Spinnin' Out of Control

An Anonymous Warning

LATE 2023: name, date, event, and location don’t matter here — I was talking shop with a wise, accomplished, streetsmart, and well-connected older sista who knows just about everybody who was anybody in the world of classic soul. When I told her I worked with the Spinners, she asked me who was currently managing the group. “Toby Ludwig — 60-something white guy with—” before I could finish my description, she declared “I know Toby. How’s that going?” The cadence of her rap told me she knew. We did that thing that happens when two Black women come together — we got to talkin’ without talkin’, all head gyrations and eye movements. I rendered our silent conversation audible by responding with a loaded “girrrrl, a hot assed mess.” To which she responded, “you watch that mothaf***a. He’s known for ingratiating himself with these vocal groups and pushing out the Black women on their teams. He’s done it to at least two people I know. Watch your back.”

While it may seem counterintuitive, I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t being paranoid. I hadn’t been imagining things. Her warning contextualized the microaggressions I’d endured from him and his bumbling, long-suffering underling, Will Whitney from the very beginning. Once she validated my experience, I gave her the litany of offenses — the list was long after one annum. I shared with her my observations of my colleague who seemed to view me as his rival: his laissez-faire approach to handling the group; his shockingly blatant favoritism toward the least senior group member over everyone else that upset the longstanding balance of the group’s hierarchy; his lack of respect for the group’s tradition and heritage; his brusque and abrasive demeanor; his abusive treatment of Will; and his constant antagonism, condescension, and utter disregard for my work.

She nodded, appalled but not shocked by Toby’s behavior. She set forth in remarkable detail his modus operandi: “yeah, Toby won’t ever enter the fray, he likes to stay scarce and let things play out so he can appear clean and come in and save the day. He likes to be hands off. I mean, he’ll show up at a client’s kid’s graduation or a funeral, but other than that he stays out the way.” A year later when he and Will were sitting at a pew behind me at Henry’s funeral, I couldn’t help but shake my head and chuckle at the stunning accuracy of my mystery benefactress’ observations.

I’d learned all about the Toby Ludwigs of yesteryear who preyed upon the ambitions of Black artists, helping themselves to enrichment off the backs of a culture they didn’t really respect beyond its pecuniary value. Toby and Will were merely updated versions of a rogue menagerie of grifters, pretenders, and predators: Allen B. Klein (the man who stole Sam Cooke’s catalog and broke up the Beatles), Nat “The Rat” Tarnopol, Colonel Tom Parker, Art Rupe, Jerry Heller, Lou Pearlman, Larry Marshak, Ian Levine, Morris Levy, and countless others. These dubious characters were wolves in sheep’s in clothing, positioning themselves as the alpha and omega to their unsuspecting clients victims.

In August 2022, I didn’t know any of this yet. I was full of optimism, excited about collaborating with 21st Century Plantation Management — Toby’s unimaginatively named company — to restore The Spinners’ legacy to greatness after a period of nepotistic mismanagement.

Always In Earnest, Forever In Vain

With the team now in place, Heather convened a Zoom call set for August 15. I was looking forward to this icebreaker meeting so we could begin in earnest to reverse the fortunes of this once mighty legacy.

I went into that meeting (9:00 AM Pacific time for me) with an open mind and great expectations. I’d done some research on Toby’s company and saw that his client list included The O’Jays, The Commodores, and Billy Ocean (among others) — not bad at all. With his extensive experience working with legacy classic soul artists, he and his company seemed an optimal choice to turn the ship around. I took the walk up the street from my poorly lit Koreatown studio apartment to The Line Hotel to take the meeting. There was a secluded deck tucked away across the hall from Openaire, the hotel’s restaurant and one of my preferred brunch spots, bathed in bright natural sunlight and far from my cute but needy chihuahua Dinah Washington Jackson — it was a location where I could focus on the productive discussion that was about to take place.

I logged into the Zoom call about 15 minutes past the hour. Heather was already present, and we chitchatted until Toby and Will joined us. As we exchanged pleasantries, Toby hit me with the first of an incalculable number of microaggressions: Is that your office? It struck me as a bit of a non sequitur, because what does that have to do with the price of tea in China? I kept it real and told him I was actually taking this meeting up the street from my crib, and we moved on from there. Hometraining was absent from his upbringing and he’s already pocketwatching, got it. Heather made some remarks intended to inspire teamwork and enthusiasm, Toby rained on that parade with a storm cloud of skepticism. I’m not sure how this is supposed to work, he intoned. Heather pushed for his clarity, so he rephrased the question: how are we supposed to work together? He was already being a Debbie Downer. I rolled my eyes on the inside, sensing the turf war to come. This wasn’t rocket science, and I stated as much. If we simply allowed things to flow over the course of the next six months or so, a natural division of labor would emerge. Good ol’ fashioned trial and error. In my experience, this approach has been foolproof. I left that call knowing what time it was: watch out for this one, Jackson.

In a one-on-one conversation with Heather around this time, I asked her whether she wanted to be included on emails. She was quite insistent that she wanted to be as hands-off as possible. She wanted to entrust me and Toby to handle The Spinners affairs amongst ourselves. I took note of her preference and moved accordingly. I dove right in, sending Toby a flurry of emails running PR and branding ideas by him. Having managed artists myself, I respected the position and gave Toby all due deference. The first test came soon enough, and it was a harbinger of the ensuing three-year donnybrook. I would soon learn that my attempts to cooperate in earnest were, in fact, all in vain.

August 2022: Shortly after we were onboarded, Heather forwarded me The Spinners current itinerary. She mentioned in passing on one of our calls that I would have to doublecheck with Toby, but she was pretty sure one of the forthcoming dates was set to be removed from the schedule. It was an awards ceremony sponsored by a well-regarded independent, Black-owned online radio station scheduled to take place that fall in Baltimore, Maryland. The Spinners were among several classic soul artists named as honorees and were expected to accept the award in person. In the group’s private Facebook fan club group, which I had joined shortly after onboarding, I’d made a post asking fans on what tour dates were they planning to see the group. Among the members who responded was Lori Edwards, the wife of John Edwards. She and John were planning to see The Spinners at this awards ceremony in Baltimore.

Regrettably, I took it upon myself to send Mrs. Edwards a Facebook message on Friday, August 12 letting her know that contrary to her understanding The Spinners were no longer scheduled to appear at the awards ceremony in question. In her response to my post in the Spinners fan group, she’d specifically expressed her excitement about finally seeing the group’s newest member — Curt Jefferson — in action. Naturally, I wanted to prevent a situation in which the Edwards’ spent money on plane tickets in vain, especially since the rigmarole of air travel is that much more complicated when one is primary caretaker to a wheelchair bound spouse.

My DM exchange with Mrs. Edwards reminded me to confirm directly with Toby whether or not The Spinners would be in attendance at this awards show. I saw it as an early opportunity to build rapport with my new colleague. It dawned on me that he may have wrongly assumed that since I’d interviewed for the position he now occupied, I might have still been pining for the role. Here was my chance to disabuse him of that notion. To the contrary, I came in peace and wanted to work with him toward our common cause.

The following Tuesday, I sent him that email to ascertain once and for all whether this awards show was in the cards for The Spinners. I wasn’t invested in the outcome one way or the other; I’d received conflicting information and I simply wanted to know what to tell the Edwards.

My tone in that first communiqué to Toby was upbeat, warm, and deferential to his position as manager. I didn’t advocate for or against The Spinners attendance at this awards show in my message. I simply wanted to know if they were attending. That said, The Spinners’ were pictured on the flyer, which contained verbiage in parentheses stating “All Living Honorees Scheduled To Attend.” It was inadvisable for the poster to tout the group’s attendance if the opposite was true. I didn’t want to leave a bad impression on fans who may have contemplated purchasing tickets to this show on the strength of The Spinners’ promised appearance.

Toby’s response suggested he either didn’t read my message or that he was being deliberately obtuse. The first full paragraph of his response was a non sequitur response to my query. He then proceeded to mansplain to me what it means for an act to “work for expenses.” Sixteen years in the music business notwithstanding, I certainly wasn’t illiterate. The phrase was facile enough that someone equipped with an eighth grade-level of reading comprehension could figure it out. As a Black woman, I was all-too-familiar with colleagues casually insulting my intelligence, but this was egregious. Sometimes, the reason for the underestimation was innocuous; I have a youthful countenance such that I could pass for a neophyte professional. And then there were other times when I could detect the slick intention to establish a hierarchy by talking down to me. My discernment being what it is, I suspected this Ludwig character was trying to “little dog” me, trying to make me small.

Moreover, this particular awards show was being hosted by a Black DJ/promoter. As such, it rankled me to hear him refer to it as “minor.” Over the course of nearly two decades in the music industry, I’d long observed the dismissive attitude of non-Black managers, booking agencies, PR firms, and other industry operatives toward their Black counterparts. This unconscious bias has the detrimental effect of estranging Black artists from the community that nurtured their talent and the core fanbase that propelled them to their initial success. I was intent upon using my position on The Spinners executive team to bridge the gap and buck this unfortunate trend.

I was already put off by his condescension and casual disregard for the event, but I chose to grant him the benefit of the doubt. His suggested course of action, sending a cease and desist letter to the host of the awards show, was overly aggressive. A C&D letter was weighted with the implication that the host was acting without the consent of the Spinners organization, which was not the case. The event host had clearly been in communication with Paul Mathis, Toby’s predecessor, to secure The Spinners’ participation prior to the change in management. I suggested a more diplomatic approach in my follow-up. Even if the decision was to forego an appearance at this event, I understood the value of independent radio, especially where legacy soul music is concerned. No need to alienate a natural ally.

I naturally assumed that Toby had more visibility vis à vis who bore the responsibility of the group’s transportation costs than the wife of a retired non-original member, so I took him at his word when he informed me that The Spinners were expected to cover their own travel to attend this awards show — not a good look. Well aware of the risk of devaluation that comes from such an arrangement (no mansplain needed), I agreed with him in principle that all things considered, we ought to pass on this one. Not for nothing, it was becoming more and more apparent to me why Heather had been so keen on relieving Paul Mathis of his managerial duties.

After this inconceivably exhausting attempt to extract an answer from Toby, I reverted back to Lori Edwards with an update as promised. I’d soon acquire a more visceral understanding of the tried and true idiom that “no good deed goes unpunished” when I succinctly conveyed Toby’s decision to her on August 18.

Lori responded by inquiring whether there’d be an issue if she and John attended this event. She, like all of the other wives of the group’s legacy members, had no affiliation with the business entity Spinners Performing Arts, L.L.C. There was nothing precluding their attendance.

Her next message was a gathering storm cloud that would follow me for the rest of my tenure with the group. I was taken aback by her arrogation. Mr. Edwards’ contributions to The Spinners legacy were undeniably substantial. Like his eponymously surnamed Temptations analogue Dennis Edwards, who rose to the daunting challenge of replacing The Temptations’ charismatic whiskey-and-sandpaper throated lead singer David Ruffin; John Edwards followed behind Philippé Wynne’s magical run by singing lead on a pair of hits that extended The Spinners viability into a new decade with disco-influenced covers of Working My Way Back To You (Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons) and Cupid (Sam Cooke). However, as the least tenured of the group’s legacy members, he had never been in a position to wield influence where The Spinners business decisions were concerned. The strategic decision to send someone to accept the award on the group’s behalf fell far outside of her domain, and I certainly didn’t need to explain the rationale behind the decision to her.

Between Toby’s condescension and Lori’s impertinence, I was caught between a rock and a hard place. My Good Samaritan efforts were backfiring on me in spectacular fashion. I wanted to show respect to the wife of a legacy member, but I also didn’t appreciate my kindness being taken for weakness. To avoid a kerfuffle and to verify that Lori held no decisionmaking authority within SPA L.L.C., I sought both Heather and Toby’s counsel. I was new to the cast of characters that inhabited The Spinners’ orbit and hyperaware that as the lone Black woman on the team, I could become an easy target for scapegoating. Heather reassured me that Lori had no say-so as it related to strategic considerations about the group; further explaining that just about everybody regarded Lori as a tough pill to swallow.

Even though my early encounters with Toby led me to conclude that he was a bit of a jagoff, I nevertheless respected his position as the manager of the group. He didn’t recommend The Edwards’ accepting the award on the group’s behalf. I crafted a message to Lori conveying the final verdict from the group’s top advisor. In a futile attempt to soften the blow, I informed her that the new booking agency was in the process of adding new East Coast dates to the touring schedule, giving her and John multiple bites at the apple to catch up with the fellas. I even signed off with xoTanisha, hoping to close out this contact on a pleasant note. She continued to pry.

Excuse me? I was dumbfounded by the wellspring of audacity emanating from this woman. I gave an inch and she took a country mile! My good intentions were paving my path straight to Dante’s 9th Ring of Hell. I stepped away from the laptop and took a brief moment to regain composure, reminding myself to be a thermostat and not a thermometer in the face of Lori’s pugnacity. Now was the time to establish a clear boundary with as much diplomacy as I could muster. I made certain to uphold Toby’s position as the manager — perhaps he and I wouldn’t be besties, but he was my colleague and he’d been selected to lead this team. Defending his authority was a matter of principle. I went so far as to explain to this unhinged woman that even I deferred to him despite being an artist manager myself. Mind you, all of this was a courtesy — she wasn’t entitled to an explanation on this matter.

She responded to my thoughtfully crafted message with an epic, unprovoked, disrespectful crashout, bringing up matters that were above my paygrade and well outside of my purview. I decided to do like Bobbie Smith and “bow out gracefullyyy.” I don’t suffer fools gladly, so it was time to shake the spot. Fourteen hours later, she sent me a birthday greeting and an apology. I didn’t deign to respond. Her wildly hostile and erratic behavior discomfited me, to say the least.

After this exchange, Lori began her underhanded smear campaign against me, slandering me to everyone she encountered; other Spinners wives, The Spinners themselves, Rock & Roll Hall of Fame staffers, Motown Museum staffers, the creepy showerless sycophant in Detroit who volunteered to chauffeur her and Mr. Edwards around Detroit during Mr. Fambrough’s homegoing services 18 months later. The optics were in her favor: she was the dutiful, caretaking wife of a beloved Spinner. I was a younger Black woman who dares to stand in her own authenticity — a combination that never fails to arouse suspicion. Unbeknownst to me, she was poisoning the well, causing people to form unfounded opinions about me based on her projections. Despite her private acknowledgment that she had been rude to me, she weaponized her privilege to sully my good name to people I had to work with. A couple years later, shortly after she paid a visit to The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Museum, all of the staffers I’d worked with leading up to the group’s induction in 2023 suspiciously stopped responding my emails. I couldn’t do much about someone else’s lack of discernment, but taking someone else’s word over your own experience with a person is certainly a choice.

I absorbed this incoming all because I stood up for Toby’s authority as the group’s manager against this quarrelsome woman’s encroachment. My attempt to help each of these individuals put me in a position to be under perpetual attack for the next three years. The Benefactress that warned me of Toby’s hostility toward Black women in late 2023 called it perfectly: Toby likes to stay above the fray, keep his hands clean, so he can appear clean and come in and save the day. I was unwittingly playing into his long game to vanquish his foe by standing up for him. I was the foe.

As if I hadn’t already been through the wringer, in the days following this fracas, Heather sent me a text looking to schedule a call. You see, Toby had complained to Heather about me emailing him without her on copy; as if communicating with him was an act of insubordination on my part. She’d made it abundantly clear to both of us that she didn’t want to be copied on emails concerning day-to-day Spinners business — delegation was the entire point of hiring us. She asked me to forward the email exchanges. I gladly obliged. They were all professional on my end, I couldn’t say the same about his correspondence to me. Despite my upbeat, professional, and deferential approach, Toby Ludwig decided to hard launch an unrelenting, unprovoked campaign to problematize me. I detected a bit of skepticism on Heather’s part, like she had already presumed that I must have said something out of pocket to justify Toby’s concerns.

This was a pattern that would repeat itself ad infinitum in the ensuing years: an antagonist complains about me, Heather calls me into the principal’s office, I provide evidence refuting the claims, she heaps effusive praise in lieu of an apology. Rinse. Repeat. Each one of these cycles failed to evidence my wrongdoing. Yet, the insidious nature of problematization is what renders it such an effective tool against its target. It erodes confidence in the targeted individual through the power of suggestion: there must be something with this person, her name keeps finding its way to me, people keep complaining about her. It also creates fatigue. Whether you believe the specious allegations agains the target or not, you’re just tired of having to address them. At a certain point, the person in authority grows weary of the constant need to referee conflict. Keep reporting Tanisha, and eventually, you’ll get sick of having to address the problem — whether I’m the problem or not. It’s a stultifying weight to bear.

Be a thermostat, not a thermometer, Tanisha. I repeated the mantra to maintain some semblance of composure. It was imperative that I nip this obnoxious behavior in the bud before it got out of hand. So on August 22, I sent an email to Toby and Will setting up a call to discuss Toby’s disingenuous “concerns” about my direct communication. I strongly suspected that he wasn’t comfortable working alongside a Black woman who conceived of herself as his equal. I’d already made clear to Heather that while I respected his position as manager, I would not be submitting myself to his authority. That was what Will Whitney was for.

Toby whined to Heather, but played coy with me. He had no problems at all, to hear him tell it. But y’know, if I needed to talk to him, no big deal. At this point, I wanted to do Pilates on the 405 during rush hour more than I wanted to talk to this slimeball.

I couldn’t let Toby continue to throw rocks and hide his hands without addressing, so a conversation was going to happen. But not until after I was on the other side of my first road trip with the group. I’d be joining the entourage on the road for The Spinners’ annual residency at Yoshi’s in Oakland, CA (August 26-28 that year) with Naoe in tow to capture performance footage to create promotional video assets for the group. We’d hired one of Naoe’s Oakland based colleagues (Tone Vic) as a second camera operator and Sony Cinema graciously loaned us their brand spanking new FX9 camera to shoot this footage. My email sharing news of this coup with Toby and his team went unanswered and unacknowledged. So much for esprit de corps and team wins.

My approach to branding the Spinners stemmed from my belief that Black American Music is caviar music that deserves caviar treatment. It’s why I was adamant about swapping out use of the term “oldies” for “classics.” The former sounded like a relic one might find in a moldy basement, languishing next to a Pittsburgh toilet (if you know you know). Classics, on the other hand, confers a level of sophistication and timelessness. Thom Bell’s lush orchestrations and Cholly Atkins’ GQ smooth stage routines deserved more elegant branding, I thought.

After my successful first run with the crew at Yoshi’s, I could finally turn my attention to addressing any tensions between Toby and I that stood in the way of an amicable rapport. We’d just met — there was no reason to sully our relationship with bad blood where none had been shed. But Toby was looking for problems for every solution.

NIMO

NIMO - Not In My Office, a term coined by the author; the workplace equivalent of NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard). The white liberal tendency to superficially embrace equity in the workplace for overachieving Black professionals as long as they don’t have to actually deal with said Black colleagues in their own workplace.

By all indications, Toby espoused liberal politics. In our conference calls with Heather, he routinely put on a performative display of expressing his disapproval of Donald Trump’s antics. In addition to The Spinners, Toby also counted Black artists like Billy Ocean, The Commodores, The O’Jays, and Maxi Priest as clients signed to his 21st Century Plantation Management company. On paper, he presented as an ally — my personal experience with him as a Black woman stood in stark contrast to his carefully curated image.

I reached out to Toby on September 1 to set up our call, hoping to address whatever the hell was responsible for his belligerence. His troubling behavior warranted a frank discussion soonest, as Heather was fond of saying. Unsurprisingly, Toby didn’t share my urgency. He kept kicking the can down the road, pushing me to address my issues with Will. I knew what he was doing. He wanted to establish a pecking order — I wasn’t his equal, so I should be talking to his underling, not him. To the contrary, I ran my ship and he ran his. I regarded him as a peer, an equal, which turned out to be giving him too much credit. We weren’t even three months in and I could already tell he was intimidated by me.

Nevertheless, this is who Heather chose to run the organization. I came to the table ready to build a functional working relationship with Toby. My correspondence evidences my good faith efforts in furtherance of that elusive goal. Between August and September 2022, I’d initiated a plethora of correspondence covering an expanse of pertinent discussions from the social media management strategy I was implementing on the Spinners instagram page;

Talking points to address the group reducing down to a four-man lineup;

designers for new stage uniforms;

…and opening acts, namely the Honey Cone. The Honey Cone, of course, are one of the incredible acts that were signed to Holland-Dozier-Holland’s post-Motown imprint, Hot Wax Records. Their string of hits include the 1971 chart-topping, gold-certified confection, “Want Ads.” I enjoyed an affable rapport with the ladies on Facebook — founding member and fellow Leo Shelly Clark, Kathy Merrick, and Wendy Smith-Bruné. I’d just seen their incredible Easter Sunday show that year at Vibrato Grill, one of my favorite venues in LA or anywhere, and it was blazing.

I ran the idea by Toby via email on August 16, 2022.

Toby responded the following day in a message brimming with pessimism, making Debbie Downer look sanguine in comparison. The assertion that the Spinners weren’t a closing act was pure hogwash — they had songs that were permanently etched in the zeitgeist of popular American music. If The Temptations were the standard-bearers for male vocal groups in the 1960s, the 1970s belonged to The Spinners. Sure, the group was without an original member by the time Toby and I joined the organization, and they had languished for years prior to our arrival due to Paul Mathis’ gross incompetence. Reversing their fortunes and restoring their shine was our shared professional mandate, or so I thought. Since Toby was the group’s manager, his position carried the day. Once I offered my advisement pursuant to my role as the group’s publicist and brand strategist for our manager to consider, it was out of my hands. Once again, regardless of the individual occupying the manager’s seat, I had an abiding respect for the protocol.

Considering Toby’s dismissal of the idea, you can imagine my utter shock when just a few weeks later in early September, Ms. Shelly commented on one of my Facebook posts:

Incensed fails to capture my emotional state in that moment. The blood coursed through my veins like a torrent of liquid fire. I didn’t give a damn about being a thermostat at this point. Toby clearly shot down my idea of joining forces with the Honey Cone only to turn around and make an overture to their management team as if he’d come up with the idea himself. His antics played out like a greatest hits compilation of smarmy tactics deployed by every villainous artist manager who leeches off of Black artists in particular. When I had that conversation with the sista who told me to watch my back around Toby in the fall of 2023, this particular betrayal leapt to the forefront of my consciousness.

The array of weaponry Toby employed to mount his insidious attacks against me were impressive in their variety. In less than three months he’d hit me with deliberate obtuseness, problematization, gaslighting, and now taking credit for my ideas. Mother Maya Angelou’s voice whispered in my ear (scratch that, my hilarious bestie Tamika Peoples’ spot-on impression of Mother Maya’s voice whispered loudly in my ear, let me keep it a buck): When people show you who they arrrre, you must believe them the first time. Toby Ludwig was showing himself to be an unrepentant jagoff, and I believed him.

We couldn’t hold off on that conversation any longer. I sent Heather a text warning her of the conversation I was about to have to level set with Toby. At this point in the timeline, I had every reason to believe she was on the square. We know how that turned out.

I let Heather know about Toby’s slithery about-face regarding The Honey Cone. I knew I was exemplary when it came to working collaboratively with others — it’s one of the reasons why I enjoy directing so much. Convening a brilliant team of co-conspirators, bouncing ideas off one another, shaping characters and plots together — this was all sacred work for me. Working in alignment with others can awaken parts of a person they wouldn’t have otherwise known they had. That beautiful process can only unfold when you are met halfway. To the contrary, I was standing in the middle of the bridge waiting for Toby to meet me there, unaware that he was stockpiling sticks of dynamite beneath me, ready to blow me up to smithereens.

Simultaneous to my text exchange with Heather that day, I reached out to Toby keen on having the necessary conversation to end this foolishness.

I saw the tribulations that lay ahead plain as day — so did Ray Charles. This man simply took working alongside an empowered Black woman as a personal affront. I was supposed to sing or dance. I was supposed to seek his counsel. What I wasn’t supposed to do was engage my rational capacity. That upset the natural order. He was far more comfortable lording over the singing and dancing Negroes who looked to him as an all-knowing savior.

Ascended Master Leroi Jones (later known as Amiri Baraka) warned me of Toby’s ilk in the pages of his seminal tome, Blues People. He cuts to the chase on page 3:

There was no communication between master and slave on any strictly human level, but only the relation one might have to a piece of property — if you twist the knob on your radio you expect it to play — Leroi Jones aka Amiri Baraka, “Blues People”

Toby’s laissez-faire approach to management was intended to reinforce a racialized hierarchy in which the white men in suits negotiated the fates of the talented slaves. He was the disembodied Massa, remotely lording over the singing and dancing negroes who knew no better from the Big House. His was a form of benevolent paternalism. But when it came time to hit that stage (twist the knob on his radio), those negroes better dance and croon (that radio better play). So even though it was off-putting to me that everyone on his team I’d met so far were all white men — Will Whitney, Hampton Howerton, and Milo (last name escapes me, but he was Will’s assistant at the time) — I certainly wasn’t shocked. This lack of representation is par for the course and intentional when it comes to the business of Black music, but I don’t believe in entering a room without leaving the door ajar behind me for more of us to enter. There’s no way you can be in such close proximity with the Black community — our music is our culture’s sacred text — and not come across a sharp-minded Black professional who could make a significant contribution to your team.

In a phone call with Will around this time, I expressed how disappointing it was that 21st Century Plantation Management was making money off of Black artists and yet there was no reinvestment back into the community in the form of a staff member that reflected its clientele. It wasn’t due to a shortage of capable Black professionals, I was both an exemplar and a witness. Shortly thereafter, Milo was no longer the one sending out updated itineraries to Team Spinners; that duty was now handled by Lauren May, a young Black woman. If you’re reading this, Lauren — you’re welcome.

Clearly, I was still interacting with Heather’s representative. It’d be some time before her mask slipped, even more time would elapse before it fell off totally, revealing the darkness of her corroded soul. I now realize that in another timeline, she definitely ratted out Harriet Tubman’s whereabouts to some slave catcher in exchange for wooden nickels. Her reminder to me that “we are all team Spinners” rubbed me the wrong way. She was talking to the one who didn’t need that reminder. As I revisit these text messages today, I experience a wave of agita. She reassured me that she could empathize with me due to her own experience in Corporate America. Yet she was disinclined to leverage her position of authority to ameliorate my struggle. For someone who constantly brags about being a Link (every other word, in every other sentence, in every. single. conversation), she certainly didn’t extend sisterhood to me in any meaningful way. Perhaps I needed to be a member of The Links, Inc., the invite-only organization of formidable, upper-class Black women, in order for her to see me as one. I’m proud to count a number of Links within my extended circle of girlfriends — these ladies are exceptional and inspirational. Not sure how she got in, but I digress.

The phone conversation with Toby and Will was tense, but candid. Forthright, but mostly respectful. Toby must have put on a master performance, because I walked away from that call with exuberant hope that we were finally on the same page at long last. To be quite honest, I don’t have much of a recollection of that call to recapitulate it with the level of granular detail you’ve come to expect from me at this point, so I won’t make that attempt. Based on my debrief to Heather, I was confident that we could turn this ship around and chart a more productive, collegial course, but I’ll let you be the judge.

For a minute there, Toby gave collegiality the old college try. We even linked up for dinner and drinks at one of my favorite off-strip Italian restaurants. We broke bread and exchanged war stories working with the OGs of classic soul. We bandied about ideas for the Spinners, gave each other insight on our respective approaches to this work. It was a cool hang, but he still seemed shocked by my intellect and acumen, as if he was witnessing a dog talking for the first time, a la Brian on Family Guy. I pushed that observation to the back of my mind, choosing instead to bask in the moment: this was definitely progress.

An Uneasy Détente

I may be a cockeyed optimist, but I’m nobody’s fool. Even though I felt somewhat better about interacting with the colleagues this circumstance foisted upon me, I knew that target on my back was ever-present. At the time, my mom was still alive and well. As I’d done since I was 13-years old volunteering as a candy striper at the now-defunct hospital she worked at, across from the since-demolished Civic Arena in the Uptown section of Pittsburgh, I filled her in on the workplace drama. She had a lot to say about this motley crew of miscreants I was dealing with. Her overall advice: don’t let none of those fools think they’re something over you. Heather favors that man because she wants to be something over you, I don’t care who her daddy is. Look that Toby right in the eye and tell that fool ‘he ain’t shot from shit’ if you need to, but if he’s cordial, you be cordial too. People are people.’ I picked up what my Boss Lady was puttin’ down.

For the moment, I returned my sword to its sheath. There was so much work to be done, and I desperately wanted to get back to the doing. I followed B. Lo’s advice and led with cordiality. Shortly after Toby and I arrived at our uneasy détente on that phone call, Paul Mathis emerged from his sewer, looking to create trouble. I didn’t know anything about him at this point, other than the fact that he had been the group’s previous manager. Heather called me mid-morning on September 19, sounding chipper. She had an assignment for me. Paul Mathis was not only the Spinners former manager — he was also Henry’s cousin, she revealed. Will had mentioned the family ties to me on a call at this time, but this was my first time hearing it directly from Heather. Cousin Paul seemed to be having a difficult time accepting that he was no longer managing his cousin’s group, despite remaining a part of the organization as its counsel. That seemed like a bad idea, but you’ve figured out by now that the logic was omitted in the topsy turvy world of The Spinners. On this particular call, Heather took on the role of Chief Quimby to my Inspector Gadget, briefing me on the mission (I’m really proud of this reference).

Paul had been interviewed for a podcast entitled SuperTalk Media In A Mississippi Minute, hosted by Steve Azar. The show’s introduction touted that Paul was “managing them [The Spinners] as we speak.” Ever inclined to look out for another manager, I balked at the flagrant attempt to encroach upon Toby’s territory. I was no stranger to bad actors attempting to usurp my authority as a manager, so I naturally stood in solidarity. I wouldn’t want anyone doing that to me, and he deserved the respect that came with that title.

Without any cajoling from Heather, I concluded that it was time to place Toby’s management contact information on The Spinners Instagram page (we had been unsuccessful in obtaining the login credentials for the group’s official Facebook page at that point).

I doubled down on the collegiality. A foolproof indicator of good faith is how one advocates for you when you aren’t present. Whosoever has had occasion to work with me will inform you that I’m a stand-up woman. I cannot overstate the importance of loyalty to my personal code of ethics. One hand washes the other is how I see it.

Something about this exchange chilled me to the bone. She was the Big Cheese in this dynamic, yet she was worried about pissing Toby off? He worked for her, not the other way around. I further found it fascinating that Heather could be such a savage to her family member, but that wasn’t my business. Although I was admittedly a tad curious about what the holidays looked like in that family dynamic. I took heed: if Heather Fambrough Williams was this cutthroat dealing with her own flesh-and-blood, loyalty wasn’t a part of her personal code of ethics (“ethics” is doing a lot of heavy lifting here, let me tell you). Rather than a private call-in, she was letting Paul hang out to dry, and making light of it with a perfect stranger. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy, but still. Yikes is all I have to say about that. If she could do it to him, she could damn sure do it to me.

I quieted my mind and didn’t allow any of these latent concerns rise to the surface. We’d reached a fragile state of détente, and I didn’t want to upset the balance. But I was not naive to the fact that Toby and I were edging toward a clash of conflicting Weltanschauung. I put my nose to the grindstone, hoping that if I continued to be undeniable in my role, I wouldn’t be denied. I joined the entourage for the last gig of 2022, their sole paying gig for the last two months of the year — December 10 at Mohegan Sun in Uncasville, CT. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself strolling by the shops inside the casino before the show. I desperately want to tap that lionhearted woman on the shoulder and warn her: you know once they see you can touch the sky they are going to try to bring you down, right?

I decide against it, because what’s the use? I know all too well how she’ll respond anyway: so rise again and make it look easier next time, bitch! Then she’ll saunter backstage to the green room with her head held high, because she doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of “Toby Ludwig, The Real Life Remmick” (Episode 7 overall of Spinnin’ Out of Control).