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 Theatre 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 Theatre 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 theatre 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 favourites.

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 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 they'd say, "We don't make them that small." I was so sad because

I wanted to have shoes that looked the way those stage shoes looked,

polished and shining, turning red and orange when the lights hit them. Oh,

how I wanted some patent-leather shoes like the ones Jackie Wilson wore.

Most of the time I'd be alone backstage. My brothers would be upstairs

eating and talking and I'd be down in the wings, crouching real low, holding

on to the dusty, smelly curtain and watching the show. I mean, I really did

watch every step, every move, every twist, every turn, every grind, every

emotion, every light move. That was my education and my recreation. I was

always there when I had free time. My father, my brothers, other musicians,

they all knew where to find me. They would tease me about it, but I was so

absorbed in what I was seeing, or in remembering what I had just seen, that

I didn't care. I remember all those theatres: the Regal, the Uptown, the

Apollo - too many to name. The talent that came out of those places is of

mythical proportions. The greatest education in the world is watching the

masters at work. You couldn't teach a person what I've learned just standing

and watching. Some musicians - Springsteen and U2, for example - may feel

they got their education from the streets. I'm a performed at heart. I got

mine from the stage.

Jackie Wilson was on the wall at the Apollo. The photographer captured him

with one leg up, twisted, but not out of position from catching the mike

stand he'd just whipped back and forth. He could have been singing a sad

lyric like "Lonely Teardrops," and yet he had that audience so bug-eyed with

his dancing that no one could feel sad or lonely.

Sam and Dave's picture was down the corridor, next to an old big-band shot.

Dad had become friendly with Sam Moore. I remember being happily amazed that

he was nice to me when I met him for the first time. I had been singing his

songs for so long that I thought he'd want to box my ears. And not far from

them was "The King of Them All, Mr. Dynamite, Mr. Please Please Himself,"

James Brown. Before he came along, a singer was a singer and a dancer was a

dancer. A singer might have danced and a dancer might have sung, but unless

you were Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, you probably did one better than the

other, especially in a live performance. But he changed all that. No

spotlight could keep up with him when he skidded across the stage - you had

to flood it! I wanted to be that good.