My Life with Earth, Wind & Fire Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my children,

  Kahbran, Eden, and Mimi,

  as well as all those who are moved to fan the fire.

  ✭

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Part I: Memphis Wonderland 1: Mother Dear, Mama, and Me

  2: As I Yearn, So I Learn

  3: I’ll Never Lose Chicago Blues

  4: The Chess Lessons

  5: The Ramsey Lewis Trio

  6: The World Can’t Erase My Fantasy

  Part II: Between the Vision and the Fulfillment 7: Starting from Scratch

  8: Hearts of Fire, New Desire

  9: Trusting in the Process

  10: Step

  Part III: To Sing Our Message Loud and Clear 11: True Pride

  12: Accepting Life

  13: That’s the Way of the World

  14: Expansion

  15: Gratitude

  16: Departure

  Part IV: Full-Spectrum Music 17: Musical and Spiritual Progressives

  18: The Best of My Love at the Best of Times

  19: All ’N All

  20: Musical Theater, Magical Tour

  21: Beginnings and Endings

  22: A Hell of a Left Hand

  23: I Am

  Part V: The Changing Times 24: All in the Creator’s Hands

  25: Don’t Make My Band Your Crusade

  26: The Groove

  27: Black Tax

  28: Something’s Got to Give

  29: On the Solo

  30: Blindsided

  31: Not Fitting In

  32: A Time of Symbolism

  33: Letting Go

  Part VI: Contemplation 34: Time Will Witness What the Old Folks Say

  35: When My Final Song Is Sung

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Permissions

  Index

  Photos

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  Timeless

  Steve Harvey

  To write about how I feel about Earth, Wind & Fire, a musical group that has meant more to me than any other, is a true blessing. The band’s music is stored in my soul. I first heard the group when I was in high school. I’ll never forget the power of the album Head to the Sky. The song that I absolutely loved was “This World Is a Masquerade.” It remains my jam.

  By the time I got to college, I was all over them. As a freshman at Kent State, I vividly remember walking into a store called the Cucumber Castle and buying Earth, Wind & Fire’s That’s the Way of the World for $3.95. At the time, it broke me, but it was well worth it. More than four decades later, Earth, Wind & Fire’s music is by far the most-played music of my life—“Love’s Holiday,” “That’s the Way of the World,” “Can’t Hide Love,” and “Be Ever Wonderful” are in my personal top ten.

  Earth, Wind & Fire is simply one of the greatest living groups, period. No one put together lyrics to a melody like they did; no one put harmony to sound and rhythm like they did; no one added horns in the way that they did; and no one, but no one, messed with our minds about love and life like they did. They remained so thoroughly committed to soul, yet had a universal sound—and appeal. On top of all that, they knew how to show!

  I can’t express how fully and completely this band has touched my being. They have moved me beyond words over the years. Their lyrics interpret and convey my emotions—and in harmony. They sing my feelings exactly as they are, in words that could not have said it better. I’ve shared the music with my three sons, age ranging from almost an adult to their mid-twenties. I was excited when they all put several albums in their iPods. It made me smile.

  It’s an honor to be asked to endorse Maurice White’s amazing life story of how he took his band from conception to legendary status. The book is rich in tales of brothers in song—that damn Verdine “The Bass” White, Philip “Have Mercy” Bailey, and the rest of the heaven-sent band. God was right on time when he hooked up their skills. My interpretation of the elements: Earth because they grow on you; Wind because they move you in one loving direction; and Fire because they set your heart aflame.

  Hands down, Earth, Wind & Fire is the greatest group of all time.

  Maurice, I love and appreciate you at the highest level. This book made me smile over and over again: learning the behind-the-scenes of your music, getting a chance to hear the thoughts behind the lyrics, and matching them up with mine.

  Maurice, thank you for all that you have done for the world of music. Thank you for the insight. Thank you for your gift, not only to me but to us all. Thank you for honoring love the way you did, for real music that will never die, fade away, or go out of style. This thing you did is timeless. Thank you for letting God use you to do what you were born to do. Most people go through life never knowing what they were brought here to do. But you did it, man, and you did it like no one else—not before and not since.

  I’m just glad God allowed me to live to hear it for myself, because Lord have mercy, there ain’t nothing like your music!

  Foreword

  A True American Treasure

  David Foster

  Music history will affirm Maurice White’s unique contribution to rock and roll. Most will extol his many hit records, his leadership abilities, or his God-given talents as a producer, drummer, and singer, but it would be a disservice to limit his contributions to these well-known accomplishments. Maurice White was more; he was a catalyst. Through his creation of Earth, Wind & Fire, he changed the musical and performance landscape of pop music forever.

  It was foredestined that the first of my sixteen Grammys should be awarded for the song “After the Love Is Gone,” not because the song meant more to me than other hits that would come later, but because the song was my vehicle into the world of my mentor, hero, and friend Maurice White.

  I first met Maurice in early 1978. I was a session musician and arranger then, and had just started to produce records of my own. When I sat down at the piano and played “After the Love Is Gone” for Maurice, it was a life-altering moment for me.

  I believe Maurice and I hit it off so well because we both believe that being a good musician is a fine thing, but greatness is always the goal. In fact, my mantra is that good is the enemy of great. As I expected, I saw nothing but greatness in him during our first meeting; I somehow knew being around him would make me better. When you come from Canada, as I do, you have to work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously as a musician, and my work benefited from the ultimate guide—the music of Earth, Wind & Fire. I learned so much about how to fuse the different genres of R&B, jazz, and classical and still retain my own signature in the final product.

  I was also a normal, everyday fan, one of those thousands of people who stood in line at Tower Records in Hollywood so that one minute after midnight I could get the next Earth, Wind & Fire album.

  For so very long I wanted to tell the world about Maurice’s contribution to my life. At one point I entertained the idea of having a big testimonial dinner in his honor. I should have known: Maurice, being the very private man he is, wasn’t having any of that. But in October of 2010, at my latest David Foster & Friends television special for PBS, I finally did get the chance to publicly tell him, and the world, how I felt. I think my words that night summed it up:

  There is also someone here tonight, a man who taught me more about making music, about decency, about calmness, about well-being, and about the true spirit of music than any other h
uman being on the planet.

  One thing I know for sure, if he hadn’t been born, pop music would sound a lot different today. That man is the genius behind Earth, Wind & Fire. Ladies and gentlemen, he’s here with us tonight in a rare public appearance—Maurice White, my hero, my mentor, and a true American treasure.

  That was a special moment for me: cliché as it may be, I think it’s important to give credit to those on whose shoulders you stand, and—when life permits it—to give that credit directly, face to face with the ones you owe. As you might imagine, being able to do that in person in front of eight thousand people felt better for me than it probably did for Maurice.

  Now, after reading Maurice’s memoir, I finally understand how a humble Memphis upbringing gave the world the electrifying and optimistic music of Earth, Wind & Fire. His story is not a lurid rock-and-roll story about “the leader of the band” but a subtle, beautifully told one about clarity, core motivations, courage, and, above all, music—all told through the eyes of a private man dedicated to using music to lift the spirit of the listening world.

  This textured narrative is a testament to the musical boundaries Maurice White erased and the different people he brought together, a testament that shows who he is personally and professionally. For me, it recalls the many creative bursts we shared—moments I will always cherish.

  This is the story of a true American treasure indeed.

  Prologue

  On March 6, 2000, I stepped to the podium at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City to accept Earth, Wind & Fire’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In my acceptance speech, I told the audience that establishing the band’s place in history had been a hard road, but a good road. I considered the honor a small capstone to a long career in what I believe is the highest form of creative expression—music.

  The long and winding road that led up to this moment started in a series of dreams I had in 1969. These dreams, which I believe were given to me from the Divine, inspired me to form a band that would uplift the human spirit, whether through celebrating the benefits of developing the inner life or simply creating joyous musical moments.

  I’ve given the music of Earth, Wind & Fire everything I have: mind, body, and spirit. When I hear those songs today, on the radio or coming from the television, the lyrics don’t bring back memories of writing, recording, or even performing them. Rather, they remind me of my personal life journey.

  My odyssey with Earth, Wind & Fire has taught me that the significant events of our lives become our spiritual story. I hope that when you read my story, you will be inspired to live your own life with gratitude and purpose. My Memphis Christian roots, which evolved into my belief in the universal truths of all the faiths and the wisdom of the stars, have guided my path. But it’s the lessons of my spiritual story that have made me a survivor and kept my head to the sky.

  Part I

  Memphis Wonderland

  1

  Mother Dear, Mama, and Me

  Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They came through you but not from you and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

  —Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

  Although I was only four years old, I clearly remember my mother, Edna Parker, explaining to me why she had to leave Memphis for Chicago and how I would become part of a new family:

  “I can’t get a job here unless I’m scrubbin’ some white folks’ floor.”

  Her work schedule wouldn’t allow her the time to take care of me properly. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew that she didn’t want me to be raised by babysitters. The job opportunities for poor black women then were slim to none. Even though Memphis was a hub for people coming from the surrounding rural areas to find work in the factories, that work was mostly for men. I easily accepted the move, as it seemed that everyone around me in Memphis was moving north, to Detroit, Chicago, or New York.

  Staying with my birth father, John White, who died when I was five years old, was not an option. White was originally from Mississippi. When he moved to Memphis, he opened a club on Beale Street. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to work at the big forty-acre Firestone plant in north Memphis, nor was he going to become a Pullman porter. According to local legend, he aspired to be the “Al Capone of black Memphis.” He became a gangster, a mean gangster. In my limited interactions with him, he was also a mean father. On one occasion, trying to escape a beating, I ran into the closet and hid in the corner, concealed by hanging clothing. Looking down, I saw a pair of bright green shoes. They looked magical. I was captivated by them.

  When my mother left Memphis at the age of twenty-one, she put my small yellow hand in Miss Robinson’s big, soft black hand. “You mind Miss Robinson now,” she said with tears in her eyes, leaning down to give me a kiss on the cheek. Somehow her face seemed smaller, and the room seemed larger.

  Elvira Robinson was a wide lady, just over five feet tall, who I would call Mama until the day she died, while my birth mother became Mother Dear. Mother Dear had God on her side, which gave her the good instinct to leave me with Mama. Since Mother Dear was only seventeen years old when she had me, being left with the mature Miss Robinson turned out to be the first blessing of my life. Sweet, tender, godly, and strong, she was a gift to me.

  For black people born in the 1930s and ’40s, it was not uncommon to be raised by your grandmother, and for many years I would refer to Miss Robinson as my grandmother. It offered a neat and tidy way to explain my upbringing in Memphis, away from my birth mother.

  I got my strength from Miss Robinson. She had a lot of wisdom. Book education is one thing, but wisdom is something different. She was always saying things like “Be true to yourself,” “Keep your life clean,” “Keep the house clean,” “God is always with you,” and “Keep stepping,” meaning moving forward. She didn’t treat me as a child, hugging on me and all that, but her words compensated for the lack of physical affection. “Whatever you have, God can use,” she would remind me. Most of all she would tell me, “Sandy”—my nickname was Sandy, because of my blond hair and fair skin—“you are going to be a successful man, and you’re going to get the world’s attention.”

  I think Mama had a sixth sense. She instinctively knew I needed those affirmations. I was a profoundly shy child. I don’t know if I was born that way, or if shyness was awakened within me when Mother Dear left.

  Mama stressed order on every level. She would only need to gesture to me to clean up. She’d look down at the floor and raise her hand and slightly point, as if to say, Pick this up and put that away. I am a neat freak to this day, as a result.

  As part of our routine, every evening the shabby spring-loaded screen door would fly open and loudly slam against the house. A second later I’d hear her voice ring out, “SAANNNDDY!” like an air-raid horn. Everyone on my street could hear her calling me in for dinner.

  Mama worried about me being out in the streets. She had a strong presence in the neighborhood, which provided some safety early in my life. She also had strong skills with a switch. I had to be home at a certain time, or there would be hell to pay. I didn’t get away with anything.

  One winter, my whippings came to an end. I had missed my curfew the night before. I was twelve years old, and it was cold in our meager apartment that morning.

  “What time did you get home last night, Sandy?” Mama asked.

  “Mama, I was only about fifteen minutes behind,” I said, although I’d really been over an hour late.

  “Well, go get the belt.”

  I got up from the table, walked that long stroll of eight steps, opened the closet door, gave her the dark brown leather belt, and sat down. I knew what was coming. She started walking toward me. I don’t know what came over me, but I wasn’t in the mood for a whipping. I stood up and said, “I’m bigger than you, I’m taller than you, and you can’t even get your arm around me. I’m sorry for being late—but I ain
’t taking no whipping.” I sat down and ate my oatmeal.

  It was one of only two times that I ever challenged Mama’s authority. I grew up in a time and place where the mother was king. While men and fathers were around, they were not dominant. Women worked. Women controlled the home. Women controlled the neighborhood. Many of the black women on my block also went to jobs where they fed, raised, and socialized white babies. Some of the women were lucky enough to get jobs in the many laundry service companies, like Loeb’s Laundry and Krause Cleaners. The work was hot and dirty, but it still paid better than being a domestic like Mama, and was socially a step above.

  Mama loved Mahalia Jackson. She would play Mahalia’s popular “Move On Up a Little Higher” over and over again, especially on the weekends. Mahalia Jackson’s voice was definitely my introduction to music. I knew when Mahalia was singing about being up in glory, that meant after you die. I was scared of the concept of death. When Mama would sing along with the record, I thought it meant Mama was going to die.

  Later, Mama bought Ray Charles’s “It Should Have Been Me.” I could tell by the way she sashayed her hips back and forth and bopped her head that this type of music made her feel something different than Mahalia’s songs. As I heard more and more Ray Charles, I began to distinguish the patterns of the repetitive piano, drum, and saxophone parts. There was other music, but Mahalia Jackson and Ray Charles became the sound track of our house.

  The music wasn’t just at home. Mama would take me to church every Sunday and every Wednesday. I can recall the muffled sound of the upright piano playing as we walked up to the church. Gospel music had a melodic rhythm and rhyme that hypnotized me. There was a strong Negro tradition of spontaneous singing—someone would stand up and start singing, and the pianist and all the congregants would fall in. These were songs every black person knew—“Have a Little Talk with Jesus,” “Don’t Let Nobody Turn You Round,” “We’ll Understand It Better By and By,” “Rock of Ages,” and a hundred more. It was hard not to be swept up by these powerful songs. I felt them in my bones.