Origin Story · Volume 7 · SOULIntroduction
The Line
In 1955 a young man from Detroit’s east side took a job at the Lincoln-Mercury plant, fastening upholstery to car frames as they came past his station. The job paid, by his own account, around eighty-five dollars a week, and he hated it in the specific way an ambitious person hates work that uses none of what he is. But he watched the line. A bare metal frame entered the building at one end; a finished, painted, upholstered car rolled out the other; and in between, at station after station, somebody added exactly one thing, checked it, and passed it on. Nobody on that line was an artist. The line itself was the artist.
The young man was Berry Gordy, and what he did with that observation is half of this book. Within four years he had borrowed eight hundred dollars from his family’s savings fund and founded a record company in a converted house on a residential boulevard, and within ten he was running an operation in which a song entered one end of the building as a scrap of melody and left the other as a finished hit, written to order by staff writers in competition with one another, cut by a salaried house band whose names appeared nowhere on the record, tested at a Friday-morning meeting where the company voted on what shipped, and groomed for delivery by an in-house department that taught its teenage artists how to walk, sit, and answer an interviewer’s questions. He called the operation Hitsville. The trade papers called it an assembly line, and unlike almost everyone in industrial history who has been compared to an assembly line, Gordy took it as a compliment, because it was his idea.
Six hundred miles south, in a dead cinema in a Black neighbourhood of Memphis, a white bank clerk who played country fiddle and his older sister, who had mortgaged her house to buy a tape recorder, were building the opposite machine out of the same parts. Stax had a house band too (four men, two Black and two white, in a city where they could not legally have shared a lunch counter) and no meetings, no charts, no vote. An arrangement was whatever the four of them argued their way into in the room, in front of the singer, before the tape ran. Quality control was the record shop the sister ran at the front of the building: play the kids the tape, watch their feet, and if the feet moved, press it.
This book is about those two processes, and it wants to be precise at the start about what the machine is, because here the machine is not a piece of equipment. Soul’s machine is a process: the house band plus quality control, a standing group of salaried musicians who played on everything, and a system for deciding what was good enough to ship. Detroit and Memphis built rival versions of that process, arrived at from opposite directions, and the contrast between them is the spine of this book. It explains the records, which sound like the systems that made them. It explains the money, which flowed the way each system was owned. And it explains the ending, because a process, unlike a device, is made of people, and a thing made of people can be dismantled by a contract, a plane crash, a rifle shot on a motel balcony, or a removal van, and in the span of this book it was dismantled by all four.
The introduction runs on for another 5 paragraphs, and then the book starts. 26 chapters · about 118 pages · $14.99
