Temptations (Updated), page 17
At the end of the last number we got ready to walk off, when suddenly we were overwhelmed by thunderous applause. Every single person in the audience stood and yelled at the top of his lungs, and it went on and on. We took more bows than I could count. It was only after we got offstage someone finally told us that this was a typical Japanese response. They believe that it’s rude to applaud until the end of a performance.
Even though Paul no longer sang in the group, we saw him regularly whenever we were home. Melvin, Richard, and I kept reaching out to him any way we could, and I know that he and Eddie maintained close ties. Keeping Paul off the road didn’t really improve his health; it just kept it from worsening. He still drank, so there were some rough times. As to what was going on in his personal life or with his business, those weren’t things we spoke of in any great detail. I know only what I saw: Paul seemed to have lost his spirit.
Looking to branch out, Melvin, Cornelius Grant, and I started our own production company, D.O.C. Productions, Ltd. Our goal was to scout out fresh talent and develop it—write songs, set up recording deals, produce them, and so on. As we learned, it’s a very time-consuming job, but before we gave it up we landed a contract with RCA for a trio called Swiss Movement, who recorded our “Take a Chance on a Sure Thing.” We were all very excited about it, and one day I played the track for Paul. I guess I was looking for his opinion or his congratulations. Out of nowhere he said, “Hey, Otis, why don’t you cut that track on me?”
“Paul,” I said, “I don’t think we can do that, because it’s already committed to RCA. They’ve paid the money and all.”
It was a very awkward, painful moment for us both. Everyone knew that Paul wanted very much to be back in the studio, if not with us, then as a solo. I suppose that in light of David’s solo success (Eddie’s was still a year or so away) Paul figured that he deserved his break, too. I assume that Motown had the same option to retain Paul as a solo as they exercised with David and Eddie. The fact was that they weren’t interested. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Paul was still a talent, but he was sickly and could no longer perform. By then everyone knew of Paul’s problems, and Motown probably didn’t see any point in investing in him. Without anything to that effect being said, I think that Paul understood, and it was eating him up. One day out of the blue Paul said, “Man, sometimes I feel like saying fuck it and committing suicide.”
I was stunned. “Paul, don’t talk like that. Come on, now. It’s going to be all right. Don’t you even start thinking about no mess like that.”
“Well, hell,” Paul said. “I’m just tired of sitting around here. You know me, I’m used to being out there onstage. I love it. I miss it.”
Although I tried to calm Paul down, I took what he’d said very seriously. I didn’t doubt for a second that he meant every word. It struck me then just as clear as day that Paul’s mental attitude had gone over into something else.
There was nothing else to say. He was my friend, but a friend who wasn’t taking care of himself, who wouldn’t or couldn’t stop drinking or resolve his personal problems. It broke my heart to see this happen to a warm, wonderful, talented guy like Paul. We later learned that Motown did record Paul on two songs. One of the titles was “I Feel Like Giving Up.” Neither was ever released.
We all traveled to New York in mid-August 1973 to attend Damon Harris’s wedding. The reception was held in a restaurant on the grounds for the 1964 World’s Fair, in Queens. It was a joyous occasion, and we were all happy for Damon and his bride, Tina. After the festivities we returned to our hotel in Manhattan and weren’t in an hour when Richard called my room and said, “I just called home. You heard about Paul?”
“No. What’s wrong?” I asked.
“They found him dead, lying in the street, near Fourteenth and West Grand,” Richard replied, very upset.
“Are you kidding?” It didn’t seem possible.
“No, Otis,” Richard answered softly. “I’m not.”
We were set to fly back to Detroit the following day, but we switched our reservation and left immediately. There’s no other way to describe our feelings except to say we were all in total shock, especially when we learned that Paul’s death wasn’t an accident. The official cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
In those first hours after I heard the news, and countless times since, I flashed back on the last Copa date Paul did with us in 1970 or so. No matter how he felt, usually once he was onstage he gave it his all. It was like the stage was a magic place for him. The one night that I recall especially vividly, he was doing “For Once in My Life,” and as he sang it, you could hear that he was squeezing every note for all it had. It was like he was saying, “I may not be here too much longer, but I’m going to do it while I still can.” As he came up to the bridge, Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., a former United States Congressman, stood at his table, applauding and crying. The next thing you knew everyone in the place was standing, and the applause kept coming. Pretty soon we were all crying. The ovations just washed over us in waves, and Paul accepted the cheers graciously, like a prince. I remember thinking to myself, “So this is what all the rough times are about. This is what makes it all worthwhile.” And Paul was so proud. That’s the image of him I treasure: standing on the Copa stage, holding a whole audience in the palm of his hand, looking so happy.
On August 24, exactly one week after Paul killed himself, we attended his funeral at the Tried Stone Baptist Church. Over 2,500 people viewed his body in the days before, and the church was filled with friends and family, his wife Mary and their five children, people from Motown, and as many fans as could get in. Of course, Paul’s death brought us together: Melvin, Eddie, David, Dennis, Cornelius, and I were the pallbearers. During the service David rose to sing one of Paul’s special songs, “The Impossible Dream,” but partway through he was so overwhelmed by grief that he couldn’t continue and Eddie, Melvin, Dennis, and I walked to the front of the church to help him finish. Standing near the head of Paul’s open coffin we couldn’t make it through either, and after a few moments, we all returned to our pews, in tears.
After the service we carried Paul’s coffin to the hearse and took that last ride with him to the cemetery. At the gravesite, they opened the casket again, and before it was closed for the last time, Eddie bent down and kissed Paul gently on the face.
Shortly after Paul died, I was lying in my bed one night reading. For some reason I felt compelled to look up, and standing at the foot of my bed was Paul. He said, “I’m all right where I am, Otis. I just want to let you know.” And then he was gone. Talking to Eddie later, I said, “Man, you know, I saw Paul.”
Eddie replied, “Yeah, he came to me, too.”
Funny thing was, it wasn’t scary at all. I believe it was Paul, perhaps not Paul as we knew him here on the earth, but his spirit. And I also believe that what he said was true.
When someone you love commits suicide, you can’t help but wonder what, if anything, you could have done to prevent it. I went through a period of deep soul-searching, replaying our conversations in my mind, but what bothered Paul was no mystery. He was a very complex man with many problems and conflicts. By the time he died, I guess he believed there was nothing left for him, and that’s the shame. Paul was our pillar of strength, and even today we try to approach things as he would have, with that confidence and sense of pride he instilled in each of us. I’ve always said Motown, Shelly, Cholly, Maurice King—all those people—as much as they refined and polished us, it was Paul who gave them something to work with.
Now, over fifteen years after Paul’s passing, there are still people who believe that his death wasn’t a suicide but a case of murder and that somewhere along the way something’s been hushed up. I can’t believe that. For one thing, except for a few weeks before his death, when people who saw him frequently said that he was in very good spirits, Paul was an unhappy man. He spoke of suicide to me and to several others. It’s true that Paul left behind some tax problems, but I can’t imagine him being involved in something someone would kill him over. I sometimes wonder if people don’t continue speaking of Paul’s death as a great mystery because they can’t accept the fact that such a wonderful, well-loved person might have suffered so that he couldn’t see any other way around his problems. After all, if it could happen to him, it could happen to any of us.
All I know about Paul now is that if he had straightened out his life and were still living today there is no question that he would be a major force in the music business. He had a good heart, he was a good person, and he knew so much. He so often said, “You’re only as good as your last show,” and we still take it to heart. Every time we pray, we think of Paul. Sometimes when I look back at all that he gave us it’s easy to forget that he was about the same age as we were. He always struck me as someone with a very old soul. We still miss him.
Toward the end of 1973 Ann and I decided to end our marriage. The two of us had been drifting apart for a while, and during our time together she had become a Jehovah’s Witness, something I didn’t join her in. Traveling constantly, I’d often left her at home, and before long jealousy and suspicion took us over. I didn’t learn until after we were separated that Ann and my family never got along, so my relatives stayed away. Walking through my home in Southfield, I’d think to myself, “What’s the point of having a good life if your family isn’t there to share it with you?” I wasn’t around enough to keep close tabs on what was really going down, and had no idea about it until my grandmother Lucinda told me. After we separated, Ann went back to working for Ike and Tina Turner.
In February 1974 Motown released “Heavenly” from the 1990 album, a song Richard sang and we all had very high hopes for. It took off up the charts, and from every indication, this was going to be a winner. Unfortunately, it got snagged on music-business politics. Today people claim that some radio station playlists are dictated by consultants, which may well be true. In contrast, back then the disc jockeys ruled the roost and picked what they played. It was the Temptations’ good fortune to have always enjoyed the full support of the jocks, especially the black guys. This time it all backfired.
At the same time “Heavenly” was scaling the charts, we were booked for a stand at Bachelors III in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I’ll never forget those shows because Jackie Gleason always came to see us. From the stage I could look down, and right in the front row would be the Great One cheering us on.
Because of our commitments, we couldn’t be in Los Angeles for the American Music Awards ceremony, so Ewart Abner, who was then president of Motown, accepted our award for Best Vocal Group. In his acceptance speech, supposedly made on our behalf, he not only failed to acknowledge the jocks’ continued support of the Temptations, but went out of his way to thank Dick Clark for always being there for us. We like Dick Clark a great deal, but to cite him, or anyone, really, without thanking those who deserved to be thanked was wrong. We just about died watching Abner give his speech on television that night. We knew it wasn’t cool and expected there’d be hell to pay.
Sure enough, when we got to Memphis some disc jockeys said, “We saw the AMAs, and we’re happy that you brothers won, but we did not like that speech that Abner gave. We’re sorry that we’ve got to take it out on you, and it’s not directed at you personally, but we’ve got to teach Motown a lesson. We’re not playing your record.” And they didn’t. Despite some gracious gestures toward the jocks on Motown’s part, “Heavenly” nosedived and was on and off the pop chart in nine weeks. It was quickly followed with “You’ve Got My Soul On Fire,” a hell of a song that also failed to do as well as it should have.
We were hitting one of those slumps nobody can avoid if you stick around long enough. It seemed that we could do no right. Not to say everything was miserable; it wasn’t, but those songs weren’t moving like they would have a year or two earlier. It was very obvious to us that people had had enough of hearing the kung, whacka-whacka, chung sound Norman was noted for. Traveling the world, we heard people’s reactions and opinions. We had a tighter grasp of the situation than the people at Motown who were sitting at their desks. The time for a change was long overdue as far as we were concerned, and so we met with Berry about it again. “You all know what’s happening,” I said. “Our records are dropping off. People are tired of hearing us sing about the world’s woes. We need to get back to the ballads.” There was no arguing with the numbers, so Berry decided to team us with James Carmichael, who had produced the Commodores.
In the midst of this we also told Berry that we wanted our own publishing company. We were writing songs, which we knew that if the Temptations ever recorded at Motown would be published by Jobete. We called a big meeting, and we stated our case: Basically, we were grown men, and artists, and felt that if we did write anything we should have our own publishing. Berry, who was there with his brother Bobby, clearly didn’t like what he was hearing.
“What are you going to do with publishing?” Berry asked. “Who’s going to administer it?” He continued running down all the details, and as he got angrier, we could see spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. We looked at one another as if to say, “Whew! We really touched a nerve with this!” We’d never seen him so angry.
The meeting wore on, with the upshot that Berry did not give an inch on the publishing. We left the office furious. Damn it, we weren’t kids anymore, and the very least he could have done was meet us halfway. Maybe it wasn’t always the case, but by this point he must have known that we knew what was going on, who was getting what size piece of the pie. It was insulting.
In early 1974 or so we all moved out to Los Angeles. As had been rumored, Berry did move the operations out west, and Motown in Detroit all but ceased to exist. It was only a matter of time before we joined him, but it was strange to be so far from our relatives and friends. Los Angeles was worlds away from Detroit, and for some guys the adjustment was rough. Dennis moved first, followed by Melvin and me, and later Richard and Damon. At first Melvin and I had our apartments in Hollywood, on South Doheny Drive. It seemed that moving to L.A. prompted many changes in different guys’ behaviors, and for some reason an increase in drug use.
Also that year I met my present wife, Arleata. We were playing the Apollo, and Arleata was brought backstage to meet us, entirely against her will, by a girlfriend with a thing for Dennis. The first time I saw her I thought she was very pretty, and I started a conversation by asking her about her astrological sign, which was then the hip thing to do. We started dating on and off, then after one night we spent talking until dawn, I knew I’d found the one. She still lived in New Jersey, so we kept up a bicoastal romance until she moved out to live with me in L.A. in 1976. We married in 1984.
We turned all of our attention to the new record. We started working on A Song for You out at Berry’s beach house in Malibu, where we met along with Suzee Ikeda, a former Motown artist who was our project manager, Berry, James Carmichael, and Ron Miller, who had written many hits, including “For Once in My Life,” and a few other people. While selecting material, we came across “Glass House,” a tune Berry wrote with Ron Miller. We recorded a version of it with Carmichael producing, which Berry played for Jeffrey Bowen. Back in 1967 Jeffrey coproduced the Mellow Mood album with Frank Wilson before leaving Motown to work with the Holland brothers and Lamont Dozier at their Hot Wax and Invictus labels. There he had worked with Freda Payne, Chairmen of the Board, Honey Cone, and some others.
Jeffrey told Berry he liked the idea of “Glass House” but heard it differently. Berry, being the fair-minded guy he is, said, “Well, you go do a track and let me see what you come up with.”
When we heard Jeffrey’s take on it, we were very impressed. Not being a learned musician, as Carmichael was, left Jeffrey a little freer to experiment. His version had that elusive punch and directness our latest records had been lacking. Berry decided to give the production assignment to Jeffrey, and we set to work.
Back when we’d worked with Jeffrey on Mellow Mood he was in his early twenties but had good ideas and was a pleasure to work with. Before we got too far into recording Song for You, however, our relationship with him was so bad that I now consider those sessions some of the most miserable moments of my career. Not to take anything away from Jeffrey as a producer; he has fine ideas and knows what he’s doing. His problem is that he cannot handle people, and before long we started noticing a bad attitude on his part.
Everything came to a head one night when we were recording the vocals on one of the album’s most beautiful songs, “Memories.” Some parts of it called for a very subtle, wistful style of background singing that must be done in perfect unison. We were trying our damnedest to get it just right, and were coming close, when Jeffrey exploded.
“Naw, man,” he yelled. “I mean, shit, you all just ain’t doin’ it.” He chewed us out like we were school kids and generally acted like an asshole.
We kept saying, “Just give us a little time. We’re going to get it. Don’t worry.” But Jeffrey wasn’t hearing any of it. He didn’t view his role as helping the artist but bullying him, which simply doesn’t work.
One evening we were in the recording studio, and Jeffrey was in the control booth. There’s an intercom between the two rooms so that whoever’s in the booth can talk to people in the studio, and apparently Jeffrey didn’t know that he’d left it on. The next thing I know I hear Jeffrey’s voice coming over the speakers saying, “Shit, if I was still working with the Chairmen of the Board and not these guys, I wouldn’t have to put up with this crap!”
