During Black History Month, the American is serializing the memoirs of R&B legend Rosco Gordon, which he entrusted to his friend Chris King before passing in the summer of 2002.
When we finally got back to Memphis, I met a girl named Pete. I fell for her at once. Her girlfriend, Christine, Johnny Ace had a crush on her. They lived in Decatur Street Development on Poplar Avenue in North Memphis.
Johnny ace worked mostly alone. He sometimes played with Joe Hill Lewis, a one-man band. Joe played guitar, drums, harmonica and sang. Johnny and I became pretty good friends, but we could have been better.
One day, I went by. Johnny was stretched out on the couch. He was calling Christine bad names. I took her side, so he cursed me, I kicked him in the face. I think that’s why we weren’t better friends? We still double-dated, though, from time to time.
Johnny Ace got his own show on WDIA. Now, we are all there: B.B. King, Bobby “Blue” Bland, Johnny Ace and me. We came on the air, one right after the other.
A few weeks later, the Bihari Brothers, the owners of Modern Records, were in Memphis and caught my show. They wanted me to do a recording for them, the same one that I had previously recorded for Chess Records. I didn’t know or care if it was right or wrong.
You see, I had just got a taste of the big money. They offered me a thousand dollars for the recording. My reply to that? “Lets go!”
But, at the same time, I put myself in bad with Leonard of Chess Records. “So what?” I thought. They only gave me a hundred dollars. I still only worked West Memphis, Arkansas, Mississippi, nothing.
Pete was still my lady, and every week she had to go to a doctor. She said I knocked her body down. You know what? I still don’t know that she meant.
Any rate, one Saturday night in Mason I was on a gig, sitting at the piano, just singing. A tall, light-skin, beautiful girl came up and stood right at the edge of the stage where I was sitting.
The stage was about two feet high. I gave her the eye from the piano stool, and she gave me the eye all night long. I thought, of all the nights, why in the hell did I bring Pete tonight?
I looked at Pete, then I looked at that tall, beautiful piece of human flesh, looking deep down into my lonely soul, and that’s where “No more Doggin'” was born.
I started singing, “No more doggin’, fooling around with you! I’m gonna let you out, baby, that’s what I’ll have to do.” The whole dance floor proved that night I had a hit record right there.
The next night, we had a rehearsal on the job. I twisted it, turned it, flipped it any way. We played, the answer was the same: more, more, more! We had put it together. We even played it on the radio and got cards, letters and a few telegrams.
Later that Friday, the Bihari Brothers came back to town. This time, they had Ike Turner with them. Ike was the front man. He made all the deals for them with “dumb black artists” like myself.
Alright, we made a deal, I was to receive one thousand dollars in cash. That went down to eight hundred. I was to receive one and a half percent royalty. That totally disappeared. They even took the publishing, and part of the writer’s credit went to “Taub-Ling.” “Who in the hell is Taub-Ling?” I asked myself.
At any rate, they set the recording date for 1 p.m. at Tuff Green’s house, a famous musician in Memphis. When I arrived, B.B. King was already there, just as high as he could be. But, no matter how much he drank, it never bothered his guitar playing or his singing. I could tell you about some of our nights.
Anyway, B.B. recorded “Three O’clock in the Morning.” Need I say more? You bet that made B.B. King. I recorded “No More Doggin’.” On the other side was “Maria,” both sides that I wrote.
Now, here comes a real low blow. We had a gig that night in West Memphis. So, everybody leaves for home. For the first time, for some reason, I called Richard, the baritone player, Murry, the drummer, and same thing, no answer.
Then I called Wylkes, the tenor man. His wife answered the phone. His wife told me Ike Turner had called him, and he wanted him for a session. So I told her we had finished the session already. So she said that’s all she knew.
At this point, I’m in a rage. I got a gig and no band. I jumped in my car and took off for Tuff’s house.
When I arrived, the music was just going. I had heard that song before, but not that voice. So I banged on the doors, mad as hell. About ten minutes later, they slowly opened the door. I just pushed my way in.
“Wow.” This was shocking. There was The Turnovers singing my song, “No More Doggin’.” “Can you beat this?” I said, with anger, and a bunch of more shit n stealing my song and, to top it off, with my whole band!
I gave Ike holy hell and called everybody in the band a bunch of mothers and forgot about it. I took off for West Memphis.
On the way to the club, Richard the baritone player said they were just playing me. They were in it for the money. Now, that really infuriated me. But, somehow, I understood just how they felt.
On May 3, 1953, “No more Doggin'” hit the streets of Memphis. You could hear that record in every place that had a radio or jukebox, plus people walking down the streets was singing it.
“Wow,” what a record. Now I was hot and I mean hot. The big times finally came.
