jeans, T-shirts and funky jackets. It was a nice gimmick, evoking a street sensibility. Diana wore an oversized yellow sweatshirt that had the song title emblazoned on it.

  The lyrics to “Love Child” were timely and explicit: an illegitimate child’s plea to her boyfriend that they should not sleep together and risk her becoming pregnant. The song spoke to a prevailing problem among the youth of America submerged in the sexual revolution of the 1960s. Diana’s performance is strong and heartfelt—maybe the best of her time with the Supremes. To think that she had been recording these Motown songs for more than seven years and was still peaking is pretty astounding. In all, it was the perfect pop record and would easily soar to number one on the charts, replacing the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.” Its success is even more stunning when one considers that it’s a song crafted from concept to conclusion with one goal in mind: that it be a hit record for Diana Ross. And that’s exactly what became of it.

  Making a statement for civil rights

  Without question, 1968 was the most violent year of the decade in the United States, with the question of civil rights and the purpose of the war in Vietnam causing general unrest among the population and the assassinations of both Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy adding an element of tragedy and even hopelessness to the already dire state of affairs. It was as if America was about to explode. Berry Gordy and his Motown artists could not help but become involved in the crisis. It was impossible for them to refrain from taking some kind of position on such important issues. In fact, considering the way America was being transformed both socially and politically, black public figures were almost obliged to be concerned and to show their involvement in some meaningful way. Therefore, Berry began experimenting with various ideas to create for the Supremes—particularly Diana—a more contemporary, socially responsible persona. Most of the time, these plans didn’t work. Although the Supremes were extremely popular at this time, they really were not appropriate spokes-women for any political cause. What they did best—the way they broke color barriers with their global success as entertainers—was their major contribution to the culture. Expecting anything more from them in terms of public speaking or trafficking with politicians was expecting too much.

  Indeed, timing certainly played an important part in the Supremes’ success. Had they come along at any other time or place in the evolution of American pop culture, they might not have been able to enjoy as multifaceted and commercially successful a career. Early black pioneers such as Bill Robinson, Ethel Waters and Bessie Smith gave American culture some of its best entertainment. Yet, no matter how extraordinary their achievements, these performers were limited by the color of their skin. Unable to perform in certain clubs and sections of town, many great black artists of the 1920s and 1930s were forced into oblivion. If, after reaching the pinnacle of her career, Josephine Baker hadn’t lived another four decades, all the while showcasing the risqué entertainment style that elevated her to the fast-paced life reserved for the very rich, we might not have understood what her mystique was all about. Berry felt that the Supremes’ achievements spoke loud and clear for them and he knew they were fortunate to be in the right place at the right time. Still, he attempted to get them involved in certain political campaigns just to show that they had a sense of social responsibility as well as showmanship. For instance, because the Gordy family was politically active in Detroit, Berry often sent them to perform at fund-raising functions for the Democratic Party.

  In June 1968, Martin Luther King’s widow, Coretta Scott King, telephoned Berry to ask if he could arrange a concert benefit in Atlanta in honor of the Poor People’s Campaign. Previously, Motown had leased many of Dr. King’s speeches and released them as a record album. With only two days’ notice, Berry cancelled the previously scheduled dates of the Temptations, Stevie Wonder and Gladys Knight and the Pips so that they could perform
at the benefit. He decided to make Diana Ross and the Supremes the headliners.

  Among the over-capacity audience in Atlanta’s Civic Center were 1,600 citizens en route to Washington from Mississippi, Alabama and southern Georgia on what was called a Poor People’s March. Before the Supremes’ show, Mrs. King presented Berry with a bound collection of her late husband’s works, which she had personally inscribed for him. Berry was also given a citation by the Reverend Ralph Abernathy, who was president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and sponsor of the Poor People’s Campaign. When the benefit was over, Berry and Diana met with the Reverend Abernathy backstage and posed for pictures with him. “I don’t know what we, the Supremes, can do to help,” Diana told the minister. “I just want to be of assistance in some way.” He held her hands and told her, “Just continue to be great. Every time the white man sees you on television or in concert and becomes a fan, you are being of assistance.”

  Three weeks after the assassination of Dr. King, the Democratic Vice President Hubert Humphrey announced his presidential campaign. Influenced by Motown’s participation in the Poor People’s Campaign in Atlanta, a representative from Humphrey’s office contacted Berry and asked if one of his acts might be able to come out in support of Humphrey as a candidate. Berry agreed to this and committed Diana. A major press conference was then arranged for Diana and Hubert Humphrey at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, in July 1968. It didn’t go well. She simply was not prepared when the press bombarded her with questions about Humphrey’s platform abroad regarding Vietnam, and domestically in relation to civil rights. She got through it … but just barely. Afterwards, she was disappointed with Berry for having put her in such a compromising position with the press, and he actually apologized to her for it. He knew she was in over her head, and that was the last time he would ever allow her to align herself with a candidate for any office.

  In autumn 1968, a month after the Humphrey press conference, the Supremes embarked on another tour of the South. One night after a sold-out concert date, she and road manager Shelly Berger visited a pizza parlor after the Supremes show. While he ordered, she went over to the jukebox to see if any of her records were available for play. As she was standing there minding her own business, she heard a voice growl, “Hey, nigger!”

  At first it didn’t register.

  Diana whirled around. A group of white men at a table were smirking. She couldn’t tell which one had actually spoken. Her first reaction was fear, but it was quickly replaced with something else: anger. No doubt memories of her mother’s advice after her cousin Virginia Ruth’s death or of the horrible murder of Emmett Till flooded her mind, but the fact that she was being so disrespected in that moment—as she would later tell it—triggered something in her that just made her seethe with a kind of fury she hadn’t known before, if ever. With fire in her eyes, she started to approach the table. Shelly Berger, who is white, grabbed her arm. “Diane, let’s get the hell out of here, quick!”

  “Wait a minute, let me—” she began to protest.

  “No. It’s not a good idea. Let’s just go.”

  “One of these days—you just wait!” she declared.

  Before walking out of the door, Diana took one more long look at her hecklers. When she turned her back to leave, she heard the angry voice again: “Over here, nigger!” She halted for a moment, as if she might turn and confront them. Instead, she lifted her head up with dignity and left the premises.

  In retrospect, it may have been naïve for a black woman to walk into a public restaurant containing a group of white men in the Deep South in 1968 without expecting some sort of conflict. However, Diana had just finished a successful show before a racially integrated audience where she had been cheered by both blacks and whites. She must have felt, at least to a certain extent, insulated from danger. The persona that she created onstage was its own entity, though. That was the Diana the world adored—the woman in a sequined gown with the silky straight black hair—a wig—not the skinny girl with the short, natural Afro. Although she knew that much of the world accepted her, she also knew that “Diana Ross” was partly smoke and mirrors. It’s often said that show business breeds a particular form of insecurity and Diana, as a black woman forging ahead with a record-breaking career during a racially divisive period in America, would face a difficult challenge. She would have to perform as though everyone on the planet loved her, but deep down she knew that wasn’t the case—not by a long shot.

  A few weeks later, in November, Diana Ross and the Supremes embarked on another European tour—London, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Malmo and Brussels. Because of his work schedule in the States, Berry could only accompany the group for part of the tour. Shelly Berger and Suzanne dePasse, Berry’s trusted new creative assistant—hired as a result of her friendship with Cindy Birdsong—were sent to head the Motown entourage of thirteen people. The tour arrived in London the morning of 21 November 1968, in time for the rehearsal of the group’s Royal Command performance at the London Palladium that evening. The Queen Mother, Princess Margaret, Lord Snowdon, Prince Charles and Princess Anne were all to be in attendance.

  When the show began, Diana, carrying a microphone, walked down a center aisle graciously shaking hands with audience members and singing the opening number, Richard Rodgers’ 1929 composition “With a Song in My Heart” (which was 1940s singer Jane Froman’s theme song but was popularized by Perry Como). As she ascended the stairs onto the stage, she was joined by Mary and Cindy. All three young women projected an image both demure and sexy. Their elaborate, pearl-encrusted gowns were such a pale pink they almost looked white, until the spotlights turned them into an iridescent glimmer. Though high-necked and long-sleeved, the dresses hugged their bodies, showing every curve. Their hairstyles were upswept and elegant. Their earrings, though large, were not gaudy. If anything, they looked utterly regal.

  If they were a bit nervous at first, the Supremes managed to overcome such feelings, buoyed by the audience’s approval after each song in their opening medley. As well as the opening number, it included Tony Bennett’s “Stranger in Paradise” (from Kismet), Johnny Mathis’s “Wonderful, Wonderful,” the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” and, another one from the Perry Como song-book, “Without a Song.” The songs were all culled from their I Hear a Symphony album and somehow seemed to work together—more of Gil Askey’s genius. From the outset, the performance went smoothly.

  In the middle of the group’s last number, “Somewhere,” the music softened and the lights went to a soft blue. Diana stepped forward, stage left, and faced the Royal Box. She began to speak, softly and deliberately, delivering the monologue she had not done so well with on The Tonight Show earlier in the year.

  “Yes, there’s a place for each of us, and we must try to pursue that place where love is like a passion that burns like a fire. Let our efforts be as determined as that of Martin Luther King who had a dream that all God’s children—black men, white men, Jews, Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics—could join hands and sing that great spiritual of old. Free at last!” she exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. Still looking up at the Royal Box, she repeated, “Free at last!” Diana extended her arms to the Queen Mother as though in supplication, tears now streaming down her face. “Great God almighty,” she said, unable to keep her voice from cracking. “Free at last!”

  As she segued back into the song, Diana never took her eyes off the Royal Box. She took the microphone from the stand, put it to her mouth and sang the last few notes while bent over backwards as far as her spine would take her. When the music stopped, she raised both arms into the air and bowed her head. Then, the stage went to black.

  The applause was almost deafening. Mary and Cindy bowed and smiled their thanks as they went into the reprise. But Diana stepped back, almost staggering. Her head still bowed and her hair swinging in her eyes, she began to sing again. By now she was singing so intensely that when she tilted her head back to gaze up at the Royal Box a
gain, the veins in her neck were clearly visible. “Somehow! Someday! Somewhe-e-e-e-re!”

  Arms raised. Heads bowed. Again, stage black. The perfect dramatic gesture—in triplicate.

  Traditionally, the monarchy is polite but reserved at such public performances. However, on this occasion the Queen Mother not only applauded heartily, she was also the first to her feet. The other Royals then joined in the two-minute standing ovation. Those who consider the British indifferent and unemotional would have had to revise their opinions that particular night. “I’ll never forget it,” said Gil Askey, the group’s musical conductor. “It was that powerful, that moving, that inspiring. I kept pinching myself. I couldn’t quite believe it.”

  At the reception afterwards, the Queen Mother had a few words of small talk and handshakes for all the cast. When it was Diana’s turn, she paused longer than usual. As the sixty-eight-year-old former Queen of England and the twenty-four-year-old performer from the projects of Detroit shook hands, their eyes met. Both smiled. No words seemed necessary.

  The lonely leading lady

  In late 1968, Berry Gordy came to an agreement with NBC to star Diana Ross and the Supremes in their first network television special, which would be called T.C.B.—Taking Care of Business. The group would costar with the Temptations, with whom they’d recorded a major hit that year, “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me.” It was a terrific idea. After all, both acts had started in the Brewster Projects together, had become international stars at the same time and were now—after four years of best-selling records—famous enough to star in their own network program.

  It was true, though, that their shared histories aside, Diana really had no emotional ties or any kind of genuine friendship with the guys in the Temptations. She barely had anything in common with the Supremes at this point, so why would she with any other group at the company? Though she’d done little or nothing to ingratiate herself with them, it wasn’t her fault alone that there was such tension. After all, according to her recollections, Berry encouraged her alienation from others at Motown. If this is true, his influence over her in this area was in direct conflict with her organic need, born of a deep insecurity, to please and be liked. Then, making matters worse, he often lectured the others that Diana was the true winner at the company and that if they hoped to be half as successful they would have to work twice as hard. Unsurprisingly, this created resentment as he seemed to be reminding the other artists that they were living and working in her shadow. “They turned not only on Berry but also on his chosen one,” she would reflect, years later. “I think that’s what happened to me. I became the ‘good’ child, the object of Dad’s affection, and everyone turned on me. I was the object of everybody’s jealousy.” By 1968, it was too late to worry about how others perceived her. These Motowners were lost to her; there was no way to reach them. Even if she had a sudden personality change and became the nicest woman in all the Motor City, they wouldn’t have believed it of her.