His studio was downtown, and we went early one Saturday morning before "The Road Runner Show," my favorite
show at the time. Mr. Keith met us at the door and opened the studio. He showed us a small glass booth with all
kinds of equipment in it and explained what various tasks each performed. It didn't look like we'd have to lean over
any more tape recorders, at least not in this studio. I put on some big metal headphones, which came halfway down
my neck, and tried to make myself look ready for anything.
As my brothers were figuring out where to plug in their instruments and stand, some backup singers and a horn
section arrived. At first I assumed they were there to make a record after us. We were delighted and amazed when we
found out they were there to record with us. We looked over at Dad, but he didn't change expression. He'd obviously
known about it and approved. Even then people knew not to throw Dad surprises. We were told to listen to Mr.
Keith, who would instruct us while we were in the booth. If we did as he said, the record would take care of itself.
After a few hours, we finished Mr. Keith's first song. Some of the backup singers and horn players hadn't made
records either and found it difficult, but they also didn't have a perfectionist for a manager, so they weren't used to
doing things over and over the way we were. It was at times like these that we realized how hard Dad worked to
make us consummate professionals. We came back the next few Saturdays, putting the songs we'd rehearsed during
the week into the can and taking home a new tape of Mr. Keith's each time. One Saturday, Dad even brought his
guitar in to perform with us. It was the one and only time he ever recorded with us. After the records were pressed,
Mr. Keith gave us some copies so that we could sell them between sets and after shows. We knew that wasn't how the
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big groups did it, but everyone had to start someplace, and in those days, having a record with your group's name on
it was quite something. We felt very fortunate.
That first Steeltown single, "Big Boy," had a mean bass line. It was a nice song about a kid who wanted to fall in love with some girl. Of course, in order to get the full picture, you have to imagine a skinny nine-year-old singing
this song. The words said I didn't want to hear fairy tales any more, but in truth I was far too young to grasp the real
meanings of most of the words in these songs. I just sang what they gave me.
When that record with its killer bass line began to get radio play in Gary, we became a big deal in out neighborhood.
No one could believe we had our own record. We had a hard time believing it.
After that first Steeltown record, we began to aim for all the big talent shows in Chicago. Usually the other acts
would look me over carefully when they met me, because I was so little, particularly the ones who went on after us.
One day Jackie was cracking up, like someone had told him the funniest joke in the world. This wasn't a good sign
right before a show, and I could tell Dad was worried he was going to screw up onstage. Dad went over to say a word
to him, but Jackie whispered something in his ear and soon Dad was holding his sides, laughing. I wanted to know
the joke too. Dad said proudly that Jackie had overheard the headlining act talking among themselves. One guy said,
"We'd better not let those Jackson 5 cut us tonight with that midget they've got."
I was upset at first because my feelings were hurt. I thought they were being mean. I couldn't help it that I was the
shortest, but soon all the other brothers were cracking up too. Dad explained that they weren't laughing at me. He
told me that I should be proud, the group was talking trash because they thought I was a grown-up posing as a child
like one of the Munchkins in The Wizard Of Oz. Dad said that if I had those slick guys talking like the neighborhood
kids who gave us grief back in Gary, then we had Chicago on the run.
We still had some running of our own to do. After we played some pretty good clubs in Chicago, Dad signed us up
for the Royal Theater amateur night competition in town. He had gone to see B. B. King at the Regal the night he
made his famous live album. When Dad gave Tito that sharp red guitar years earlier, we had teased him by thinking
of girls he could name his guitar after, like B. B. King's Lucille. We won that show for three straight weeks, with a
new song every week to keep the regular members of the audience guessing. Some of the other performers complained that it was greedy for us to keep coming back, but they were after the same thing we were. There was a
policy that if you won the amateur night three straight times, you'd be invited back to do a paid show for thousands
of people, not dozens like the audiences we were playing to in bars. We got that opportunity and the show was
headlined by Gladys Knight and the Pips, who were breaking in a new song no one knew called "I Heard It Through
The Grapevine." It was a heady night.
After Chicago, we had one more big amateur show we really felt we needed to win: the Apollo Theater in New York
City. A lot of Chicago people thought a win at the Apollo was just a good luck charm and nothing more, but Dad saw
it as much more than that. He knew New York had a high caliber of talent just like Chicago and he knew there were
more record people and professional musicians in New York than Chicago. If we could make it in New York, we
could make it anywhere. That's what a win at the Apollo meant to us.
Chicago had sent a kind of scouting report on us to New York and our reputation was such that the Apollo entered us
in the "Superdog" finals, even though we hadn't been to any of the preliminary competitions. By this time, Gladys Knight had already talked to us about coming to Motown, as had Bobby Taylor, a member of the Vancouvers, with
whom my father had become friendly. Dad had told them we'd be happy to audition for Motown, but that was in out
future. We got to the Apollo at 125th Street early enough to get a guided tour. We walked through the theater and
stared at all of the pictures of the stars who'd played there, white as well as black. The manager concluded by
showing us to the dressing room, but by then I had found pictures of all my favorites.
While my brothers and I were paying dues on the so-called "chitlin' circuit," opening for other acts, I carefully watched all the stars because I wanted to learn as much as I could. I'd stare at their feet, the way they held their arms, the way they gripped a microphone, trying to decipher what they were doing and why they were doing it. After
studying James Brown from the wings, I knew every step, every grunt, every spin and turn. I have to say he would
give a performance that would exhaust you, just wear you out emotionally. His whole physical presence, the fire
coming out of his pores, would be phenomenal. You'd feel every bead of sweat on his face and you'd know what he
was going through. I've never seen anybody perform like him. Unbelievable, really. When I watched somebody I
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liked, I'd be there. James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Sam and Dave, the O'Jays - they all used to really work an audience.
I might have learned more from watching Jackie Wilson than from anyone or anything else. All of this was a very
important part of my education.
We would stand offstage, behind the curtains, and watch everyone come off after performing and they'd be all
sweaty. I'd just stand aside in awe and watch them walk by. And they would all wear these beautiful patent-leather
shoes. My whole dream seemed to center on having a pair of patent-leather shoes. I remember being so heartbroken
because they didn't make them in little boys' sizes. I'd go from store to store looking for patent-leather shoes and