Visiting Detroit Part 1 by Rob Moss

Once we’d discovered the joys of soul music in those early, surly days of pubescence, it was almost inevitable that the magnetic influence of Detroit would come to penetrate, infiltrate and dominate our hearts, minds, bodies and soles. Initially it was Motown, but as interest prompted deeper scrutiny, others, similar but different, entered the fray. And as we began to realize just how special the unique ‘sound’ was, it finally dawned that the giant bulk of this wonderful music was performed by a relatively small group of very special musicians in league with an even smaller ‘inner circle’ of creative forces, and that it was recorded in a handful of facilities dotted around the city. Scores of singers and groups benefited, in varying degrees, from the considerable commercial prosperity that was generated, and the city gained an artistic reputation that persists to this day. This is not to say that Detroit was alone, however, in contributing to the heritage and history of American musical culture. Cities like Memphis, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, New Orleans and even Los Angeles have made significant contributions. But to many, Detroit IS special because it single handedly gave a separate and unique genre of music to the world that was created and developed, in the main, by its own people, in its own back yard and in its own image.

Detroit, Michigan lies at America’s most northerly border on the Detroit River, which separates it from Windsor, Ontario on the Canadian side. Throughout the early nineteenth century it had been an important destination for slaves seeking freedom in Canada. A much different migration took place at the end of the century when Henry Ford established his automobile plant in the city in 1901.Others followed and it wasn’t long before the city became the centre of car manufacture in America. Over the succeeding decades, thousands of black workers migrated north from the Southern states in search of work and a better life, thus swelling the population and expanding the city’s boundaries.

Detroit is not known as a holiday destination. There are no amusement parks, great   monuments, natural beauty spots or special attractions to speak of. For several years it held the ominous reputation as being America’s murder capital, and the scars inflicted by the riots of 1968 are still evident in the burnt out buildings, empty lots and vacant structures that blight many neighbourhoods. Yet, there is a strange aesthetic attraction in its tree lined boulevards, full of massive wooden detached houses that most people outside America  could only dream about inhabiting, its daunting downtown  thoroughfares, dwarfed by enormous Art Deco blocks, hulking medieval looking churches that would be cathedrals in any other city, and monstrous developments that could accommodate the population of several Caribbean islands. This is a city where 98% of the population own motor vehicles, the bus system is more skeletal than a fashion model’s shadow and pedestrians and cyclists are legitimate targets for taxidermists. Like all American cities, if not all of America, the sheer size, distance and extent of its proportions, that’s people and property, makes a striking first impression. Europeans live in model villages and dinky toytowns in comparison to this place But, strangely, the size doesn’t necessarily reflect the price, and significant savings are made on almost every purchase – from petroleum to pogo sticks. Sadly, the great exception to this rule is the cost of collectable, soul 45rpm phonograph records, once the cut price ambrosia of the visiting record collector, now the belated quarry of newly acquainted native vinyl bounty hunters, eager to extort their heavy toll without any apparent appreciation or awareness of the beauty, glory or magic contained therein. Itinerant opportunists now scour black areas searching for lucrative titles that held no interest to them for decades, eager to offer punitive rewards to people too poor, and ignorant of true value, to care. The ugly face of American capitalism continues to scowl at its victims. It is only the lasting memory many of us treasure of the times, not that long ago, when great swathes of vinyl were carted off to foreign climes at fractional rates from vendors only too keen to offload material they thought worthless and witless, that keeps us smiling wryly.

My first trip to Detroit took place in the early 1990s, and was prompted by several telephone conversations I’d had with one of the true greats of motortown music -  Andrew ‘Mike’ Terry. Initial contact had been facilitated by Alan ‘Doctor Licks’ Slutsky, the writer of the James Jamerson biography, and producer of the ‘Standing in the Shadows of Motown’ film, who had tracked him down in New Jersey, whilst researching his book. As luck would have it, Terry was moving back to Detroit and was there when I arrived. Like a child on his first visit to Santa’s grotto, I experienced a mixture of trepidation, excitement, wonder and awe on emerging from the tunnel on the American side of the border into the ‘downtown’ core from where my expedition of discovery would begin. Scores of cassette tapes, fully loaded with local productions, provided a nostalgic soundtrack and greatly enhanced the surreal world that enveloped me as I took it all in. To recount the records, labels, artists, studios and musicians that operated here, and the part they played in our lives for the past decades was a humbling yet electrifying experience. And it got even better when I, almost accidentally, found myself on Grand Boulevard heading west. It is surprising how close the Hitsville building is to the city centre, unlike the Stax studio in Memphis, or the bulk of English football grounds, which tended to be located in poorer neighbourhoods. The Motown studio at 2648 Grand Boulevard is actually a large wooden detached house, set back from an enormous eight lane tree lined avenue with large manicured lawns in front, and the distinctive blue awning, erected by Raynoma Gordy all those years ago, resplendent above the large plate glass window at the front of the structure. To stand in front of this innocuous edifice considering its significance in the history of black endeavour, creative genius and social advancement was truly stirring. To enter the enchanted kingdom was even better. A tiny reception area adjoins several smaller offices and storage areas on the main floor. The upper floor contains a reproduction of Berry and Raynoma Gordy’s living area when they first purchased the building. All interesting stuff but pale in comparison to the magical world that existed in the subterranean studio area now known everywhere as ‘The Snakepit’.

Access to the studio is down several steps past the open doorway of the recording console room, which in turn looks out through another large glass window onto the performance area itself. Above the window are several sound level gauges. Mike Terry would later tell me that when they recorded, the needles were constantly into the red areas and that momentary distortion of notes would sometimes occur. The sophistication of the music made here does not appear to be matched by the technology on show. The control panel doesn’t seem to contain more than 10 or 12 channels, and the reel to reel tapes and candy machine tucked in one corner harp back to a much more innocent era. It is a great testament to the technical brilliance of Mike McLean, who almost single handedly built the entire setup himself, that the music always retained a warmth, vibrancy and clarity when reproduced on record. The overwhelming reaction when first stepping into the studio itself is just how small it is. It is mind boggling to imagine so many people shoe horned into such a cramped facility, with a baby grand piano, vibes and a separate partitioned area for the drums, as well as guitarists, horns and even a string section managing to fit in. Microphone wires dangle from the ceiling like vines in a jungle and several amplifiers, including James Jamerson’s, bear tantalizing witness to the phenomenal amount of wizardry and wisdom that occurred here. Like many others, I would give anything to have been in this studio, anytime in the 1960s, and to have watched just one session. Standing alone in this special room cause images, songs, sounds and a variety of equally random  memories and feelings to bombard the senses all at once, and create a strange euphoria of recollection and gratification.

Although I returned to Hitsville a couple of days later with Mike Terry, that very first time will always be a unique experience. I felt like a combination of Jake Blues when he ‘…saw the light’ in James Brown’s church, MLK when he reached the promised land and the scorer of the winning goal for Coventry City in the 1987 FA Cup Final, when I was finally ushered out of the building at closing time. Mind altering. It was Mike’s first time back to the scene of so many triumphs since his acrimonious departure in 1967. Ironically, the first person we encountered as we approached was Berry Gordy’s sister Esther who runs the facility. She recognised him immediately and greeted him warmly. The tour Mike provided was completely different to my previous experience, as he indicated where each musician was positioned, provided anecdotes about most performers and participants, explained how sessions were organised plus much more fascinating information and insight. He enthused most about Holland-Dozier-Holland sessions, which he enjoyed the most. Apparently, they would prepare everyone involved by providing ample and equal amounts of food, drink and ‘special’ tobacco prior to the anointed time and create a ‘party’ atmosphere, which would carry over into the fervor of the session. Thank goodness for innovation and good old indulgence. During the entire time I spent with him, Mike retained a modesty rarely seen from one so mighty and attempted to be as helpful as possible in answering and explaining the deluge of questions and queries I rained down upon him. He provided many fascinating insights into a variety of related subjects ranging from the unfairness, restriction of trade and lack of creative opportunities at Motown, the sheer volume of sessions he played on, not only in Detroit but in Chicago, Philadelphia, LA, Memphis and New York (and how he couldn’t have done them if he’d been married at the time!), the bewildering array of artists he worked with and his relationship with fellow musicians, arrangers and producers. Mike Terry’s good reputation and popularity within the music fraternity meant that finding and contacting former associates and colleagues was made a lot easier. Over the next few days I managed to meet other musicians, producers and artists who would add their own unique contributions to the ever expanding knowledge and understanding of the Detroit music scene in the 1960s, and lead me to even more fruitful endeavours.