In the early seventies, when we used to hang out at Phillips
Recording
Service on Madison, Jim Dickinson told me the secret to gaining
prominence in music: “The best way to make it in the music
business,” he said, “is to start
a good rumor about yourself.” That’s why I took such delight in
watching him create the “East Memphis Slim” persona he continued to
develop. He became the authentic white boy with the blues, with a
sardonic sense of humor and the willingness to step out on a limb for
his art. Yet, he still had the intellectual honesty to once tell an
interviewer, “We all learned it from the yard man.” Sometime after his
work with various Memphis bands and his stint as house keyboardist for
Atlantic Records at Criteria Studios in Miami, Jim’s ever-expanding
credits as a producer became so impressive and his expertise and keen
ear so desired by a new generation of musicians that the reality simply
overran the rumor.
Jim based his theory on Mac Rebennack, a New Orleans keyboardist,
who labored for years in anonymity before creating the Voodoo High
Priest, Dr. John the Night Tripper and rocketing to recording stardom.
Jim turned me on to that record in 1967, and when the opening notes of
the title track began, he said excitedly, “Listen to that. That’s a
cane flute,” displaying his fondness for esoteric instruments. That was
the year I worked with him on our single recording project at the old
Ardent Studio in John Fry’s garage on National. Before Led Zeppelin,
before Cream, even before Moloch, Jim had the idea to record some
white-boy, electric blues, in contrast with the pop fare of the day. He
recruited Sam the Sham’s drummer, Jerry Patterson, Fred Hester on
stand-up bass, and Lee Baker on lead guitar. Jim produced and played
piano. Even though I was away at college and had been absent from the
Memphis scene for a year, I was honored that Jim chose me to sing. It
was one of those sessions that was deferred then abandoned for one
reason or another. I bugged Jim about it for a year or so, but
recording tape was too expensive to save something that you weren’t
going to use.
When Jim crossed paths with Sam Phillips, he took his credo to
heart: “If you’re not doing something different, then you’re not doing
anything.” As a record producer, Jim became the true disciple of
Phillips, both in his approach to recording and the talent he chose to
work with. Jim, always prepared with a quote, once wisely said: “The
best songs don’t get recorded; the best recordings don’t get released;
and the best releases don’t get played.” For his own production career,
Jim also adopted Phillip’s: “Crazy is often good.”
I’m dating myself, but it seems like only yesterday when Jim and
Mary Lindsay Dickinson lived off White Station Road and entertained a
group of Bohemians, hipsters, bluesmen, musicians, and magicians in
their living room nightly. There was very little recording going on in
Memphis once the famous labels closed, but the camaraderie among
artists was such that it’s strange how some of your fondest memories
arise from times when you believed you were suffering the most. I
valued Jim’s opinion so much that, like a little brother, I still
sought his approval for whatever I was doing musically.
Jim would tell you what he thought and was not one to idly hand out
compliments. That’s why receiving one from him meant so much. I
participated in a garage band reunion a couple of years ago. I did some
shtick that was a throwback to the old soul revues when the singer
would chime, “I once heard a friend of mine say …” and then sing
snippets of various artists’ songs. On the changeover, I was walking
offstage, and Jim was stepping up when he said, “Hey man, that was
great.” Those few words made my night. Some time later, I got a call
from David Less, whose label released Jim’s albums. He said Jim wanted
to know if I’d be interested in coming down to Mississippi and singing
some backup on his latest solo effort. I sang harmony vocals on one
song, and when I was done, Jim wrote me a check. “What’s this?” I
asked. “You’re actually going to pay me?” Jim laughed and said, “That’s
the way we do it these days.” I reminded him of our 1967 recordings and
told him how pleased I was that it only took him 40 years to call me
back. But I would have done it for free.
I can see by the way the North Mississippi Allstars have conducted
their careers thus far that Cody and Luther’s parents taught them well.
Aside from his extraordinary talent, the other quality Jim had in
abundance was integrity. He leaves a void in the vanguard of
contemporary music production that is impossible to fill. Even after I
heard he was in ill health and had bypass surgery, I assumed if anyone
could kick a heart attack’s ass, it would be Jim. The man had an air of
invincibility about him. His “East Memphis Slim” creation had come full
circle, and he was gaining the respect he desired as a producer with
every passing day. It was as if he was almost where he wanted to be.
Not quite, but almost. A whole generation, raised on the ’50s music
played by Dewey Phillips and Rufus Thomas and with an appreciation for
the absurd and the eccentric, is beginning to fade from view. Jim has
already achieved legendary status with a generation of musicians
inspired by his adventurous productions. For many more who knew him
well or those who only knew him by reputation, the loss of James Luther
Dickinson is like losing a piece of Memphis itself. =
