A Woman Like Me Page 4

  I loved Clarence, adored Clarence, worshipped, pursued, and pushed my relationship with Clarence to the absolute limit. I did everything in my power to make Clarence Paul my man and, at the end of the day, he never was. I was merely one of his ladies. He thought I was cute. He liked the way I sang. I made him smile and laugh. He appreciated my fire. But I was the sideshow, never the main attraction. For more years than I’d like to recall, that was good enough for me. When it came to spending time with Clarence, I’d take anything I could get.

  Who was Clarence Paul?

  A cold-blooded music historian might identify him only as Stevie Wonder’s first caretaker and producer at Motown. He molded Stevie’s early music and, as Stevie would later tell the world, “He became the father I never had.” A kinder and more serious scholar would see him as an enormously talented musical mind. His real name was Clarence Pauling. He was born in North Carolina where he and his brothers formed a gospel group, the Royal Sons, who became the “5” Royales after turning secular. They hit with “Baby, Don’t Do It” in the fifties, but couldn’t sustain a career. Clarence came to Detroit where he met Mickey Stevenson. They had a singing duo that didn’t find much success, but when Mickey went to Motown as an A&R man, he brought Clarence along for the ride. It was Clarence and Mickey who, along with Marvin, wrote “Hitch Hike.”

  The Motown company line is that it was one big happy family. Bullshit. Motown was a bunch of tight cliques. Everyone was looking to position himself in the right clique. Marvin, for example, who came to Detroit from D.C. when Harvey Fuqua started working at Motown, got in good with the Gordy family. Harvey hooked up with Berry’s sister Gwen while Berry’s sister Anna grabbed hold of Marvin, who was seventeen years her junior. Marvin had been one of Fuqua’s Moonglows, the doo-wop group that had hit with “Sincerely” and “Ten Commandments of Love” back in the fifties. Like Clarence, Harvey saw that doo-wop was dying and came to Detroit where producer-pimps were making money.

  When I fell into the Detroit music scene, I didn’t know any men who weren’t making money off women. Whether the women were actually whores or ladies singing soul songs in the studio made little difference. Men were running women. This is the situation I accepted, even embraced. This was the reality I worked with. I liked many of these pimp-producers. I liked the edgy life they led. They were exciting, unpredictable, and sharp in mind and dress. When they had money, they let you know it by the cars they drove and the clothes they wore. When they didn’t have money, they found a way to keep steppin’ and stylin’ all the same. They were survivors who taught me to survive. I don’t mean that there weren’t serious assholes among them, but every culture has its assholes. In this culture, they were my men and I was their woman.

  Out of this culture came Clarence Paul, talented, charming, drop-dead handsome, and married. The first time I saw him, I was gone. It happened like this:

  I was at a club in Detroit called Lee’s Sensation. Nat Lee was the proprietor.

  I’d describe Lee as one of my “investors.” As my story unfolds, you’ll see that for the next four decades that group includes club owners, numbers men, pimps, politicians, and Baptist ministers. These were gentlemen who supported me in a variety of ways. In Lee’s case, he gave me not only a platform where I could be Bettye LaVette, but free drinks along with endless encouragement. I’m forever grateful to my “investors.”

  Andre Williams was another supporter, an early Motown producer and former doo-wopper looking to be born again in the world of sixties soul. He came out of the Five Dollars and, on his own, had a hit called “Bacon Fat.” Like most of the men who befriended me, Andre was ten years my senior. We became instant buddies and remain so to this day. I was watching Andre perform at Lee’s Sensation when Clarence Paul walked through the door and looked right at me—right through me. Everything about him was beautiful.

  “Bettyelavette?” he asked, slamming my names together.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Come here,” he ordered.

  I did. And I never came back.

  I left with Clarence that night. He put me in a shiny new Eldorado that later I learned was Andre’s. At the time, I thought it belonged to Clarence. I thought the world belonged to Clarence. We rode off into the night and I was his.

  In an era when most black men were reluctant to please women with oral sex, Clarence had no such reservations. Maybe that’s why he had more women than anyone. By word and deed, he let the ladies know that his business was pleasure.

  That night I took him home to the basement bedroom I occupied in our house on Trowbridge. I had painted the room a cool blue and furnished it tastefully. It was my private den. It had its own separate entrance. It allowed me to conduct my romantic life without involving the rest of the family. My daughter never met the men with whom I became involved. She never saw me in bed with anyone but my husbands.

  Before my male friends left, I encouraged them to leave a message on the wall. It became a tradition. I was surrounded by love notes and good wishes, happy memories of happy encounters. Of all of them, none was more satisfying than my time with Clarence.

  The way Marrie Early deeply loved men, Clarence deeply loved women. Of course, sex was a major ingredient, but it was more than that. Unlike a lot of guys who ran off at the mouth, Clarence was a man of few words. He had a calm and quiet aura. When you were with Clarence, he gave you his all. He looked at you, listened to you, felt you. He loved your company and you loved his. He had warmth I couldn’t resist. Out of all of his many extramarital affairs, I’m proud to say that ours lasted the longest. It took me damn near forever to get over him.

  This night of nights, when “Bacon Fat” drew me to Clarence, happened in 1963, the same year as Stevie’s first number-one hit, “Fingertips,” written by Clarence and Hank Cosby. Stevie was thirteen, I was seventeen, and Clarence was thirty-five. Marvin had another hit with “Pride and Joy” while my second single for Atlantic was sinking fast.

  In these early days of Motown, I had attitude. I saw myself as a cut above the local label. The Supremes and Temptations still hadn’t broken through, although Mary Wells, the Miracles, and the Marvelettes were doing well. My friend Martha Reeves and her Vandellas were climbing the charts with “Come and Get These Memories” and “Heat Wave.” But my head was high because I was an Atlantic artist, the greatest R&B label of all time, where Ray Charles became a superstar and Solomon Burke and the Drifters were my labelmates.

  At the same time, I wasn’t too proud to walk over to the Motown bungalow on West Grand Boulevard and sit around all day in the hopes that Clarence would emerge from the studio and spend time with me. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. When he did, the sun came out and the world was right; when he didn’t, I was disappointed but not defeated. Much as I adored Clarence, I knew he wasn’t about to leave his wife. Meanwhile, there were other guys who wanted to be with me, other men more than willing to help me get on with my career.

  Even though this is Clarence’s chapter—and certainly Clarence was the object of my most intense romantic concentration—there’s another man who, like Clarence, became a friend, mentor, and sometime lover. He was a Detroit pimp named Ted White.

  I call Ted a pimp because he freely called himself a pimp in my presence. He proudly described himself as such. Everyone who knew him well saw him not only as a pimp, but as one of the city’s most prestigious operators in that highly competitive field. I know that since those days Ted has turned himself around and become a model citizen. I applaud his makeover. But to tell the truth—which is the whole point of this book—I liked him back in the day when he was not walking the straight and narrow. I thought Ted White was one of the coolest guys I’d ever met.

  I met him in 1963. I was playing the Palladium Club, which had just opened. Ted came in to book his wife, Aretha Franklin, who would follow me with a ten-day engagement. Ted caught the end of m
y show and then introduced himself. He wanted to know if I was Jimmy Joy’s woman. I said no. Jimmy Joy was the biggest pimp in the city—the man Ted aspired to be. He wanted to know if I was attached to anyone. I wasn’t. Did I want a drink? I did.

  I found Ted intriguing. I had no strong sexual desire for him, but I saw that he wanted me. I also saw that he was extremely well groomed. He wore black slacks and an expensive black silk jacket. There was nothing gaudy about his dress. His jewelry was tasteful, a vintage Rolex watch, a set of discreet gold cuff links. He was cultivated. He was a reader. You never saw Ted without a history or psychology book. Rarely did you hear him curse. I later learned that he was admired and envied by his colleagues for his ability to attract women. What he had in abundance—and what they lacked—was class. It helped that he was handsome, but it was his aura of intelligence and cool composure that made the ladies want to turn tricks for him.

  Of Ted’s many fine qualities, the best was his teaching ability; he knew how to instruct a woman on the art of being a lady. He knew where to take her to buy elegant clothes; he could distinguish one expensive French perfume from another. It was Ted who taught many of us the nuances of stylish dress. In those days, we young girl performers tended to be loud and brash, onstage and off. Ted was the first to say to me, “Look, baby, when you’re out in public, in a restaurant or at a club, modulate your voice. Don’t squawk. Speak. A whisper gets more attention than a shout. Men like women who talk softly.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “I get too excited.”

  “Then control your excitement.”

  “I can’t control shit,” I said.

  Ted laughed. I could tell he liked me. It was more than the fact that I was seventeen and Aretha was twenty-one. He liked my free spirit. That spirit led to his bed. Over the next several days, we started what would be a dalliance that, with long respites, lasted decades. He became a good friend and a much-needed mentor. When I got into trouble and needed money, Ted was always there to help. Of course, I wasn’t his only other woman. He had many ladies stashed in apartments throughout the city. Between his prostitutes and girlfriends, the man led a busy life. Yet he negotiated those many relationships with skill and style.

  When it comes to the history of Aretha, Ted has been unfairly maligned. I think he helped her enormously. He told me how Aretha’s famous preacher father disapproved of their marriage. That motivated Ted even more to make sure that Aretha found fortune and fame. His main earner was a gorgeous prostitute men found irresistible. I adored her. And I emulated her. And I always aspired to be the “lady” she appeared to be. Ted further explained to me that it was important for him to be a manager and that you had to live up to his standards in order for him to work with you. He and Aretha also later managed Walter Jackson, whose first recording, “I Don’t Want to Suffer,” was released the same week as my first recording. We did what were then called “record hops” together.

  Ted was a great friend of Dinah Washington’s—as was Aretha’s dad. Ted used to say that his dream was to have Aretha kick Dinah’s ass—figuratively, of course. Dinah was the reigning queen, and if Ted could tutor the new queen, if he could rigorously train and prepare Aretha for the crown and actually pull off her coronation, he’d accomplish a lifelong dream. Well, that’s just what he did.

  A word about physical violence. I realize it’s politically incorrect to admit this, but the sight of a man slapping a woman did not horrify me. Context is everything. In the context of the Detroit showbiz culture of the sixties, men slapped their women around. They just did. It may sound radical to say so, but some women needed that. Some women even benefited from that. We all knew—we saw it with our own eyes—that Ted was slapping Aretha around. But without Ted’s grooming, Aretha would never have been a superstar.

  Same with Ike and Tina. I hated how Hollywood pictured Ike as a sadistic ogre. There was much more to the man than the movie revealed. Without Ike, there would be no Tina. He created her, reshaping her to become another person. Offstage he called her Ann. Onstage she was Tina. Through her long years with Ike, hundreds of men wanted Tina. Hundreds of men would have whisked her off in a hot minute. Tina could have left Ike at will. She chose to stay because she wanted to learn the lessons he had to teach. And those lessons resulted in her becoming a millionaire many times over.

  • • •

  As you can see, I’m a man’s woman. It’s fascinating—and easy—for me to see life from a man’s point of view. Maybe a psychologist would say I identified more with my dad than my mom. Maybe that same psychologist would say that because I lost my dad early, I kept searching for him in all these older guys. But I didn’t go to a psychologist. Psychology is an intriguing thing. God bless all the psychologists, but therapy was not part of my life, then or now. I acted out of instinct. My instinct was to survive as a singer and prevail as a person. It didn’t take a genius to realize that men held the key to that survival. Aside from a notable exception like Johnnie Mae Matthews, men had a stranglehold on the industry that interested me most. Women were their props. The only question was what kind of prop was I going to be.

  The Apple

  Nineteen sixty-three and sixty-four were big years. The Four Tops had their first Motown hit, while the Temptations and the Supremes finally broke through. Berry Gordy was riding high. It didn’t look like anything could bring him down until he got the news that shook him to his core: Mary Wells, his first superstar, was leaving. Mary had turned twenty-one and her lawyer argued that the contracts she had signed as a minor were invalid. It was her manager and former husband, Herman Griffin, who was moving her from Motown to 20th Century Fox Records. All this had a huge impact on me because Griffin was in business with Robert West, my manager. The Griffin–West combination, with Mary Wells in their camp, was a sure winner. They were already planning a tour and promising me lots of big gigs.

  After my second single flopped, I needed encouragement. By then, Bart Hollowell and I were living together on Trowbridge. He was a good man who babysat Terrye and ran errands for Mama. Bart would do anything for me. Meanwhile, I was still messing around with Ted White and wildly in love with Clarence Paul.

  I ignored Sister’s advice not to take money from one man to give to another. I took money from Ted and gave it to Bart to help us with our living expenses. I didn’t see any other way to get by.

  Professionally, my stock had fallen. I was down to playing local gigs. I was opening for Johnny Nash at Phelps Lounge. I didn’t complain, because the backup band, later known as the Funk Brothers, was one of the best anywhere. They were the guys who played on dozens of Motown hits and were then led by pianist Earl Van Dyke. Jack Ashford was on vibes, James Jamerson on bass, and Benny Benjamin on drums. The problem wasn’t with the music but with the money. I was paid next to nothing and barely getting by.

  My mind kept asking the same questions: If I’m an Atlantic artist with a solid hit to my credit, why am I starving? Why isn’t Atlantic doing more for me? My friends were asking the same questions. They had the same doubts. Had my label in New York forgotten about me? Did they care?

  When Robert West went to New York to hook up with Herman Griffin, I thought that problem would be solved. Mr. West would meet with Jerry Wexler to see whether Atlantic was serious about promoting me. If not, Mr. West would find another major label for me, just as Herman had found 20th Century Fox for Mary. Mr. West was also putting together a tour. All my hopes were on him.

  Katherine West, Robert’s wife, was making dresses for me to wear on that tour. I was at her house for a fitting when the call came: her husband, Robert, had been shot.

  The story was that Robert and Herman Griffin had been drinking and began arguing over contracts. Robert blew a fuse and went for his gun. Before he could fire it, Herman pushed Robert’s hand so that Robert wound up shooting himself in the eye. Robert wasn’t dead, but he’d never be the same.

 
I couldn’t believe it. My manager—my hope for the future and the man about to send me out on a major tour—had tried to shoot Mary Wells’s husband, only to wind up shooting himself.

  How to react? What to do?

  All I knew was this—I had to get out of Dodge. Detroit wasn’t working for me. These little ol’ club gigs weren’t paying. Without a manager to look after my career, I had to look after it myself. If I wanted the big time, I’d have to get to the big time. I had to get to New York. I had to pack my things and put my ass on a plane.

  The truth is that for as long as I’d been seeing photos of glamorous stars in glamorous nightclubs in Jet, I’d been looking for an excuse to go to New York. I’d do anything to get there. It’s taken me a lifetime to realize the foolishness of that move. These days I tell young people in show business: Don’t go to New York or L.A. unless you’re asked. In 1964, no one had asked me to go; no one wanted me to go. But, me being me, I went anyway.

  Sister and Mama—bless their hearts—supported me in all my decisions. After all, I’d made more money than any of them. I was the first in my family to make a hundred dollars in a single day. They saw no reason why I couldn’t be an artist as big as Mary Wells. If that meant going to New York, so be it. They’d care for Terrye.

  Bart wasn’t happy about my leaving him, but Bart, for all his sweetness, didn’t carry much influence. Clarence Paul and Ted White gave me enough money for a plane ticket and a few weeks’ worth of expenses.

  The night before I left, I was at Phelps Lounge where I met a man who would change my life.

  “Miss Bettye LaVette,” he said, “you’re a good singer but you need training.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Jim Lewis.”