Earth, Wind & Fire were on an incredible trajectory. To put it simply, we weren’t just thriving; we were blazing a trail.
There was a shared, albeit unspoken, belief among us that what we had created was still growing, still pushing boundaries, and reaching for something even greater.
What happened next was something none of us anticipated.
In 1982, we received news that Maurice White, the visionary founder of the band, wanted to hold a meeting.
We were all summoned to The Complex in West Los Angeles, our familiar hub where our recording studios were located. So when we got the call, it didn’t raise any alarms.
In fact, it sparked the opposite reaction.
With our popularity still surging and our reputation flourishing, it felt natural to assume this meeting was a celebration. Maybe Maurice wanted to toast the journey so far. Maybe there was a new vision to share. A new chapter to unveil.
But as we filtered into the room and took our seats, something shifted. There were no smiles waiting for us. No champagne.
Earth, Wind & Fire in their 1970s heyday (Maurice White is third from left; Ralph Johnson front in red)
The band was at the height of their fame with White (center) announced he was going solo
Maurice entered. His presence always commanded respect, but that day it carried a different weight.
As I looked around the room – at men I’d spent years sweating beside onstage, men who had become brothers in every sense except blood – I could see it on their faces too.
Confusion. Curiosity. A creeping sense that maybe we had misread the moment.
Maurice waited until everyone was in the room. No small talk. No warm-up. Then he spoke.
And just like that, the illusion cracked.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘here’s what’s going on. I’m taking a break. I’m going to do a solo album, and it looks like Phil [lead singer Philip Bailey] will do one too. You guys can do what you want. Maybe we will come back together; maybe we won’t.’
In true Maurice White style, there was no beating around the bush or sugarcoating the message. He was a straight shooter. His voice had no attitude, no anger, just firmness.
There was dead silence. Maurice didn’t take any questions, and there was no discussion.
‘In true Maurice White style, there was no beating around the bush or sugarcoating the message,’ writes Johnson
In the wake of the split, some band members lost their homes while others got divorced
The emphatic finality of his words still rings in my head: ‘This is what I’m doing. You guys are on your own.’
In less than 30 minutes, it was over.
All of us were in shock. We had just released our latest album, Raise!, a few months prior in 1981, and it was another hit anchored by the song ‘Let’s Groove.’
Our studio manager Richie Salvato recalled to me about that time: ‘How devastating was this moment? Band members were receiving road money, and that was gone… They had exclusive homes and fancy cars, but suddenly, their income stream was cut off. Many lost their cars and flashy lifestyles. They lost homes and had to move into apartments. Some got divorced. It wasn’t easy.’
As one year turned to two, and two dragged into three, my own music opportunities soon dried up. To complicate matters, the group was embroiled in a fierce legal battle with CBS over royalties, so publishing income paused.
During what ended up being a six–year hiatus, I was bitter. This whole breakup left me with bad feelings toward Maurice. Every day I thought: ‘How could you do this, Reece?’
My wife Susie was pregnant with our first child – our son John-Ralph. This was real life pressing in: bills, diapers, responsibility, love wrapped in total vulnerability.
I knew I needed to generate consistent income, and I could no longer rely on music. Not to support a growing family. I needed options – stable ones.
So I picked up the phone and called a friend, Tony Chargois. Tony owned US Mechanical, a company deeply involved in construction, plumbing, and fire protection systems – a blue-collar world far removed from stages and spotlight.
I told him: ‘Tony, I need to work. Can I come work with you?’
His answer was instantaneous. ‘Yes.’
Johnson’s own music opportunities dried up about three years into the band’s long hiatus
Verdine White, Maurice White, Philip Bailey, and Ralph Johnson hold up their hands after leaving imprints at the Hollywood Rock Walk during their induction ceremony in 2003
Johnson retrained as a plumber to support his family
Just like that. No hesitation. No judgment. Just a lifeline.
Tony didn’t just give me a job. He gave me a craft. He taught me how to cut pipe. How to thread it. How to hang it. How to build something sturdy, something physical, something that would stand up to gravity and pressure.
He put me on a massive contract – installing the fire protection system for the Sports Club in West Los Angeles. Every morning, I’d wake up early, slip into my jeans and T–shirt, cinch on a tool belt, and step into a world where the soundtrack was power tools and clanging steel.
It was tiring. It was tedious. It was brutally hard work.
But every inch of that building? I hung it. I took pride in that.
For about three years, I lived in that reality – hands wrapped around wrenches, sweat on my brow, the sun rising before my day and setting after it. Tony taught me more than plumbing. He taught me perseverance, dignity in honest work, and the quiet pride that comes from building something strong with your own hands.
When that chapter ended, still unsure of where music would take me next, I found work at Federated Stereo on La Brea and Sunset Boulevards.
I liked interacting with people. Showing customers something new. Talking specs, demonstrating tone. That was in my wheelhouse. But every day I walked in that store, there was still a part of me wondering, is this it? Is Earth, Wind & Fire over for me?
And there was another tension: Customers – friends of music – would come in and see me working the floor. And they’d say things like: ‘Aren’t you in Earth, Wind & Fire?’
And I’d smile, nod, and help them find the perfect speaker setup. But inside it was awkward. It felt like a secret I wasn’t sure how to explain. Was I surviving? Or was I waiting?
About six months into the job, I saw a familiar figure step through the door.
It took a second to register. There she was – Marilyn White, Maurice’s wife, looking for a keyboard for her son, Kahbran.
In that moment, I had a choice. I could duck into the warehouse and pretend I was stacking boxes until she left – preserve my pride, protect my dignity – or I could meet her with confidence.
For a brief second, I wrestled with myself. But then I walked out onto that floor and said simply: ‘Marilyn, how can I help you?’
She blinked, recognition spreading slowly across her face.
Verdine White, Ralph Johnson, and Philip Bailey celebrate as Earth, Wind & Fire is honored at the Kennedy Center in 2019
‘My wife Susie was pregnant with our first child – our son John–Ralph. This was real life pressing in: bills, diapers, responsibility, love wrapped in total vulnerability.’ Johnson photographed with his wife in 2019
Johnson’s new memoir, Rhythm & Fire, is out May 26
‘Ralph?’ She really looked puzzled to see me in a navy–blue polo shirt with a name badge. ‘What are you doing here?’
I was honest.
‘This is where I am until the group figures out what it’s going to do.’
We didn’t sit down for a deep heart–to–heart. Just a few words, a small interaction. I showed her the keyboard she came for. She bought it. She left.
But I wondered if she went home and told Maurice about seeing me in that store.
It was October 1987 – the same year Earth, Wind & Fire released a new album, Touch the World, featuring the hit single ‘System of Survival.’
And if that wasn’t enough of a shock, I heard it in the store. I heard that song playing – a brand–new Earth, Wind & Fire track – while I was selling stereos in a retail aisle.
That hit me harder than any beat I’d ever played.
Because I was a member of the band pretty much from the beginning. And no one told me anything about the album. No heads–up. No call. No conversation. Nothing.
The group had moved on and made a record without me.
I stood in that store – surrounded by speakers and soundboards – and felt something deep and sharp inside.
Hurt. Shock. Abandonment.
It felt like being stabbed in the heart.
The sense of betrayal was real. But standing there in that moment I realized something deeper: Pain is not the end of your story. It’s the moment you begin to rewrite it.
Rhythm & Fire: A Life in Harmony with Earth, Wind & Fire by Ralph Johnson is published by Diversion Books, May 26, and is available for pre-order now
