ByD
The Pied Ptper of soul
music (Motown founder
Berry Gordy) has littered the
record company's path to
fame and fortune with
abused. disillussioned co
workers. employee, and
even an ex-wife. Thi , ac
cording to newsstand racks
cluttered with "Motown and
Me" exposes. Badmouthed as
a ruthless businessman who
trampled on friends and as-
ociates in his mad ru h for
"In God We Trust," Gordy
nevertheless got off easy.
What about the children of
the sixties who were cor
rupted by Motown's rocking
rhythm and sex-laden mes
sage?
As one of the kids.T' d hual
Mr. Motown into court on
child abuse charges if I could
get a wi tness to the pain I've
suffered at his hands. For the
damage he's done to an entire
generation. Gordy should not
be permitted to keep hi
blood-splattered bucks.
Every little bit hurts. Even
now. hearing the same old
song , but wi th d i ffe rent
meanings now that youth has
gone. is torture. I�d love to
sue him. I should sue him.
Why not? Tobacco com
panies are successfully sued
for marketing cancer stick .
Mr. Moto vn marketed sugary
rhythms and syrupy rhymes
that left under-aged, un-
u pc cti ng Ii ic ne r mal
nouri hed i ntellectua II y and
emotionally retarded. Surely.
such children deserve con
pen ation. A proof of his
Byron's
Flowers
11851 WOODWARD r
Detroit, I 48203
dastardly deed, every
motown hit is a strike against
him.
I hear a symphony inside
my head at the most incon
ve nie nt moments. I can' t
help my elf. Sometimes a
melody will reach out and
touch me in the morning.
Once. a few note beat me
i nto submi sion before cart
ing me off into the pa t on a
rush of rhythm. Like a heat
wave, exciting day of danc
ing in the treet swept over
me, leaving me breathless
and incredulous. Torn, I
bounced between "Ho
wee 1 it is" and It Rescue
me!" While a part 'of me
longed to flee the funky beat.
there was nowhere to run,
• nowhere to hide.
Even today, I carr't escape.
Where will I go? Rap? Pop?
No, I don't think o. A lot
of today's entertainer would
love to hitchhike to greatness
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ia the tim. to order your 18 1 C.'end.r.
thanks to "oldies but
goodies." However, M.e.
Hammer can pray and pray
until hi knee give wyand
. still. he can't touch the
sixties' magic. The machani
cal sounds and contrived mo
tion , the es .cncc of today'
musical creativity, ain't noth
ing like the real thing: offer
ing only a brief high-tech
flash before they're out of
here.
MAYBE T'S JUST my
imagination running away
with me but .ur rc nd er i ng
again and again to the ody
language of the Motown
Sound ma es me believe I
never can ay goodbye to the
melodies. Makes me think I
ain't too proud .ro beg, with
every bit of my heart, for a
chance to rcturn to a impler
placeand timc.
Wait! I've lost my focus;
my sense of purpo e. This
ain't a Motown promotion
piece. There' more to "The
Sound of Young America"
t ha n "Le tit W hip" and
"Ro c k i n ' Ro b i n." A
childhood neighbor wa a
perfect example qf the
. damage Mr. Motown caused.
For him, Psychedelic Shack
was just where it wa t, until
he heard it through the
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your lovi ng:
our loving. It
full of tears, a note promislng
that "omeday we'll be
together, cause ain't no
mountain high enough to
keep me form getting to
you."
Recently I approached thi
childhood neighbor bout
suing Mr. Motown. Through
tear of a clown he said he
vaguely understood how
Motown turned hi world up
sidedownbut,still it's a" pe
cial occasion to greet the
sunshine listening to Good
morning, Heartache."
I knew at that moment that
my last hope of Mr. Motown
paying for his abuse w s
gone. I'll be doggone if I
didn't wi h it would, rain but
"Baby, baby. don't cry,"
echoed in my brain, stopping
me in the tracks of my tears;
thinking Mr. Motown may
stop in the name of love.
D
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