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STEVEN IVORY: Jheryl Busby Took Something with Him
According to the thin middle aged black woman in the orange traffic vest, my name is not on her clipboard. Thus, I cannot park in the main lot of Inglewood's Tabernacle at Faithful Central Bible Church this afternoon. In the music business, even in death, it's about that List.
But I can dig it. As it is, the Tabernacle has filled three formidble parking lots accommodating the assorted music executives, artists and producers who have rolled upon the church in stretch Hummers, chauffeured limos and a fleet of high-end foreign cars and SUVs.
They've all come to pay their respects to Jheryl Busby.
The average person may not know his name, but if you listen to black pop, at some time or another you've heard a recording marketed, promoted, argued over or otherwise shepherded by Busby. Performers, songwriters and producers create music. However, it is the music executive who turns recorded songs into hits, often, by any means necessary. Inside the once burgeoning business of black music, Busby was a star.
During the '80s, under Busby's reign as President of its black music division, the previously unfunky MCA enjoyed platinum hits by Bobby Brown, Jody Watley, New Edition and Patti Labelle, among others.
At the height of his career, Busby engineered a deal that in 1988 had MCA purchase Motown Records, install him as Motown's CEO and give him equity in the legendary label that Berry Gordy founded. In his day, Busby played the game big, partnering with Janet Jackson and Magic Johnson to buy a 51 percent stake in Los Angeles' Founders National Bank.
Despite his ongoing battle with diabetes, until just a few days ago the semiretired Busby still busied himself with various independent projects. That he passed away on the morning of November 4th, while preparing to head out to vote for Barack Obama, is an irony not lost on those at the church.
"They are both trail blazers," says a wistful Michael Bivins. I hadn't seen Bivins in almost 20 years (this is another reason people attend funerals, to see folks they haven't seen in years), when we sat in his rental in the underground garage of a West Hollywood hotel while he played me a cassette of a vocal group he'd discovered.
I thought they were good--the barbershop harmonies reminded me of Take 6--but I didn't know what kind of chance they'd have in a market increasingly dominated by hip hop. Apparently, Busby knew better; he signed the act to Motown and Boys II Men went on to sell millions of recordings worldwide.
Bivins met Busby as a teenage member of New Edition, while Busby was in the prime of a brilliant career. I met Busby earlier, in the '70s, when he was an affable, tenacious promotion man for such labels as Casablanca Records and Atlantic.
Behind the wheel of a station wagon rented with a record company credit card, Busby would drive bands like Cameo and Faze-O around to appearances at L.A. mom and pop retail record stores. He'd hang the posters, feed the act--whatever it took to make a record happen. And he'd do it all with a smile and aw-shucks charm.
When he became Motown's CEO, despite his years of toil, I still used to wonder how such a nice guy could work his way up the ranks in a business as treacherous as stoking the star-making machinery. I got my answer a few days before Christmas.
I'd written something about Motown in BRE Magazine--I don't recall what it was now, but I do remember it was nothing negative--that Busby didn't approve of.
His secretary got me on the phone, and Busby came on like a freight train, cursing that I should have called him before going to press. I told him I had in fact left him a message--back then, Busby was notorious for not returning calls--but he ignored me.
“I got three people in my office right now going through messages, looking for your call," he said angrily. "I bet I'm not going to find one. I'm going to get you this time, Ivory.” He said it as if we'd gone through this before.
After he did his yelling, Busby went silent for a few seconds and then calmly said, “Well, anyway, Merry Christmas, man.” Merry Christmas, to you too, Jheryl. I was dumbfounded. But no longer did I wonder how Buzz went from hanging posters in record stores to running Motown.
During the Tabernacle service, Shanice Wilson performs an a ccapella "The Lord's Prayer" before singing live to the track, "I love Your Smile," a song she recorded when Busby signed her.
Johnny Gill, accompanied by Stevie Wonder on piano, absolutely rips up the gospel classic, "By and By," no doubt forcing Stevie to work harder than he'd planned to when he follows Gill with a soul-stirring "I Won't Complain."
Alas, I do complain. Because, sitting among a church full of music business legends and lions from a certain era, I can't help but feel like this is not just a bittersweet sendoff for a buddy of ours. The occasion feels suspiciously like yet another unofficial cue that black music and its industry--as the people in this room know, love and nurtured it--truly is over. It feels like Busby took something with him.
For old people--okay, oldER--everybody looks pretty good. And we still know how to get down. But we gotta stop meeting like this.
I am tired of writing this kind of column. Sadly, the hits just keep on comin.'
Steven Ivory's book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster) is in stores now or at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com) Respond to him via STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM or MYfeedback@eurweb.com
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