Traveling Soul (30 page)

The new members locked in with Lucky as their leader. My father loved Lucky—everyone did—but he learned Lucky was a peculiar man. On stage, he'd wear a Nehru jacket long after that style had passed, along with black dress pants that had been pressed so often they were shiny as glass, and he'd pull them up too high, leaving the cuff several inches above his shoes. He wore fake silk socks and Stacy Adams dress shoes. While he played, a Marlboro cigarette dangled from his lips, and he bit the filter, shooting a steady stream of smoke into his face. He'd squint his
eyes through the smoke and violently thrust his hips, appearing to hump his bass guitar.

Lucky's idiosyncrasies went beyond dress and stage presence. He carried a briefcase on tour, and everyone assumed he had gear or sheet music in it—until he opened it. His briefcase was custom designed to hold a liquor bottle and shot glasses. Next to a bottle of J&B scotch, he kept a bottle of hot sauce, a Polaroid camera, and a huge picture collection bound by rubber bands. Each picture showed an overweight old woman wearing skimpy lingerie, striking a sensual pose. Lucky liked older women and often joked, “If you see me with a younger woman, I'm holding her for the police.” But the man could play a bass into submission, and that was enough for my father.

In an era with few television outlets, performing on a late-night network talk show gave them precious exposure to the pop market. So in 1969 the Impressions were fortunate to book an episode of ABC's
The Joey Bishop Show
. As with radio, however, television came with its share of racism and conservatism. While the Impressions rehearsed “Choice of Colors,” Bishop's producer loomed nearby. “You won't be able to do that song on this television show,” he said. “It isn't right for the format, and it won't work on a national televised audience.” Tense moments passed as my father considered leaving the show rather than submitting to unfair censorship. Bishop noticed the problem and walked over to discuss it. “What's going on?” he asked. My father explained the situation. Bishop thought for a second and said, “Hey, if this is your hit record, go ahead and do it.”

Though they won the showdown with Bishop's producer, it seemed the country's problems followed the Impressions wherever they went, all the more so because Dad bravely put himself and the group in the middle of those problems. Racism, revolution, and riots hung heavy in the air. Everyone had to deal with them. Some, like Bishop's producer, tried to ignore them until they went away. Others, like the Impressions, confronted them fearlessly. Yet, the more fearless my father became with
his songs, the more he worried for Fred and Sam. He didn't mind taking chances by himself—chances that could end in radio bans or worse—but he didn't feel comfortable putting Fred and Sam and their livelihoods on the line. Dad wanted to confront society's ills more powerfully than ever before. He also wanted to stop touring. Somewhere deep within, he knew he couldn't achieve those desires with the Impressions.

After finishing their work in California, the Impressions drove back to Chicago's stinging cold, and Curtis found his grandmother in the hospital. Annie Bell died on March 13, 1969, of pneumonia and congestive heart failure brought on by diabetes. The next day, Uncle Kenny returned safely from Vietnam. Annie Bell told Uncle Kenny she'd wait for him to get home. She almost made it.

Of all the tragedies over the past few years, losing Annie Bell hurt Dad the most. He'd already put his brother Kirby in the ground, and he'd seen five of America's greatest leaders slain. Now, he said goodbye to the woman who had done more to shape, guide, and inspire him than anyone but his mother. Annie Bell helped lead him to music. Her voice echoed in his lyrics. Her sermons gave his songs direction. Because of her, he met Jerry Butler. Because of her, he joined his first vocal group. Because of her, he fell in love with the life of a traveling musician. Without her, nothing else he'd achieved would have been possible.

Amidst this emotional upheaval, Dad struggled with a romantic relationship on the brink of failure. My mother's patience for his cheating wore thin, but he couldn't stop. He set up a mistress in an apartment on the North Side, and he lived two lives, splitting time between our home and her apartment.

It's amazing he found time for a mistress. He had four children, his own label to run, a successful album to promote, and a fiery partner at home who inched closer to leaving him. On top of all that, after the tour ended, my father booked time in the studio to recut most of the Impressions' catalog because ABC-Paramount owned his old masters. In shrewd businessman style, he wanted to record the songs again so
whenever anyone wanted to license them, they would license his masters, and all the money would go to Curtom. André, Craig, Lucky, and Melvin remained close during this period because my father, unlike many artists, recorded with his road band whenever possible. Lucky stayed with André in a motel on Stony Island Avenue, sharing a room about five minutes from Curtom's offices.

After a long day of recording old Impressions material, Lucky would return to the hotel and eat barbecue ribs or pizza for dinner. He'd ruffle through the briefcase, pour a nip of J&B scotch, douse his food with hot sauce, and wash it down with red soda. After a few weeks, his fingertips began to turn yellow. He thought he had jaundice, so he and André hopped in a cab and found an emergency room. The doctor said Lucky had elevated blood pressure and asked if he ate large amounts of canned-tomato products. As it turned out, between the acid from the hot sauce and the trash he ate, his hands had become discolored. The doctor told him his lips would turn yellow too if he didn't lay off the hot sauce and pizza.

Lucky would have little choice but to diversify his diet on the road as they set out for ninety days of one-nighters through places like Mississippi, Louisiana, North Carolina, and Georgia. As the Impressions toured,
Young Mods
threw “Seven Years” high on the R&B chart to keep “Choice of Colors” company. The new single continued the album's success and kept Curtom moving forward.

Success or not, touring continued to drain my father physically and mentally. “Sometimes we'd drive five or six hundred miles,” André says, “and sometimes a couple of the gigs would be canceled and we'd have to drive all the way back.” It also exhausted Dad emotionally, especially because integration remained a sore subject in the South. At a show in Natchez, Mississippi, the Impressions were escorted to their dressing room and weren't allowed to leave until showtime. As soon as they finished performing, a group of white highway patrolmen told my father they couldn't stay the night. Weary as usual, the band piled into the bus and set off for the next stop. It stung, but at least in the South they'd let you know why. The same thing would happen in the North, but they'd
do it with a smile, never admitting the real reason. “Your services were welcome, but you as a person were not welcome,” André says.

Touring was harder on the band than the Impressions. My father, Fred, and Sam never rode the bus—they sat in the comfort of their Cadillacs. Band members could ride with them, but the rule was they had to drive. So, it was either driving all night in a Cadillac, or jostling on the bus, where sometimes the heat would break and they'd freeze their balls off, or they'd all be sick, sneezing, and coughing, or the driver wouldn't stop when they needed a bathroom so they'd have to piss in coffee cans.

Even in the comfort of his Caddy, Dad was worn out. He'd traveled the country nonstop since he was a child with the Northern Jubilee Singers. “I shouldn't even be traveling, in this tax bracket,” he said. Fred was tired too. “We'd get up at eight or nine in the morning and do four or five shows, man, and work to two AM, and then get up the next morning at eight or nine again and do it for seven days,” he said. “It wears you
out
.”

Touring also left them with very little time to pursue other interests. Fred started a beauty salon in Chicago and wanted to open several more, but, as he said, “I have to be there for that.” Sam dreamed of playing professional baseball—a chance he'd passed up for a life of singing. “I still play semi-pro baseball,” he said. “I had an offer from the Chicago Cubs back in 1959. At that time, we had a hit record. And I thought the guy wasn't coming back, so I stayed with the group. But I'd rather play ball right now, rather play than sing. It'd keep me in better shape.”

My father, as usual, had too many interests at once. Constant traveling inhibited his creativity. “I used to write all the time,” he said. “I'd never sit around like this, especially on the road. I want to write stories, too. Once for a week I had dreams every night that were complete stories. They were like movies—I could see the things.” He'd never find time to write those stories.

He also struggled navigating the pressures of family life. He had children, he said, “which means responsibilities, securities, college for the children and a place to try and finally lay out for them. As well as our own selfish pleasures, y'know, sports cars and big time, but no more than anybody else.”

Dad didn't want out of the game; he just wanted to change its rules. The old model—write an album, cut it, promote it, tour it, come home, repeat—no longer made him happy. “Being an entertainer, even though it's beautiful and it's nice in the public's eye and to have people gawking at you, it has its hangups,” he said.

We don't have as much privacy as we would like. I resent it, but I find my resentment's in vain simply because I brought it to be. I wanted to be successful, I wanted the money, I like doing what I'm doing, I wanted to be just what I am. Now I've got to give up some of those other things. There's other stars who've got to be even more hungup whether they realize it or not—James Brown, the Beatles, some of the bigger acts—they can't do
nothing
. At least in most places, even though I may be Curtis Mayfield, I can mix in the crowd, where a lot of people can't do that.

My father often tagged along with the road band on days off, while Fred and Sam generally stayed to themselves—a reversal of the way they usually acted on tour. As a result, André and Craig introduced him to the cutting edge of music, taking him to see people like Carlos Santana, who was a big fan of the Impressions. “When Curtis Mayfield would sing, he would remind me of my totality,” Santana said. “He reminded me that I am part of Martin Luther King. I am part of Cesar Chavez. I am part of Bobby Kennedy. It transcends white, black, Mexican, or whatever. He resonated with me because I identified with something bigger than a nation.”

Watching artists like Santana, Dad began hearing different possibilities—rhythmic and harmonic grooves he couldn't do with the Impressions. Craig taught him how to use effects pedals and write with chords outside normal blues or gospel changes. My father trusted Craig and learned from him. Their relationship became so close, an unwritten rule developed—no one touched Curtis's guitar, even to tune it, except Craig.