motown

Ask the average person to listen to a piece of music and pick out the individual parts. Chances are, they will not know the difference between a bass drum and a high-hat, nor will they know which part is the bass line and which part is the guitar (unless it's a guitar solo, to which they will proceed to play air guitar).

Until someone takes the time to point these things out to you, it's all mud, an amorphous mass of melody and harmony to the layman's ears until the smaller sections that comprise a song are dissected.


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As a kid growing up, I loved the music that my parents played on their stereo. They played The Beatles and doo-wop oldies and a lot of Motown-- after all, this was the stuff they grew up on, so it meant more to them than it did to me.

The Motown selections were always upbeat, joyous and danceable. I never thought twice about the songs themselves. All I knew is that they were catchy and hummable, and I often found myself singing along without really knowing about the intricacies of the music.

As a full-grown man and a musician, I find myself time and again revisiting the Motown catalog and discovering a myriad of treasures. There was so much going on beneath the smooth, polished surface of those chestnuts from the Motor City.


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Case in point: "Stop! In The Name Of Love" by The Supremes.

I'll admit right off the bat that The Supremes were not my cup of tea as a young boy. They were a girl group, for Pete's sake! I was more attuned to Smokey Robinson's balladeering romanticism and Marvin Gaye's simmering masculinity than to the uber-femme posturing of Diana Ross, Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson.

Smokey and Marvin spoke directly to my developing male psyche, whereas The Supremes seemed silly, soft and inconsequential.

I liked "I Hear A Symphony" and "Someday We'll Be Together" from them, and that was about it. I paid none of the other tunes no mind: "Baby Love" was annoying; "Where Did Our Love Go?" barely held my attention; "You Can't Hurry Love" and "You Keep Me Hanging On" were covered by Phil Collins and Kim Wilde respectively, so my bias leaned to the more modern versions (I don't count Soft Cell's interpolation of "Where Did Our Love Go?" on the extended single of "Tainted Love" as a cover).

It was about three or four months ago when I realized the true brilliance of "Stop! In The Name Of Love" during an epiphany that drove me into the deepest depths of tunacy heretofore.

I was driving around town late night, feeling sorry for myself and bemoaning my lack of luck concerning the opposite sex. I had the radio tuned to KRTH 101, the classic L.A. oldies station that has been cranking out the hits for over 35 years.

"Stop!" came on, and rather than switch the station I let it play. Something about that ominous organ intro that rallies into action at the song's onset enervated me.

And then I heard the epiphany, the lilting refrain that mesmerized me like the siren song of Greek mythology.

In the background, as Diana Ross sings the line "I watch you walk down the street/ Knowing your other love you'll meet" the other two Supremes are singing "baby baby" and harmonizing like soulful angels watching over the love affair described in the lyrics, a mournful chorus rhapsodizing poetic in time to the music.



In all the years that I have heard this song played, whether on radio stations or in someone's home or on the jukebox of some dive bar, I have never picked up on that small part, which is almost buried in the mix. I've always noticed Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson's more obvious contributions to that song, but never the "baby baby" part.

Ever.

That is, until recently.


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Since then, I have been obsessed with that song, in particular that ghostly backup part that barely existed for me for the past three decades. I can't get that haunting refrain out of my head for the life of me. It is driving me insane.

It is so beautiful and sad, the way their voices glide underneath Ross' lead vocal, lamenting the poor choices of a figurative cad who is about to go off and break the heart of a woman who loves him dearly.

It could be my story. It could be your story.

Shortly after that epiphany, I began to re-investigate the Motown phenomenon, and realized that the other Supremes' presence wasn't the only thing that was taken for granted by the masses.


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When asked about my influences as a bassist, I always cite one man in particular. And every time I drop this man's name, the interrogator pauses and makes a face, trying to figure out if I am pulling their leg or if I am being intentionally obscure.

I reassure them that I am not joking: My favorite bass player of all time is James Jamerson, who played with the Motown house band on nearly every single Motown hit that was released in their heyday.

I first heard the name James Jamerson when I read an L.A. Times book review of Allan Slutksy's book Standing In The Shadows Of Motown in 1989. By that time I was already well-versed and steeped in Motown trivia, so Jamerson's name clicked in my head immediately. Now I knew the name of the guy who played the famous opening notes of The Temptations' "My Girl", as well as countless other hits.

When I started playing bass guitar, I started getting the question of who my influences were. I had to think about it-- Who were my influences anyway?

Sure, I could say what everyone else says and cite Flea from the Chili Peppers, or Les Claypool from Primus. Maybe I could get all jazzy and deep and drop Jaco Pastorius' name as well. But I knew in my heart that my playing was not in the same league as those guys, and if there was any one bass player that entered my mind when I played it would have to be Jamerson.

So I started answering that question with his name, and people screwed their faces at me in response.


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I never read the book Standing In The Shadows Of Motown, but I rented the DVD last week and marveled at the genius and talent of the unsung heroes of Motown: The Funk Brothers, as they were known back in the days jamming out in Studio A, aka "The Snakepit".

Remember the amorphous mass of melody and harmony I mentioned at the beginning of this blog? Well, in the case of Hitsville USA, that mass had a bunch of different names and personalities. Each name and personality lived a life of its own, and some of them died without ever having the kind of fame and recognition reserved for superstars like Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye.

The late James Jamerson emerges from the documentary as a forceful and mercurial performer, a true genius who taught himself how to play and elevated the instrument to another level. He wrote the complicated and syncopated bass lines himself, then played them with one finger on a Fender Precision (more commonly known as the P-Bass) with impossibly high action and heavy gauge strings that he never changed (according to his son, James Jr., never changing the strings on the bass "kept the funk in 'em").

My kinship with Jamerson extends to more than just playing the same instrument: We have the same first name; our birthdays are a week apart, and we share the same Zodiac sun sign (Aquarius); I have a P-Bass similar in design to his; we were both auto didactic (self-taught) musicians...

...And, I assume, both of us were fanatically dedicated with finding the perfect notes, capturing the proper pitch and appropriate feel of any given song.

Just listen to what James is doing on "Stop! In The Name Of Love", for example. He's not playing it straight-- he's putting English on it, making it swing and tapping out percussive flourishes that sneak by your subconscious in the most subliminal ways imaginable.

His genius was that you never noticed it.


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What I don't possess in skill or technique, I make up for by having a good ear and knowing what to play in relation to the rhythm and the melody.

I describe the instrumental sections of the modern pop music combo as follows:

The voice and melody can be represented by the head, where the mouth is located. It is synonymous with the face, which is the first thing most people identify with when they see a group or a solo performer. Looks play a huge part in how music is received.

The guitar and/or keyboard parts are represented by the torso, which is not only attached to the arms but also makes up the main body or frame of a song. This is the heart of a tune, synonymous with the chest.

The drums are the legs of a song, making it move and propel forward, upon which the melodies stand. The tempo is synonymous with the pace of the legs, whether they are walking or running.

And the bass? The bass is the ass. The booty. The lower region. The "bottom end", so to speak. A good bass line will make you shake your booty uncontrollably. The late James Brown knew it, and so does any bass player worth their salt.

Where does the funk from your body emanate? From your ass, of course. Where does the funk come from musically? From the bass, silly.

All of my bass lines come not only from my heart but out of my ass as well.


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One last thing before I go.

I never set out to play the bass.

No one ever sets out to play the bass. In fact, I've only known two people in my entire life who wanted to play the bass: my good friend and former band mate Clay Sails, and a kid who lent me his bass guitar shortly after high school. In both cases, they literally traded the bass for bigger and better things.

I was playing in a band and we didn't have a bassist. Since the other guitarist in the group was far superior to me on the six-string, it was decided that I be the bass player. Fair enough, I supposed, but none of us owned a bass and I had no money to go out and buy one.

An underclassman from my high school volunteered to let me borrow his bass and amplifier (both manufactured by Peavey) until I got one of my own. He barely played it, and although he had aspirations to be a musician, his true passion was cinema.

I never gave the bass back to that kid. It's not like I stole it, though: He would call me from time to time and ask for it back, and I'd say, "Sure man, come down here and take it" because I had no car of my own. But he never got back to me or demanded it back with any hurry.

Finally, I sold the bass one day after having it for two years. The kid never asked me about it, even during the few times when I ran into him again at a concert or a party.

I ended up buying an imitation Rickenbacker from Clay Sails, who was focusing more on guitar and piano. I owned that fake Rick for almost a decade before it was stolen from a friend's home.

These days I play the P-Bass, which was loaned to me by another friend. The P-Bass was just sitting in his garage, and when the fake Rick got robbed he lent me the guitar with no problem. He has never asked me for any money in return.

As for the kid who got me on the track to playing bass all those years ago... He's a movie director now. His major motion picture debut, an animated feature, opened last summer to rave reviews and made lots of money. I intend to rent the DVD just so I can hear his voice on the Commentary.

I wonder if he would've gotten into music more had I given it back to him, or if the bass would've collected dust in his room. Would I even be playing the bass today if not for him loaning it to me? If I had given it back, would I have gone out and bought another one for myself? Would he have neglected his movie dreams and become a first-class bassist par excellence?

It's hard to say. All I know is, he's happy, and so am I. And if I ever run into him again, I'm going to thank him with all of my heart for inadvertently introducing me to something that saved my life... as well as apologize for never giving it back.