Shrine part two..
When Shrine began, there was nothing like it in Washington. Everyone here assumed that the city boasted as much talent as Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Memphis and other towns with homegrown labels built on homegrown artists; Marvin Gaye hailed from here, after all, as did R&B great Billy Stewart. Dozens of doo-wop and soul groups were singing on street corners and vying for stage time at area clubs.
Eddie Singleton had seen these singers up close. As the manager of comedian Flip Wilson and as a songwriter and producer based in New York, he'd traveled often to Washington, and he smelled opportunity.
"I knew there was a void," Singleton says on the phone from South Africa, where he has lived for four years. He is 66 now, and the tale of Shrine still smarts a little, but he tells it patiently. "Washington was a major pulse. I felt it was fertile."
He was ready for a fresh start. Big-time success on Tin Pan Alley, the epicenter of Manhattan's music scene, had eluded him, and he had a girlfriend who needed a change of scene, too. Miss Ray, as she was known, was already semifamous in the pop music world. She and an ex-boxer named Berry Gordy had opened a Detroit studio where locals could record songs cheaply. The operation flourished, and when the pair moved into a townhouse on that city's West Grand Boulevard, Raynoma had a sign made for the front of the building that read "Hitsville, U.S.A."
She did more than just decorate. With her formal musical training, Raynoma wrote arrangements, played keyboards -- for the Temptations, among others -- and oversaw day-to-day operations. But as Motown prospered, Berry Gordy had a series of adulterous affairs and became physically abusive, according to Raynoma's autobiography, "Berry, Me and Motown: The Untold Story." After a mail-order Mexican divorce, Miss Ray headed to New York, where she and Berry commenced a love-hate relationship odd enough to keep Oprah busy for weeks. She continued to work for Motown, opening an East Coast office of the label's song-publishing arm, Jobete, looking for new acts for Motown.
She didn't find many. And when word of her relationship with Singleton reached Gordy, he was enraged. As Raynoma struggled financially, Gordy refused to sink more cash into a venture that wasn't making money. Strapped, Raynoma did something she'd regret: She ordered a manufacturer to press 5,000 copies of Mary Wells's "My Guy," a national hit at the time, then drove to local record stores and unloaded them for 50 cents apiece.
A week later, the FBI arrested Raynoma, accusing her of bootlegging. As an executive vice president of Motown, Raynoma thought she was doing something a bit sneaky but legal. The feds disagreed, and Gordy soon presented his former wife with a terrible choice: Either sign away her co-founder's stake in Motown or he'd press charges. She signed, collecting a $10,000 one-time payment and monthly child support for the son she'd had with Berry. Her share of Motown would have eventually been worth millions.
Singleton's plans for a soul label in D.C. sounded to Miss Ray like an ideal new beginning, and the pair moved here and set up shop on Thomas Circle. Like Motown, the house had rehearsal space as well as offices. Three stories, 19 rooms and a basement. Singleton chose "Shrine" to pay homage to the recently assassinated JFK, whom both he and Raynoma had idolized. For a logo, he picked an image that baffled British collectors until well into the '80s, when they finally tracked Singleton down. It was, he told them, a sketch of the eternal flame beside Kennedy's grave.
Word about Shrine spread fast. Raynoma brought in her nephew Dale Warren, who would later write string arrangements for artists like Isaac Hayes at Stax Records. Producer Maxx Kidd, later the business force behind go-go music, joined, too. Songwriter and former singer Harry Bass moved from New York to lead the hunt for talent, scouring venues like the Lion's Den, the Colt Lounge, Ed Murphy's Supper Club, the Flamingo Room, Turner's Arena and the Howard Theater.
Contracts were signed, house musicians were hired. The house at 3 Thomas Circle bustled.
"It was incredibly exciting," says Richard Collins, formerly of the Counts, whose members were all so young, their parents had to cosign their contracts. "They had wonderful musicians, and for us to be part of it was amazing."
A bunch of area performers in their teens and early twenties found themselves opening local gigs for stars like Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett and Mary Wells. None was getting rich, but even the youngest discovered they had some very ardent fans.
"They were after me," James Faison, who sang with the Counts, says with a chuckle. "Somebody would send a drink onstage, and if you accepted, that was their in. I was still living at home with Mama, and these women, they were older and they had jobs and cars. The next morning, they'd drop me off at my house. My friends were a little jealous."
Through 1966, Shrine's roster grew. It included groups like the Cairos, featuring a young singer named Keni St. Lewis, who later wrote songs for Michael Jackson and Peaches & Herb; and Little Bobby Parker, who had once written a guitar riff cribbed by John Lennon for "Day Tripper"; and Eddie Daye and 4 Bars, already veterans on the local music scene, who had answered an open-audition ad for Shrine they'd spotted in a newspaper.
"I was impressed," says Daye, who still sings in Washington. "They were spending money. And early on they were getting airplay. . . . That's the most important thing for a label, getting your records played."
