The Motown Museum - Detroit, USA

15th August 2013, $10 (joined by Amanda Leat)

Come 'ere. 

I need to tell you something important... 

I love Motown.

I'm sure whatever music you're into's great, and good for you. Really. But Motown's ten times better and fifty times cooler and you hate yourself because you know this already.

Don't you?

These days, Motown has a reputation as the music your divorced uncle who sleeps in his car listens to whilst making Super Noodles and smoking. Well, so what? The man's got some taste. Motown was the biggest indie label of the 1960s and remains hugely important for many. For me, more perfect, innocent, pertinent and fucking fun music has never been cut to record. 

It's with this attitude my girlfriend (a local) and I drove through Detroit to The Motown Museum (or 'Hitsville USA' as it was in more ridiculous times), an unassuming detached house on West Grand Boulevard. As the proud child of a post-industrial shithole, I look on Detroit with fondness. Not solely for the music, but wandering through the art deco necropolis that's all boarded up and wheezing, creates a similar feeling to Pompeii or Oradour-sur-Glane. My rather jejune impressions were that, upon my arrival, I'd be greeted by five black guys in pink suits, clicking their fingers and dancing in the street, or three black girls in sequin dresses, each with a hand in the air. Instead, one of my first sights was a black fella trying to wash a white guy's windscreen with a rag and getting some hateful words in recompense. However, talking to the locals, this is an age of transition. 'Detroit will rise again' was the perspective of many and, however naive, I relished it. Well done Detroit, could you please have a word with Bradford? And the rest of Europe while you're at it.

Motown was, and still is, a big deal in Britain, something I was reminded of upon exiting our car and hearing a West Country accent as fresh as summer cider. Inside the museum was a veritable rainbow of British accents that should have made me feel at home but instead gave the events a hokey, BBC One aspect. We entered the building to be greeted with a,

"Hello, sir, welcome to Motown."

...Cool. 

I found it hard to respond as my heart was too busy fluttering. As we queued, there were video installations of all the greats: Stevie Wonder, The Temptations, Diana Ross & the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, The Four Tops... oh, it's my turn at the desk and I'm stood half way in the corridor choking up over my heroes. It was at this point I realised I needed to tone down the 'fanboy puppy shagging a teddy bear' thing. 

We were warned before our arrival that the museum is small. For me, the penny dropped at just how small when we were informed that the museum is 'experienced' in hour-long tours. This is industry shorthand for 'we have very little for you to see here so bear with us while some lackey we pay in coppers pads the thing out for a quasi-respectable duration'. They had us wait in the gift shop. Dangerous for Joes. I wanted (and subsequently bought) everything. One item that caught my eye was a song book for Boys II Men. I know they were on Motown, but were they? Really?

Our tour guide was the afore mentioned chap who delivered that most splendid greeting. Jordan was disgustingly young and disgustingly affable with a knavish charm and a haircut that meant business. There was a fairly large crowd for the confinements, around thirty, and he seemed to shepherd us with the requisite mix of information, entertainment and the wherewithal to occasionally make a tit of himself.

NB. Apologies for this review's lack of photography but there was a rather dogmatic zero tolerance to the act. I found this a little precious, but with the smaller places I can find room to forgive. 

Here's one

Right off the bat, Jordan mentioned the man who was Motown, Berry Gordy. He invented the label, hired the musicians and sometimes even penned the hits. We were then told that Gordy founded Motown on an $800 loan from his family and eventually sold the label for a king's ransom to MCA. Jordan proceeded to say what a good thing this was and asked us,

"Hands up who likes money."

Some confused and/or moronic hands went up.

"Alright, hi five!"

Well... I'd rather have it, Jordan. I suppose. But... God! I think herein lies the problem with everything, mate. 

We then saw a map of the world with pins stuck everywhere. I assumed this was to show where Motown acts had played but no, it was from where they'd had visitors including, apparently, the north and south pole. Unfortunately we weren't invited to stick in our own pins as I'd definitely plump for a pinless spot aswell, like Macchu Picchu or Atlantis or Peterborough. 

Then things got weird. We were taken to a room, sat down and proceeded to watch a video. Honestly. Sixteen of our sixty minutes (that's $2.66) was spent watching YouTube. Before the video, Jordan tried to stoke the fires of group enthusiasm by singing a few numbers. The kid had talent. I don't. I wanted to collar him and school him in the social infirmities of my birth nation, "I'm having fun watching and learning, and I'm trying to join in, I really am, but singing Uptight in my face isn't helping, sunshine." 

Here's what was said and what should've happened:

JORDAN: Now ladies and gentlemen, we are here to have fun.

(Some shouts in agreement)

JORDAN: This video is sixteen minutes long. It introduces you to Motown and tells you a little about its roots. And if you hear a song you know, please remember, this is a singalong...

(interrupted)

JOE: Wooooah! Sorry, pal, let me stop you there. This is not a singalong. I've come all this way to listen to Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, not Martha Reeves and some chump from Cheboygan. In fact, why don't you just chuck us a Motown DVD, I'll watch it back in London, and Berry Gordy can sack your arse like he did every other fucker who worked for him.

I actually did say that last bit (with my eyes). 

The video was adequate, the kind that had all-day rotation on VH1 1999-2003 and, to its credit, it did get us a little bit more excited that we were in the nerve-centre of it all. Jordan seemed nonplussed by what he considered our lack of enthusiasm and started clapping and hollering with what he must've thought was a preacher's fire, but actually just made things start to sound like 'Motown camp'. 

We went up a floor to where the museum started in earnest and our guide took us through the early days of Berry Gordy and the label. It was interesting enough although I did quite fancy going through the exhibits myself. However, I can't deride The Motown Museum for an abundance of reading; the text was clear and concise. We were told some pretty interesting, if not perhaps a mite fanciful, titbits such as the signature beat of the label being inspired by Gordy's week-long stint at the Ford manufacturing plant. Looks like apples, smells like horseshit.

What was most stark at this juncture was how much padding Jordan was having to undertake, it was a good job the lad was a charmer because, if he'd been replaced by some of the curmudgeons they've got giving the guides on Thames riverboat cruises, this would've been painful. He showed us a hole in the ceiling with a mic in the attic and proceeded to sing with the reverb Motown artists needed, getting us to join in with Reach Out, I'll Be There. Which was fine by me and, to be honest, I was actually getting into the swing of this 'joining in' malarky I'd seen drama students doing at uni. 

Before entering Hitsville USA-proper we saw what was perhaps the most impressive artifact in the collection (excluding Studio A) - Michael Jackson's hat and glove from THAT performance at the Motown twenty-fifth anniversary gig. Now, I'm no Jackson apologist (good in the Jackson 5, some decent singles in the 80s and bloody awful from then on) but I had to doff my hat and tighten my glove at this treasure.

No photographs? Well no in-focus ones

Beneath was a card stating that The King of Pop donated these items and $125,000 to the museum. Nice enough gesture but I couldn't help thinking, "If you love money, put your hand up, then buy a chimp and a fairground and the elephant man's skeleton. Thanks for the change, pal."

After the small gallery and actual museum section, we were led to the reconstructed recording area, starting with the reception. Throughout the tour, Jordan asked us to dream with the furnishings:

"Imagine all the artists that could've used this stuff. Marvin Gaye could've slept on that sofa after a long night's recording. The Four Tops could've sat in this chair, on each other's knees. Diana Ross might've used this hole punch to finally organise her, frankly, slapdash expenses."

Tell you what Jordan, you imagine them doing that, I'll just listen to them.

Right before we got to the money shot of Studio A we stopped in the hall and looked at a candy machine for five minutes. If you're having fun reading this, try being there! I now know the history of the 'Baby Ruth', the crunchy peanut candy bar with a nougat filling. Which was ironic because the word 'filling' was zipping around my head like a bluebottle in a butcher's. Apparently, the sweet-toothed Stevie Wonder's favourite candy was the sainted 'Baby Ruth' and we were treated to some story or other about a session musician teasing a blind man. However, you get your kicks lads, eh? During this story Jordan, hand-on-heart, said, 

"You know Stevie Wonder's blind, yeah?"

Oh! That's why he gets helped to his keyboard and wears dark glasses. I always thought he was just dead lazy and really into Bono.

Then it happened. We entered Studio A of Hitsville USA and - oh! my friends - the cynicism melted from this too solid flesh, waves of joy pulsed skyward and engulfed me in a Motown fervour. This was a seat of musical royalty and I was but a lowly subject, some half-witted eunuch, jabbering along with the court, singing My Girl at the top of my lungs with our group, jettisoning the manacles of the taciturn academic and singing like a Temptation.

Jordan had us laughing and singing and looking and clapping and listening and cheering and happy that we were where we were and for that I can only thank him.

Better than your house

Overview

As we left I was beside myself. It's rare for a museum to have that kind of effect. Seeing The Birth of Venus was a profound moment that'll stay with me until the end, but I didn't leave the Uffizi rattled like that. Of course, this is a personal thing. I know if I took some of you there, you'd be as bored as a dog at the opera, but you take what you need from the places you see, and I needed this. 

That's not to say the Motown Museum is a success as a museum. The content is painfully stretched, there's little visitor freedom, it's over in a heartbeat, all the corridors lead to the gift shop, and - most interestingly - we only see one side of Berry Gordy. The museum's funded by the man himself and run by his sister so, as you might expect, we are invited into the cabal of the Berry Gordy circle-jerk and any heretics are to be dealt with, Motown style (heartless litigation).

Berry Gordy was a ruthless businessman, maybe something that's more admired stateside but nevertheless, he was brutal. His acts were paid next to nothing; they were under strict control contractually, aesthetically, even choreographically; some acts were dropped without the courtesy of being informed (Martha Reeves, no less); and in 1972, the company upped sticks and skedaddled to Los Angeles. But we see none of this. Here, Motown was a creature of harmonious spirit in which everything was beautiful and nothing harmed.

Have it your way, Motown Museum. It seems to me that you're not a museum about Motown but a museum that represents Motown. So much of what you do is wrong, but like a truculent lover, you can't squabble away just how beautiful you are. I suggest giving us the music and throwing your cherry-picked Disney biopic on the lawn for the vultures.