What Price the Carrot?: Memories of a Climb to Fame

By Sandra Sully

Jason Douglas was a mover, a shaker, and a star maker. He brought together seven girls whom he dubbed The Love Mechanism. The group was created to be world ambassadors of peace and harmony, wearing a universal smile and warming the world with love. It was all such a noble idea.

In What Price the Carrot? author Sandra Sully writes about an all girls singing group that tours Europe and has gigs in the United States during the seventies. Through the character of Cynthia Maxwell a social worker by day and a singer by night the reader experiences the challenges of show business, the joys and the pains and the loves found and lost.

The group was truly unique! No one had seen anything like it! As they kicked the highest kicks and sang the most melodic tunes, each girl had her own dream of what she wanted this experience to bring. Curtains rose, cameras flashed, and there was the hope of fame and fortune, perhaps beyond measurebut at what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491763315

Sandra Sully

Sandra Sully was born in Richmond Virginia and educated at Howard University, Washington DC. She is a former member of the international group The Love Machine. She penned numerous hits such as “Angel” by Anita Baker and “If You Think You’re Lonely Now” by Bobby Womack. This is her debut book.

Book preview

WHAT PRICE THE CARROT?

By

Sandra Sully

Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time this evening, the new and different, exciting and overwhelming…

It was all a well contrived plan: the formulation of the winning combination - seven girls, one beauty pageant winner, five contestants, two non-entries with less florid qualities; something for everyone, a teaser for all tastes.

The first was Karen, a voluptuous girl of gigantic dimension and statue - an answer to an erotic fantasy, with qualities to appeal to a man’s desire to be sexually overpowered by a beautiful Amazon. Proficient in lascivious gyrations, she served to stroke and to stimulate the audience.

To offer contrast, Maria was a miniature fireball with long black hair, smooth chocolate skin, a voice that commanded attention and hips endowed with the rhythm of an island drum. She appealed to the audience’s natural attraction for the diminutive and a man’s wish to conquer a small but elusive prey.

The third was a pale skinned wonder, Belinda, with softly spiraled tresses. She had a distinctive nose with Arabian qualities and eyes that spoke of naivety, constantly filled with wonder. Her movements were measured and tentative, yet endearing. The audience enjoyed her juvenescence and was astonished by her low-pitched, nearly bass voice. They followed her attentively as parents watch and wait as their young come into their own.

The fourth, Pam, was a lanky specimen who contorted her rubber face and supple spine to the amazement and amusement of the fans. Her eyes were camel-like, large and covered with long-lashed lids that closed with long lazy blinks. Her voice was more like a cheerleader in the heat of a playoff than like a songstress. She was the clown of the show, the comical, clean-cut girl next door that the audience felt close to because she seemed so much like them.

Robin was of Creole ancestry. Her face was beautiful and her figure chiseled. Her vocals were not her strong suit but the audience never noticed. She charmed them with her dreamy eyes, her breathy voice and her carefully calculated moves. She was a former model who could turn on the charm easily, smile on cue, and maneuver comfortably on stage. She appealed to man’s search for perfection; she was a pedestal sitter, someone to marvel.

Sharon was not a natural stunner, but with the utilization of makeup skills she could be transformed into a classic beauty. Her high pitched tones commanded attention. Her skin was of darkest mahogany. Her complexion, slim figure, closely cropped hair, and spirited unrestrained movements reminded the audience of her African heritage. She moved with the freedom of a young village girl at festival time. She appealed to one’s pride in ancestry for she was clearly a product of her roots.

And Cindy, the last, was an averagely attractive specimen with a small chest, a very round bottom and expressive eyes that told of secrets that she would have rather kept secret. She was far from the best dancer but by far the most accomplished singer. Cynthia appealed to one’s aesthetic nature, a clear glimpse of real vocal talent.

Jason Douglas was a mover and shaker, a star - maker. It was he who would put the girls together into a working unit. Although he was barely thirty, he had worked for years putting raw talent into groups, rehearsing them and sending them to Europe and abroad. He was skilled at molding young talent fresh to Los Angeles, California with pockets full of dreams. His mind constantly spun like wheels on a slot machine, spilling out one idea after another. He could mold almost anyone into a success as long as they remained pliable.

I think I’ll call you the Love Mechanism, Jason bestowed upon his creation a nomenclature. He felt the name catchy, one that sparked the public’s interest and left room for imaginative speculations about how the name came about and what the title signified. They were a human machine, comprised of seven energy packed gears with the oil supplied by Jason. The Love Mechanism was created to be world ambassadors of peace and harmony, wearing a universal smile and warming the world with love. It was all such a noble idea.

Preparation for the world of entertainment began in Jason’s club Maxwell. Maxwell had once been a pulsating force in the community but its popularity had begun to wane. It was located on Santa Barbara Boulevard in the heart of the heavily black populated Crenshaw section of Los Angeles. The club’s exterior was black, neatly trimmed with white and accentuated by a bright red canopy that escorted patrons to the curb. The canopy offered a touch of elegance. The large display windows that lined the building were full of blowups of ‘Master Plan’, a Maxwell based group. Neon lights hissed and flashed of coming attractions. Richard Pryor was on for Christmas.

Upon entering the club, one was greeted by attractive young girls clad in the latest fashions. One eager young miss stood at the coat-check booth to assure that all wraps were checked and another sat on a nearby stool with her legs crossed, smiling and greeting the guests for the evening. Occasionally the greeter would leave her perch to personally escort a privileged client inside, but then she’d slink back and re-cross one shapely chocolate leg slowly and seductively over the other. In the lobby there was also a cashier’s box usually manned by Jason’s wife, his sister-in-law, or someone else he vaguely trusted. Still, during the night he made constant trips to check the haul and to supervise the comings and goings at the door.

The club’s interior was decorated in aging Peter Max decor. Vivid drawings of bizarre proportioned men and women covered the walls. The pillars were sculptured into humorous circus-like characters, the dance floor was encircled by multicolored pillows, and a video projector was constantly on, displaying an array of beauties. Other than being a club owner and promoter Jason was quite an accomplished photographer. The parade of beauties that graced the slide show were posed and photographed by him. The flashing lights and blaring music in the Maxwell created an atmosphere that seemed to dazzle the young adult crowd. On the second floor of the building there were offices for assistants and rehearsal rooms, some which looked more like sites earmarked for demolition than creative workshops.

It was in this club and on this dance floor that the Love Mechanism diligently practiced and dutifully performed for supporting peers. It was a place to try out new songs and steps under Jason’s close supervision. The songs that Jason selected, stayed in the show, everything else was up for dismissal. Along with manager, Jason was self appointed producer and critic. Every move was frozen for Jason’s approval; his mere word was law.

Jason was a clean shaven, athletically built man in his late thirties. He had mounds of wooly black hair, bulging muscles, disproportionally slim hips, and walked with a peculiar twist, because of his noticeably knocked knees. His bushy brows were shades over piercing eyes. Jason donned all sorts of costumes, depending on what type of impression he wanted to make. His attire ranged from torn t-shirts and shorts, to multicolored leather outfits and tasseled boots, to elegantly designed and fitted French suits and Italian loafers. One merely needed to briefly observe his attire to gain insight into which role Jason would be playing that day. Whichever one he selected, one could be assured that it would be executed with deliberate perfection.

Other than running the popular discotheque, Jason produced singing groups and booked them for employment locally and abroad. He had sired many California known groups but the only one which had caused a national as well as international stir was a group called the Seven Knights. They had fared well for five years and had created excitement as well as profit. The number seven had been lucky before, why not again?

II

YOU’LL BE THE GREATEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD

In 1971 The Supremes had lost their lead singer, Diana Ross, and the number of recognized female groups was almost non-existent. Competition did not exist. The market was eager for something new. The Love Mechanism was unique and the timing was right.

The group’s physical conditioning began with strenuous exercise sessions on the dance floor of Jason’s club. Popular rock and roll refrains were played to defer attention from the once dormant muscles. A young instructor was hired to motivate and supervise the rigorous training program.

Stretch, kick, harder, higher! the instructor yelled as seven figures rhythmically panted and puffed. After a short while the unwanted pounds melted and the dance skills began to sharpen. It was time for the next step - to incorporate singing with dancing.

For vocal rehearsals, the girls moved upstairs to the second floor of the club to a drably painted room furnished with a well-used mattress over which hung a faded painting of a man and woman in a position that prompted close examination and provoked much conversation. There was a bolted and barred window through which light shown, placing shadows of the bars on the floor. The view was of telephone wires and building tops. The slats on the window were covered with dust, and gray metal folding chairs were placed around a record player. The record player was the focal point. Hours upon end were spent there watching records spin laboriously around the turntable, kept in place only by strapping a nickel or a dime to the phonograph’s arm, the amount depending upon the group’s financial status. The taped weight was the only thing that kept the phonograph’s arm from skipping freely over the records.

The group being in an amoebic stage needed the skillful guidance of both vocal and dance coaches, but the coaches disappeared as quickly as they appeared, growing weary of Jason’s financial procrastinating. Getting paid was almost an impossible ordeal. When the instructors left, they were immediately replaced by other unwitting coaches waiting in the wings. For this finagling, Jason felt no guilt.

You cannot afford to get attached to these instructors. They have been called in to serve a purpose, and after that purpose is served, they are no longer useful. We don’t need them. We certainly cannot afford to keep people on because they’re nice! That’s bullshit! It might seem ruthless, but that’s life! Jason continued and he proceeded to drain consultants of ideas and then discard them like old shoes, with similar fanfare.

There was no focus on developing unique styles and no room allowed for creativity. Jason felt it better to mimic the styles and sounds of already successful singers on the top ten charts than to waste time analyzing the available voices in hopes of finding ways they could be uniquely cultivated. There was no time for such frivolousness; every second was important!

Take this record home and don’t come back tomorrow unless it has been memorized! Jason shouted as he flopped yet another 45, clinging to its wrapper, on the desk.

"I picked this song for you, so learn it! Once you have the song memorized, I’ll produce it. You can’t see the big picture! None of you have my vision. This group is my creation and if you follow my lead you’ll be successful. There is no time for questioning and explaining. There is only time for work. There is no rest for the weary.

Such a demand was easy for the girls who didn’t have outside jobs and who could devote all of their waking hours to the group’s activities, but three of the girls worked from eight to five pm. before their daily five to eleven pm. rehearsals. For Karen, Sharon, and Cindy, the only times they had to learn songs were on their lunch breaks or when they were on the busy freeways in route to rehearsals. They had to struggle to keep pace. Soon the differences in responsibilities became great. The workers were labeled as outsiders and looked upon with envious disdain.

It was difficult to justify such blatant ostracism, for those who worked were the only ones with cars, the transportation providers. They drove across town each day to pick up the other members for the five pm. rehearsals and then back across town to usher them home. And because they fought Los Angeles’ unyielding rush-hour traffic, there were times when they would arrive late. A late arrival always brought a raised brow and a few silent moments. It was seldom, if ever, that any of the other girls would offer to assist with gasoline expenses, for it was assumed that the shuttle was the workers’ responsibility, their cross to bear.

I’m going to quit my job and just move in with my boyfriend! Karen lamented after a lengthy practice. He’s going to handle the bills until we get this act on the road.

Karen was a former beauty queen and in demand for print layouts and small movie roles. She could easily see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sharon worked at Maxwell so she merely adjusted her hours to accommodate the practice schedule. Cynthia continued to work. Rehearsals were changed from 5:00 pm to 2:00 pm. and Cindy was to join in with the practice activities when she arrived from work. By the time she arrived, everything was in full swing and Cindy had to disrupt the flow and get caught up on what she had missed. Often her presence went unnoticed for five to ten minutes before she was finally acknowledged and annoyingly greeted with a remark such as, While you were away we came up with the steps to two songs. Who wants to show her this time?

Usually it was Paula who volunteered because she was an excellent dancer and a patient teacher.

Paula? everyone chimed in. Is she ready?

Yep, I think so!

With Cindy caught up, the rehearsals would re-start.

Cindy could not understand why the girls did not seem to understand her situation. She was merely trying to survive. All of the other girls had family and support in Los Angeles. Cindy was alone and totally responsible for her own support. Her mother had financially assisted her for twenty-four years and had paid for most of her fees for six years of university study. She had landed a job as a therapist and if she chose to venture out to try this creative venture she had to bear the cost. The girls were not paid for rehearsals. The issue of survival was irrelevant in the scheme of things. The focus was on the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and not on how to survive until it was obtained. The focus was the carrot, the smell of it, the taste of it, the feel of it, and not on the tasty grass nearby that could serve to sustain until the quest for the carrot was won.

III

SEVEN SOUNDS LIKE A GOOD NUMBER

Cynthia Matthews was one of the last to join the Love Mechanism. She was Jason’s choice, not a personal selection of the girls. They had already formed a comfortable nucleus of five after participating in Jason’s annual beauty pageant, but suddenly Jason increased the number to six and then to seven. They must have felt as any child feels when faced with sharing his parent with an unwanted sibling. Without consulting the group, Jason assured Cindy of her position. She was suddenly no longer a suggestion, but a constant reminder that perhaps the ranks were growing too great.

The night that Cindy met Jason Douglas was beautiful, but the act appearing at his club was horrendous. The featured singer bowed and bent to thank an audience for applause that actually beckoned for the cessation of the endless torture. Cindy and her date, Stan, sought the freedom of the fresh air outside and an escape from the piercing decibels. Cindy had not long arrived in California from the east coast and the western clubs were still a novelty. Stan agreed to play escort for the evening. The fresh breezes blowing in succession offered a pleasant relief from the smoke filled, people saturated, air in the club. Stan and Cindy drew in breaths slowly, savoring the prized resource.

"You know, I hate a dumb