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Staying Power: 50 Years of Al Green’s Twin Masterpieces

Al Green (Photo: University of Memphis Archive)

Yvonne Mitchell had to be patient when her father, producer Willie Mitchell, was at work. Since she’d turned 18, she’d been working at Royal Studios, where all of Hi Records’ output was recorded. “He’d be working in the control room, and I would be in my office. Then I’d go back to help him when he needed me during recording and mixing sessions,” she recalls. But this day was different. She hadn’t heard from Willie for a while.

Wandering back to the control room, she saw Willie seated at the mixing board. A voice echoed through the speakers, “I can still feel the breeze …” as eerie tremolo strings shivered with cinematic urgency. “That rustles through the trees …” An organ chord suddenly chopped the silence like a pang of loneliness. And then Yvonne saw her father’s face. He was in tears.

Yvonne Mitchell (Photo: courtesy Yvonne Mitchell)

“He had to piece so many parts together for that song,” Yvonne recalls. “He would take it apart, then stop and start tearing up. That particular song took him a whole day to mix. I said, ‘Dad, why are you crying?’ He just looked at me and said, ‘This is a masterpiece.’”

He wasn’t wrong. Half a century later, hearing Al Green sing “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?” can still give you goose bumps. It’s a different beast than the Bee Gees’ original version. The intimacy of Green’s voice, the sacred steps of the Hi Rhythm Section playing behind him, those strings, and other sonic surprises all carry the listener on a twilit journey. It was a breakthrough moment in the history of soul music, or any music.

Al Green (Photo: Bud Lee)

Yet the track was but one of many breakthroughs, both personal and artistic, that were going down then in the former little cinema known as Royal Studios, one of the oldest continuously operating recording facilities in the world to this day. Fifty years on, it’s worth revisiting those months, starting in late 1971, during which Hi Records became the epicenter of the musical universe, culminating in Al Green’s twin masterpieces of 1972: January’s Let’s Stay Together and October’s I’m Still in Love With You.

A Long Time Coming
For Willie Mitchell, it had been a long time coming, marking the culmination of many years’ worth of craftsmanship as he toiled to create a distinctive sound. What he arrived at, with tracks that flowed with watery chords underpinned by an inexorable rhythm section and topped with Green’s silky delivery, sounded like nothing else on the pop landscape at the time.

Willie’s grandson Boo Mitchell, whom he raised as his own son, recalls the trajectory that took the trumpet-wielding Willie, aka Pop, to the apex of the 1970s hit parade. “Pop came from the big band era,” says Boo. “But when Pop got back from the Korean War in ’55, he was tired of big band. He wanted something different. So he started a band with [drummer] Al Jackson Jr. and his younger brother [and baritone saxophonist] James. That grew into the Memphis soul sound.” It was a new brand of stripped-down, hard-hitting, groovy R&B, ultimately popularized globally when Jackson and others began recording at Stax Records, and it had its roots in Willie’s outfit. “He had the most famous band in town,” Boo says. “Everybody played with him at some point.”

Back row (left to right): James Mitchell, Teenie Hodges, Charles Hodges, Leroy Hodges; front row: Willie Mitchell and Howard Grimes (Photo: Lansky Bros.)

James would later play a major role in the classic Al Green oeuvre. But it all began when Willie was hired by Hi Records in the early ’60s, with the brothers’ horn sound propelling several instrumental singles for the label, including the hit “20-75” in 1964. That track was the first where Willie had complete control of the production, a giant leap forward in more ways than one.

“Pop went through all of this racial oppression to get to where he was,” Boo explains. “The engineer that was at Royal in the early ’60s, Ray Harris, told him that Black people couldn’t touch the mixing board.” Both the injustice and the aesthetics of it rankled Mitchell, so he threatened to quit unless he could engineer his own productions. “The first song Pop engineered was ‘20-75,’” says Boo, “and you can hear the difference: The music just jumps out of the speakers. So he spent the next several years perfecting the sound of the room. And after he finally bought Ray Harris out in 1968, he was the lead engineer, full-time. That’s when he really got the room the way he wanted it.”

Willie Mitchell (Photo: courtesy Yvonne Mitchell)

Hi Rhythm
Bit by bit, he was coming closer to realizing the sounds in his head. His sonic perfectionism paid off with more instrumental hits on Hi, made all the more compelling by the house band he assembled. By the mid-’60s, Willie’s stepsons, Horace and Archie “Hubbie” Turner, were playing in an R&B band called the Impalas with two brothers, Mabon “Teenie” Hodges on guitar and Leroy “Flick” Hodges on bass. Willie brought them in to his sessions at Royal, starting with Flick.

Speaking from the studio’s tracking room floor today, Flick points to where he stood. “Right here. I was 17 years old. I’d never done a recording in my life. And I was right here with Al Jackson Jr., Joe Hall, James Mitchell, Willie, and Reggie Young. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing!”

The compelling grooves of Mitchell’s solo records argue otherwise, especially after Willie assembled a new house band derived from the Impalas. By 1968, the Hi Rhythm Section boasted a young Howard Grimes on drums, who had played on early Stax hits and whose beat was so insistent that Willie dubbed him “Bulldog.” Teenie joined on guitar and Hubbie on keyboards, and the band took on a chemistry all its own.

When Hubbie was drafted and left for Vietnam, another Hodges brother, Charles, stepped in on keys and the group carried on both in the studio and on the road. And, as Flick notes today, that time together was key. “The five of us worked together every weekend. We really knew one another.”

To this day, as Charles Hodges notes, “We are as one. And there are not many musicians that can say that. You just feel each other.” One of their early successes, a cover of King Curtis’ “Soul Serenade,” led them to tour the country. In Texas, they met one Al Greene, a soul crooner struggling in the business with one modestly successful single, and Willie invited him to record for Hi in Memphis.

Wisely having dropped the “e” from his surname, Al Green was getting closer to the stardom Willie imagined for him, but he had an unremarkable start on Hi. “Al Green’s first record, Green Is Blues, didn’t sell anything,” Boo Mitchell notes. But as Willie and the band worked with Green, the producer was working toward a new goal: breaking away from the instrumental hits and reinventing the Memphis sound again.

Listen to the Room
Willie’s daughter Yvonne remembers that time well. “He wanted a new sound,” she says. “When I would drive him to the studio, we couldn’t play the radio. He’d say, ‘Would you please turn the music off?’ He said, ‘People steal from me, I don’t steal from them.’”

Once they were at Royal, he put the acoustics of the space under a microscope. “It took him almost two or three years to find his sound,” says Yvonne. “He’d be buying burlap and putting all this stuff on the walls. Then he would just sit here in the middle of the floor, beating on a snare drum. He’d say, ‘No it’s not right’ and beat on the snare drum some more. Finally he said, ‘I got it! I got it! Come listen to the room!’ I said, ‘Listen to the room?’”

The sound of that room colors Green’s second album, Al Green Gets Next to You. The LP took a quantum leap musically as well, chiefly in perfecting the simmering, slow funk of the rhythm section. With slamming tracks like “I Can’t Get Next to You,” “I’m a Ram,” and “Right Now, Right Now,” Green’s naturally silky voice turns on a dime to growls and shouts. But the singer insisted that his original, the more pensive “Tired of Being Alone,” was the hit, and, after lingering low in the charts for months, this proved true.

As Boo says, “Al Green Gets Next to You was right before Pop perfected the room. And then he gets to ‘Tired of Being Alone,’ and that’s more like the Al Green sound that you’re used to.” To Boo, this expresses Willie’s drive to reinvent himself. “See, people kept jacking his sound. He basically invented the Memphis soul sound in the ’50s, before anybody. So at the height of soul music, he was like, ‘Okay, everybody’s doing what I did. Let me change my sound again.’ So he started making his stuff with Al a little more sophisticated.”

Soul music was getting more sophisticated everywhere at the time, but where some artists, like Isaac Hayes, took their jazz influences in a more orchestral direction, Willie Mitchell combined sophistication with the intimacy that came from “listening to the room.” When “Tired of Being Alone” finally clicked in the charts, just when Hi Records co-owner Joe Cuoghi died and left his company shares to Mitchell, the producer was encouraged on all fronts to go with his instincts. The next Al Green single, released in November 1971, embodied that.

“This Could Be Something”
As Willie himself says in Robert Mugge’s documentary, Gospel According to Al Green, “The style came about because Al was singing; he was really singing hard. I used to tell Al, ‘You need to soften up some.’ … I said, ‘Al, you’ve got a good falsetto. You need to settle this music down.’ All my life, I’d tampered in jazz chords, and I began to write some jazz chords, trying to get another sound for Al. Finally one Saturday afternoon, I was tampering around on the piano, and I came up with this melody of ‘Let’s Stay Together.’ And I said, ‘This could be something.’”

At the same time, the final pieces of the recording puzzle fell into place for the producer. “Let’s Stay Together was the album where he perfected everything,” says Boo. “He perfected Al on microphone #9. That’s why that album sounds different from Al Green Gets Next to You. It has a smoother, more deliberate sonic tone to it. Every record after that had that smooth, silky sound, like Al Green is in your living room.”

Willie Mitchell perfected Al Green’s sound on microphone #9 while recording Let’s Stay Together. (Photo: Brandon Dill, courtesy Boo Mitchell)

The singer’s delivery went hand in hand with the production. “Really, ‘Let’s Stay Together,’ the song, was where Al discovered himself,” says Boo. “[Al and Willie] had a big fight about getting the vocals to that song. Al was singing hard like the other soul singers at the time. And Pop was like, ‘No, I want Al Green.’ And Al said, ‘Well I don’t know who that is.’ And he left! But when he came back, Al said, ‘Well I’m just not gonna try at all.’ And that ended up being the sound.”

Yet, beyond Willie Mitchell’s painstaking craftsmanship, another facet of the Hi sound from 1972 onward was the producer’s openness to the unpredictable. That, too, was captured in the single that started it all. “We put the track down, and that’s when everything happened,” Willie explains in the film. “We are in the ghetto area, and there’s a bunch of winos out there, and they were all out there drinking. So Al said, ‘Why don’t you go and get four or five gallons of wine, let’s bring these people into the studio.’ So we brought about 50 people in here. All the winos were drinking wine, laying on the floor when we cut the record. And we’d all tell ’em to be quiet.” Careful listening still reveals the guests who were present that day.

Perfect Imperfection
The loose atmosphere extends to the band itself. Indeed, the Hi Rhythm Section, who still records as a unit today despite the deaths of Al Jackson Jr., Teenie Hodges, and Howard Grimes, brings a magic to Let’s Stay Together, I’m Still in Love With You, and subsequent albums that transcends even Willie Mitchell’s vision. And that’s just how Willie wanted it.

As Hubbie puts it, “Willie was kind of like Miles Davis, when Miles got his [mid-’60s] group together, with Herbie Hancock and those guys. They were really young when Miles got them. Willie was the same way. Like an older guy with the young guys. ‘You guys do you guys. Do what you do.’ He’d let you go ahead and do it. Be creative.”

Speaking of his dramatic organ swipe on the track that brought Willie to tears — “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?” — Charles recalls just such a creative moment. “Al was the type of singer that could lead you to a chord. I’m right there listening and I want to be on him like a duck on a june bug. So when he sang, ‘I can feel the breeze,’ I thought of a breeze in the trees. I just felt it. And I felt self-conscious about it when I heard it back. I wanted to do it again, but Willie said, ‘No, no. This is the take right here. You all can go home.’”

Ultimately, of course, Willie was always alone at the mixing console and thus had the final say. This extended even to the unique string arrangements by his brother James, more edgy string quartet than symphonic bombast, and yet another novel element introduced to the Al Green sound in 1972. As Boo reflects, “Uncle James was an absolute genius. I’ve been studying his arrangements recently, both the strings and horns, and they were so unorthodox and unpredictable. That’s why they work.” Listening to the multitracks reveals “even more there that Pop would take out on the mix. Like extra horn parts and stuff you don’t hear on the record. He just muted them. … He knew how much to take from Uncle James and how much not to take.”

Willie’s exacting approach to mixing meant he always did it on his own, right there at Royal. It was partly a point of pride. After finally being allowed to engineer himself in the ’60s, then ascending to partial ownership of Royal and Hi, he’d personally pieced together the gear with the same ear for detail that had shaped his acoustic room design. As Boo describes it, the studio was such an extension of Willie’s vision that working elsewhere was unthinkable. “That’s the most ridiculous idea. It never happened. It would be like Michael Jordan wearing another player’s basketball shoes.”

Instead, Willie Mitchell remained comfortably ensconced in the sonic temple of his own making, never changing his approach after perfecting it with Al Green in 1972. He made stars out of many singers through the decade, but as the flashier sounds of disco and new wave became ascendant, Hi Records’ star dimmed. Al Green, of course, made a sharp turn to gospel and is the bishop of his Full Gospel Tabernacle Church to this day. When he finally returned to Royal to work with Willie on his return to secular soul, 2003’s I Can’t Stop, sure enough, Royal was there just as it was back in the day. And since Willie’s death in 2010, Royal continues under the stewardship of the Mitchell family, with nearly all of its vintage gear intact, albeit with a few upgrades to digital capabilities as well.

Perhaps most importantly, the Hi Rhythm Section and the Mitchell family carry the torch of Willie’s philosophy, mixing spontaneity, sophistication, and simplicity. As Boo puts it, “I grew up watching him produce. There’d be a studio full of world-class musicians, and everybody’s playing their thing perfectly, and Pop would — Pzzzew! — stop the tape. And he’d be like, ‘Hey man, it’s got a false feel!’ Then they’d do it again, and even if someone hit a clam or something, he’d be like, ‘That’s the take!’ He was more concerned with the spirit and the vibe and feel of a record than the technical correctness. Talk about perfect imperfection! Pop knew when God was in the room.”

Join Alex Greene, Boo Mitchell, and Rev. Charles Hodges as they discuss the making of these classic 1972 albums at the Al Green Listening Event, Memphis Listening Lab, Saturday, March 12, 6:30-8 p.m. Free.

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Music Music Blog

The Journeys of the Late Howard Grimes

Howard Grimes (Photo courtesy of Nick Loss-Eaton Media)

With the death of drummer Howard Grimes at age 80 on Saturday, Memphis and the world lost much more than a rock-solid master of the groove. Dubbed “Bulldog” by the producer Willie Mitchell, he was indeed a master of the driving beat, with not only perfect metronomic time, but an artful sense of space in his rhythms. But he was also a bridge between many worlds and eras in Memphis music, lending his feel to records and bands over six decades.

Last year, the Flyer devoted a feature to the autobiography he wrote with Preston Lauterbach, Timekeeper: My Life in Rhythm (Devault Graves). But in the interview conducted for that article, Grimes revealed much more about his life than space would permit at the time. Here then are further musings from the man himself, as he sat in Scott Bomar’s Electraphonic Recording studio, where Grimes had done so much to revive his musical life in recent years. Indeed, his work with the Bo-Keys, backing the likes of Percy Wiggins and Don Bryant, not to mention sessions with the Hi Rhythm Section at Royal Studios, added up to a full fledged Renaissance for Grimes over the past twenty years. As Bomar notes in The Commercial Appeal‘s obituary, “Anyone who played with Howard knew that he was a very special drummer and special person.”

Howard Grimes in the 1970s (Photo courtesy of Nick Loss-Eaton Media)

Memphis Flyer: In your book, you describe how you heard the Rhythm Bombers, the Manassas High School band, and how thrilled you were to finally attend there and study under band director Emerson Able.

Howard Grimes: Yes, I went to Klondike Elementary first, through the eighth grade. But then I went to Manassas. Some of the greatest musicians came out of there, like Hank Crawford, who I knew well. And James Harper, a trombone player I knew well, who knew my family and parents. Both of them went to play with Ray Charles later. When they used to come home, they would sit and talk to me and tell me about my work: “Hey, they know you out there, man. Just keep up the good work.” So that was a great inspiration, that they were keeping the big boys informed about me.

What other memories do you have of your early days of discovering music?

The first Caucasian people I saw on Beale Street were Sputnik Monroe and Billy Wicks. They were wrestlers. And Dewey Phillips. He was working on Main Street, spinning records. I’d be on Main Street shopping or something, and I’d go down there and see his little gadget where he was playing music. The first record I heard there was Carl Perkins, “Blue Suede Shoes.” That’s the way it started. That’s when the men were drinking Gold Crest 51, Falstaff and Stagg beer. That’s what they were drinking, listening to that Carl Perkins.

Did you play in church?

I played in church for a while, but they pulled me out. Because I had that beat! They snatched me out so fast! But the basis of this city at the time was all Christian. I was listening to Sam Cooke and the Swan Silvertones, the Caravan Singers out of Chicago, the Clark Sisters. All of those were my favorite groups. Then when I started playing with Ben Branch, WDIA used to have what they called the Starlight Revue. It was downtown at Ellis Auditorium, originally. You see how far back I’m talking. That’s where all the stars were congregating together. It was such a joyful time. And they had the blues too. So the people who didn’t want to stay for the blues, they would leave before we started the blues show. It was great. I got a chance to play both sides. The Starlight Revue and the Goodwill Revue. The environment was just beautiful.

Were there many white people attending?

Integration hadn’t really set in. When I started at Satellite Records [in 1960], Chips Moman had already organized Caucasians and African Americans in the band, but nobody knew it. Steve Cropper and them were already there, but when he pulled in Floyd Newman and Gilbert Cable, and then Marvell Thomas and me, he made a combination, and everything gelled.

When we were at Satellite, I didn’t understand how we could all work together inside, but when the session was over, we couldn’t all come out the same way. So Steve would stay in, and we’d come out, just us. And one day I said, “Why can’t we all walk out together?” Floyd said, “Howard, it hasn’t been integrated yet.” But it was integrated inside. And it was better because that was so much fun. There was so much we learned from each other. We were brothers. We’d take money at lunch time, and Chips would say, “Okay, we’ve got a lunch break for an hour.” Everybody would piece together the little change they had, and we’d buy baloney and a long loaf of bread and mustard and stuff, and we’d come back and all sit down and make sandwiches. And when the time was up, we’d go back to the session, the next song.

You played on a lot of tracks by the Mar-Keys at Satellite, didn’t you?

I didn’t cut “Last Night.” A drummer named Curtis Green cut that single, but I cut two albums, the Do the Popeye album and the Last Night album. Floyd Newman had also gone to Manassas and put a band together, and I started working at Plantation Inn with him and Isaac Hayes. Floyd showed me so much. He was like Willie, before I met Willie. Floyd’s ears were always open. He studied you and listened. I never knew what I had until I played a certain beat one night. Floyd said, “Man, can you remember the beat you just played? We’re gonna go to the studio tomorrow and lay that track down.” And that turned into “Frog Stomp” [by the Mar-Keys]. And that was my signature. So that’s how I found myself. That was the beginning.

There are some great deep cuts on those Mar-Keys albums. Like “Sailor Man Waltz.”

That was my favorite. When I got with the Mar-Keys, there used to be a Ray Charles record called “Blues Waltz.” My mother loved that record and used to play it all the time. But it was out of sync. The drummer was playing one pattern, and she was popping her fingers to another. And then Ray Charles was playing another on piano. So you had these three different patterns going. And I’m listening, but I’m listening hardest to my mother. So what happened was, Mr. Stewart had bought a new organ, because the organ he had in there at first was a little one. It was good, and Booker T. Jones was getting good stuff out of it, but when he bought that Hammond B-3, Booker T. was learning, pulling all the stops, and I was hearing the sounds.

We were about to do a session, and I was listening to what he was doing, as he was feeling his way through this organ. And Marvell was a jazz pianist, listening to Ray Charles all the time. So Booker T. started playing this 3/4, 6/8 time rhythm, and I heard Marvell playing the line bom bomp a dee daa…da dee daaah. So I couldn’t think of anything but “Blues Waltz.” Ray Charles. I knew, with them being jazz musicians, that they were into all that. They could play pretty much anything. So they came up with that idea, and I heard the pattern. So I took the beat off “Blues Waltz” and it fit what they were doing. It was one of my favorites. It was a great record, but we only played it once, while we were recording it.

You were eventually hired by Willie Mitchell, of course, and became part of the Hi Rhythm Section, with the Hodges brothers. It seems that you were very tuned into the production process while working at Royal Studios.

When I did a session, I never left the studio. Most of the guys would be anxious after we finished, and want to leave and go other places. They wanted to hang out with the girls. I wanted to learn all I could learn, because I knew that would one day benefit me. And Willie was always telling me if I was going to be good, I needed to know it all. Learn it all! he said. Because you’ve been in it too long. So he was teaching me, and everything he showed me. I come from him and all the rest of the people who taught me.

The [Hodges] cats were so soulful, all I had to do was listen. I could tell where a groove was just by them playing. And once I sat down and played, it all locked in. So Willie noticed that about us, and when he accepted a track, he’d play it back and check everybody and see if they were in the right place, in time, and every note. And I used to sit there and watch him, to see what he was going to say. And then during playback, all of a sudden it would hit him, Bam! And he’d say, “Hey Dog! There it is! There it is!” He called me the Bulldog.

So we’d know it was there. “Dog! Hey Dog! I hear ya!” That’s the way he’d do me, so he always was a big inspiration to me. And I learned so much by following his footsteps and listening.

Willie told me before he died, “Howard, one day you’re gonna be doing what I’m doing.” He said, “Don’t laugh. My boys go a long ways. You can produce, you know a hit when you hear it. You can write. But I want you to pay attention to the lyrics.” I never used to listen to lyrics. I was just trained in the music, because Memphis is about instrumental music. But artists are storytellers. I started listening to what they were saying, and everything made so much sense. And now, I listen to the lyrics and I know what to do.

The time after Hi Records folded was a dark period for you, wasn’t it?

The company took a turn in ’77. And my wife divorced me. I lost my home because I ran out of money. I was ashamed, because people had looked at me from another side, growing up playing, and everybody was with me, and then all of the sudden, this generated all this failure. I didn’t know what to do! I was ashamed to ask people for help. I was slowly dying and didn’t know it. I was dying from hunger and starvation. My utilities were turned off. I was in the house, I wouldn’t come out, nobody was seeing me, because I was ashamed. When I was accepted, everybody knew me. I could walk in a club, “Howard!” I could sit in, play with the band, and it was great! But something happened and my life took a turn.

So I had an out of body experience. I died in the house. I didn’t know what had happened until I went to a pastor afterwards. I was on my couch and I drifted off, and I was in this dark tunnel and I saw a light, and I heard this voice say, “Walk to the light.” I started walking. When I got up, the light was so bright, it started to beaming where I could see, and when it got all the way down to where I could actually see, I saw this figure, a man in a white robe, arms out like that. I couldn’t see his face, like I’m looking at you. But the head set over the body was the sun. I walked up in his arms. And I heard a voice say, “You have obeyed me well. I’m gonna send you back.” I was saying, “I don’t want to go back!”

He said, “No, you must go back. I command you. Don’t go down there running your mouth, or they’re gonna call you crazy.” I’ve never forgotten it. And when I heard that, I woke up. It was kind of strange to me, because I didn’t understand. I looked at myself, I touched my face, I touched my hand, looked at my head. I went in the restroom, I looked in the mirror, and I saw the thorns on my head, my face. The first time I saw it, I shook my head and walked away. Then I came back and looked again, and it flashed a second time. I walked away and came back. When I saw it the third time, I knew. I said, God is in me. So I had his spirit.

My best friend came around, and when I opened the door, he said, “Boy! Howard, you’re glowing!” I couldn’t see anything. But he was so happy, and said, “You’re glowing so much I can’t even look at you! Howard, God got you!”

That was in ’83. Later, I got the idea to write a song, and Scott engineered it. God gave me a song called “Sin.” He said, “If you’re living in sin/You’re not going to win/You’ve got to ask God for forgiveness/If you wanna make it in.” When we wrote the song, then I let a pastor hear it, and he told me, “I’d like to have a copy of that song to play when people are coming to church.” It touched him.

So we recorded it here at Electraphonic, and the back side is “My Friend Jesus.” Where would I be without my friend Jesus?

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Music Music Blog

Remembering Hi Records Star Syl Johnson

Syl Johnson performing at the Royal Studios 60th Anniversary Celebration in 2017 (Credit: Ronnie Booze).

“When I was growing up, Syl was one of my favorites. It was him and Al Green.” So says Boo Mitchell, co-owner of Royal Studios, when reminiscing about Syl Johnson, the electrifying soul singer who passed away this Sunday, February 6th, at the age of 85. And of course, Mitchell was likely the first kid on his block to hear Johnson’s recordings, as it was his late father Willie who produced the singer’s biggest hits.

For that reason, Johnson, who lived in Chicago for most of his life, is often associated with Memphis. And he’s often compared to Al Green, primarily because they were both backed by the Hi Rhythm Section on their records. But careful listeners focus more on what distinguished him from his better-known label mate. If Green was certainly sensual, a few listens to Johnson reveal a singer who is decidedly more carnal than the Reverend-to-be.

As Mitchell puts it, “That voice! You can’t compare him to Al Green; it’s just apples and oranges. If you listen to his version of ‘Take Me to the River,’ his voice just went right through you. He’s a different kind of artist with a different kind of voice. It was a different kind of energy. It was raw.”

Even before connecting with Willie Mitchell, Johnson was distinguishing himself as a soul singer with his own particular edge, often more overtly political than many performers of his time. “He was a bit of an activist,” says Mitchell. “He had his own label before he signed with Hi Records. Twinight Records. Is It Because I’m Black was on that label.” Beyond the title track, that same album included titles like “Concrete Reservation,” “Walk a Mile in My Shoes,” “I’m Talkin’ ‘Bout Freedom” and “Right On.”

As Johnson’s family noted when announcing his death, “He lived his life as a singer, musician, and entrepreneur who loved Black music. A fiery, fierce fighter, always standing for the pursuit of justice as it related to his music and sound, he will truly be missed by all who crossed his path.”

But his most enduring track may be “Different Strokes,” from his debut LP on Twinight. Clearly skewing more to the carnal side, various elements of the track have lived on through repeated sampling. The track’s horn parts were used by the Wu-Tang Clan, its vocals were used by Kanye West and Jay-Z, and other elements can be heard on De La Soul’s “The Magic Number,” Eric B & Rakim’s “I Know You Got Soul,” and Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power.”

Though he released other material after he left Hi, Johnson focused much of his energy on his Chicago-based chain of restaurants, Solomon’s Fishery, through the ’80s and beyond.

As the current century dawned, he reappeared on the music scene once again. Part of that included his return to Memphis, to work at Royal once more. As Mitchell recalls, “He came to Memphis to record stuff with his daughter, Syleena. That was the first time I worked with him. He wanted Rev. Charles Hodges to put some organ on there. And then when [the 2015 film] Take Me to the River came out, we had a big concert at South by Southwest and Syl performed. He was hanging out backstage with Snoop Dogg and the banter was incredible!”

He was the main feature of another 2015 film, Syl Johnson: Any Way the Wind Blows, featured at the Indie Memphis Film Festival that year, complete with a performance by Johnson backed by the Bo-Keys.

His final performance in the Bluff City came shortly after that, in honor of the place where so many Hi artists had made history. Says Mitchell, “He performed at the Royal Studios 60th Anniversary Celebration in 2017. And his energy … he was on fire! He was about 80 then, but man, he brought it. And he’s one of the most underrated harmonica players of the time. He had his own style. It was more of an R&B approach than blues.”

Syl Johnson at the Royal Studios 60th Anniversary Celebration in 2017 (Credit: Ronnie Booze).

As Mitchell sees it, Johnson represented much more than just his own formidable talent as a singer, songwriter, and instrumentalist. He captured the spirits of the two great American cities with which he’s associated. “If ever there was a dual ambassador of Chicago and Memphis, it was Syl Johnson. He personified both cities. Otis Clay did too, in his own way, but Syl really captured the grit of both cities. He had a little Chicago in his Memphis and a little Memphis in his Chicago.”

Ultimately, Mitchell says, it was Johnson’s dynamic personality that people found so energizing. “Syl was hilarious, man. He was a funny cat. And he didn’t take no stuff from nobody!”

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Music Music Features Record Reviews

Alex Chilton Gets Hi

Omnivore Recordings’ upcoming release with Alex Chilton and the Hi Rhythm Section is due out May 7th.

The Troubled Men podcast, co-hosted by bassist, arranger and long-time Alex Chilton sideman René Coman, once devoted an entire episode to Chilton. In it, Coman, drummer Doug Garrison, and guitarist/singer ‘Johnny’ Jay Beninati reminisce about the unique qualities of the late performer and producer, who made history with the Box Tops, Big Star and as a solo artist.

“He had this way of of looking at a song. He could find a certain, core part of the song and re-characterize it in his own way. And that made it a whole new song. And that’s a talent in itself.” – Jay Beninati

Regarding his involvement with Big Star: “I got the impression that Alex felt that was another person, that was another identity. He didn’t identify with it anymore. When he came to New Orleans, it was a whole bootstrap operation of him remaking himself. He was like, ‘[Big Star] was another day, and that’s not what I’m into. I’ll do it because people want to hear it, but really I’m interested in R&B, soul and blues.'” – René Coman

“He enjoyed doing those oldies shows, where he would go and do Box Tops gigs. And interestingly, he never used ‘the Box Tops voice.'” – Doug Garrison

These serve as three points for plotting the sometimes inscrutable, always eclectic aesthetic choices Chilton made, especially as he began living the second half of his life with more intention away from Memphis. Part of that was his embrace of cover songs, both popular and obscure, paired with his love of the spontaneous.

Both of those passions came to the fore during his solo years, partly because he often surrounded himself with versatile jazz players who could turn on a dime. Yet that sensibility may have reached its highest expression with a band he never played with, during a one-off gig where he simply called out the set list as he went. It didn’t hurt that those players, too, were stellar.

Thankfully that moment was documented, and will soon be available in Omnivore Recordings’ upcoming release, Boogie Shoes: Live on Beale Street, by Alex Chilton and the Hi Rhythm Section, due out on May 7.

It all came about in 1999, when Fred Ford, legendary Memphis saxophonist and co-founder of the Beale Street Music Festival, was diagnosed with cancer. David Less organized Fredstock, a fund raiser to help with his medical bills, and contacted Memphis legend Alex Chilton in New Orleans, to ask him to participate. When Chilton said he didn’t have any musicians to play with in Memphis, Less suggested the Hi Rhythm Section (the band behind classics from the likes of Ann Peebles, Ike & Tina Turner, O. V. Wright, Otis Clay, and Al Green). Chilton replied, “That will work.”

Album cover art by Lamar Sorrento

This previously unissued live set contains versions of soul, rock and blues classics, sung with Chilton’s inimitable panache and the rock steady rhythm section behind thousands of soul hits, recorded at the New Daisy Theater during Fredstock in 1999.

And in his own offhand way, Chilton may have helped create one of the greatest moments of what was once called “blue eyed soul.” Of course the Box Tops are considered prime examples of the genre, but, as Doug Garrison’s quote above implies, Chilton’s true soul emerged later in his life, when he sang in a less affected voice.

While he’s not above throwing a playful twang in the mix, as with his laid-back delivery of Jimmy Reed’s “Big Boss Man,” or when he sets a belter like “Lucille” in a high enough key to bring out his inner adenoidal teen, what we hear, as on other post-70s works by Chilton, is his raw voice, unadorned and stark. None of the guttural melodrama of so many blue-eyed-soul singers is in evidence here; rather, these gems of the 50s, 60s, and 70s are recast by Chilton’s reedy, even nerdy, yet always pure singing voice, au naturel.

Behind his singing and razor-sharp guitar playing, Chilton enjoys what may be the greatest backing band of his career: Mabon ‘Teenie’ Hodges, Charles Hodges, Leroy Hodges, Archie ‘Hubbie’ Mitchell and Howard Grimes play effortlessly and with the relentless drive that shaped so many hits for Hi Records. They’re complimented perfectly by a horn section featuring Scott Thompson, Ronald Kirk Smothers and Jim Spake, the latter having joined many a Chilton tour in the 80s.

Perhaps because of Spake’s knowledge of Chilton’s preferences, the horns come up with parts on the spot that suit every song perfectly. And, as the songs spontaneously come together, the glee in Chilton’s voice is palpable.

By the time the band closes with Otis Clay’s “Trying to Live my Life Wihout You,” Chilton is so enthused he starts egging the band on. “That sounds so good! Play it again!” he yells after the intro, so they play it twice.

Perhaps producer and author David Less captures the spirit best:
“I never saw him have so much fun on stage. Without rehearsal, Alex called songs and the band locked in. The horn section consists of top Memphis session guys who huddled together when each song was called creating parts on the fly. The pure joy of playing this music so freely with such legendary musicians comes across in every groove of the record.”

Omnivore will also offer a limited edition bundle featuring the LP and a numbered print of the album cover. This special edition, limited to 100 copies, is only available only from the OmnivoreRecordings.com web site.

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Don Bryant’s You Make Me Feel is an Instant Classic

In recent years, the appeal of classic sounds from the the ’60s and ’70s has grown and grown, leaving many wondering if such retro stylistic moves are mere trend-hopping, simply another attempt to create a flavor of the month. And yet, there’s a certain rightness to the sound, an undeniable frisson when you listen to a contemporary act capture the sound and feel of that era, as if synth-pop and Pro Tools had never happened. As it turns out, this may all be because the records of that era were simply, objectively better. In an interview with Tape Op, Gabriel Roth, co-owner of the retro soul label Daptone Records, puts it like this:

I started making records because I was listening to old records and they sounded great. It’s not really an agenda or an angle as much as it is just kind of being honest with ourselves. In articles, people say, “Aren’t you just doing something that’s been done before?” or “Isn’t this some kind of retro fad?” First, we’re not making enough money for it to be called a fad, that’s for sure. We’re just trying to be tasteful and try to make the kind of records that sound good and feel good. If they sound old, that’s great — I dig old records … the truth is we dig old records, so we’re going to try to make old records.

Daptone is based in Brooklyn, but it turns out that the same philosophy holds true in another epicenter for classic soul and funk sounds: Memphis. It shouldn’t come as a great surprise, given the longevity of many legendary studios here. Some of them, like Royal Studios, still have the same gear used to make those classic sounds in the first place. Others, like Scott Bomar’s Electraphonic Recording, take pages out of the Royal playbook and stick to the same methods. 

Beyond that, one needs players who are sensitive to the classic sounds and textures and, most of all, an artist capable of delivering performances with all the soul, integrity, warmth and outright heat that was more typical in the days before sequencing and cut-and-paste production.

And all those elements come together seamlessly in Don Bryant’s latest album, You Make Me Feel (Fat Possum). It’s not surprising, given that Bryant, after a brief foray as a solo artist, was a house songwriter for Willie Mitchell’s Hi Records, eventually marrying Ann Peebles, who made his “I Can’t Stand the Rain” famous. He carried on behind the scenes for decades, until his second solo album, Don’t Give Up On Love, was released in 2017. That album, like the latest, was produced by Bomar, pairing Bryant with Bomar’s crack soul band, the Bo-Keys. It was such a powerful return to form, with all of the classic ingredients, that one might consider it Bryant’s 21st century comeback. Now, with the same team in place for a second album, we see that Bryant, now nearing his 80th year, is not slacking his pace or his taste in the least.

The album kicks off with a classic horn-driven intro conveying the majesty of a blues-based riff in a soul context, before laying down a very ’70s groove that can’t be denied. Then, track two reveals Bryant’s take on a song (that he wrote) made popular by his wife back in the day, “99 Pounds.” Also sporting some powerful horn riffs, this one captures the classic Royal sound, with the same driving Howard “Bulldog” Grimes beat that made Hi a beacon of soul back in the day.

From there, we hear plenty of mood swings, all delivered with an aching, heartfelt panache  that few singers can pull of these days. For Bryant, it seems it’s second nature. And, as tracks evoking various emotions go by, we are reminded of how eclectic Bryant’s career was even before the mid ’70s. Some tracks here, like “Your Love is Too Late” or “Cracked Up Over You,” evoke more of a ’60s soul sound, with the latter sporting echoes of the old Satellite Records (pre-Stax) track by Prince Conley, “I’m Going Home.” It’s an earlier take on R&B than the classic Ann Peebles-type, funk-infused grooves, but Bryant, who was singing and recording from the 1950s onward, can carry both with equal aplomb.

Interspersed along the way are some moving ballads, which, given the homespun strength of Bryant’s voice, may be his strong suit. (Though, to be fair, he can howl on the uptempo tracks with a unique urgency). The standout here may be “Don’t Turn Your Back on Me,” which begins with only solo guitar and Bryant’s vocals. From there, it adds layers of sound and emotion as the band falls in.

Both the ballads and the groovy numbers have one crucial element: air. The sound of a band playing mostly live in a room just may be the key to that “old record” sound. And it only makes it better when it’s a room in Memphis, where one of soul’s great architects is pouring his soul into every note. 

Don Bryant’s You Make Me Feel is an Instant Classic

Categories
Music Music Blog

RIP Ace: Diving Deep Into the Ace Cannon Style

Ace Cannon

This Thursday, at the age of 84, the legendary saxophonist Johnny “Ace” Cannon, Jr. passed away in Calhoun City, Mississippi, where he settled in his fifties and very near his place of birth. But he grew up and defined his style in Memphis, and both the man and his distinctive playing on records for the Hi and Fernwood labels will be forever associated with this city.

Cannon, backed by Bill Black’s Combo, catapulted to fame in 1961 with “Tuff,” his first single on Hi Records, which peaked at #17 on the U.S. pop charts, #3 on the R&B charts. With that first shot across the bow, he defined a style that served him well for over half a century. He continued playing sax (and golfing) right up to the end.

RIP Ace: Diving Deep Into the Ace Cannon Style (4)

Local reed man extraordinaire Jim Spake has a few thoughts on Cannon’s influence and sound. “My mom had the Tuff album. She had that and the Boots Randolph record with ‘Yakety Sax’ on it. I guess ‘Yakety Sax’ was her John Coltrane, and ‘Tuff’ was her Cannonball. But Ace Cannon was seriously the first saxophone I probably ever heard on the old hi-fi at home. I think simplicity was his thing. He wasn’t trying to be something he wasn’t. He just played the song. That’s what people liked about him, you know? And he came out of that whole Bill Black thing.”

Indeed, it was Hi co-founder and Bill Black’s Combo producer Joe Cuoghi who nicknamed Cannon “Ace,” but his influence didn’t stop there. As detailed in Jimmy McDonough’s Soul Survivor: A Biography of Al Green (still the best source on Hi’s pre-Green history), Cuoghi played a large role in defining the style of the combo, Hi’s first hit makers. Sometimes against the band’s better judgement, he would strip the arrangement down to the basics, and slow the tempo so plenty of space hung in the mix. You can hear his influence for yourself on this hit from 1960. 

RIP Ace: Diving Deep Into the Ace Cannon Style (5)

This was the sound of the combo and Hi Records just before Johnny Cannon, Jr showed up and replaced saxophonist Martin Wills. Bare bones and more than a little wacky, the combo’s sound was a perfect match for the player they’d come to call Ace.  But while Bill Black’s Combo reigned on both the pop and the R&B charts for a time, Cannon’s own musical upbringing was decidedly more country.

Speaking to George Klein on WYPL TV-18 about his early days, Cannon recalled his first experiences as a performer. “I started playing when I was ten years old. With my father [Johnny Cannon, Sr.]. He played guitar and fiddle. Remember [renowned local DJ] Joe Manuel? They used to have a group called “Joe, Slim & Johnny – the Yodeling Cabbies”. They were all cab drivers. And I was singing at the time instead of playing the horn. And then [my father] picked me up and told me, ‘Anything you wanna play at school, I’ll get ya one.’ … The only saxophone they had was an old baritone saxophone that was twice the size that I was. Then I found out they made different sizes! I told him I wanted to play alto, and we took it out in the back seat of the car, and I played “Beer Barrel Polka.”

Playing with various groups, including (according to this anonymous bio) Buck ‘Sniffy’ Turner & his Buckaroos, Clyde Leoppard and the Snearly Ranch Boys, and Billy Lee Riley’s Little Green Men, Cannon’s tastes and influences expanded. “Earl Bostic was my favorite,” he told Klein. Yet, to create what would become an R&B hit, he reached way back to a country blues his father had likely played, “Columbus Stockade Blues.”

RIP Ace: Diving Deep Into the Ace Cannon Style (3)

 As Cannon recalls, “Me and Johnny [Bernero] was messing around with a tune called ‘Cattywampus.’ It was the old ‘Columbus Stockade Blues,’ and we changed it to ‘Cattywampus,’ and we got Bill Justis to do it. After they had a hit on ‘Raunchy,’ he put out ‘Cattywampus.'” 

RIP Ace: Diving Deep Into the Ace Cannon Style (2)

Just hearing the Bill Justis record is an object lesson on the Hi Records sound, and its perfect fit with Cannon’s style. Whereas “Cattywampus” is crowded with band members all playing full-on, that same song, as “Tuff,” became a study in restraint. Describing Cuoghi’s production methods at Hi’s Royal Studios, Cannon told McDonough, “He’d be right there in that engineerin’ room, and if I got off the track just a little bit, tryin’ to play Earl Bostic, a little jazz, he’d say, ‘Stop the tape, stop the tape — tell him to stick to the melody!’ I was his favorite artist, and he wasn’t afraid to tell nobody, either.” 

As Spake explains, the simplicity is the key. “They didn’t dress things up, Bill Black. When I play ‘Tuff’ live, I like to play it like the record. I ain’t trying to bring nothin’ new to ‘Tuff.’ If you listen to it, it’s the dumbest song in the world, but it’s great. Much Memphis shit is like that, you know? Like ‘Last Night.'”

He explains further, “They just play the melody, AABA BA. Done. You know, it’s probably two and a half minutes long, if that. And there’s no solos, you know? There’s no improvisation. It’s just playing the melody with feel. I think more people could learn from that.” 

Brilliant as “Tuff” and his many other Hi Records tracks were, many now know the name Ace Cannon from another source. As Klein remarks, “I remember I used to see those TV commercials for you and Al Hirt late at night.” Spake, too, remembers them with some amusement.

“There were these TV commercials for Ace Cannon,” he recalls. “Gee, I wish I could see one now. Ace Cannon Plays the Hits, or whatever. You know those cheesy local commercials, where the titles are scrolling by? And you hear him play six beats of any given song. I remember one was ‘The Beautiful Blue Danube.’ And he would go da da dee da dahhh, dut dut, dut dut. You’re supposed to go up an octave at the end. And he wouldn’t make the octave. Like, why go to the extra trouble? Keep it simple.”   

RIP Ace: Diving Deep Into the Ace Cannon Style (6)

They say television and radio signals from decades ago were beamed into space and will continue into the cosmos indefinitely. If so, let’s close by imagining both “Tuff” and those latter-day commercials speeding along through the galaxy, scrolling into infinity, carrying Ace’s message to any who will listen: “Keep it simple.”

Categories
Music Music Blog

The Masqueraders Got Talent!

The Masqueraders

Some readers may recognize the Masqueraders from their many years on Beale Street, often at the Blues City Café, sometimes playing with only a keyboard to back up their sublime harmonies. Others with a historical bent may recognize them as featured artists on rare and collectible singles from the La Beat, Wand, Bell, AGP, and Hi record labels, stretching back over 50 years. You might also know their background harmonies on albums by the Box Tops and Isaac Hayes, and even an LP of their own on Hayes’ Hot Buttered Soul imprint.

Either way, you may have done a double take if you happened to see them two weeks ago on NBC’s America’s Got Talent! It was heartening to see them playing before the huge studio audience, not to mention the millions tuning in on their televisions and devices. I’ll let you be the judge, but for once I tend to agree with the celebrity panel: they killed it!

Note that with the judges behind them all the way, they will advance to the “Judge Cuts” rounds, which begin on Tuesday, July 18th. Tune in to see how they fare, and we’ll keep reporting if and when they advance through future performances.

The Masqueraders Got Talent!

Categories
Cover Feature News

Drake’s Dad

CREDIT: Justin Fox Burks

When Drake’s dad walks into a bar, you notice.

He doesn’t walk so much as glide. It’s the first thing you see, that swagger. He wears immaculately white Nikes, white Adidas track pants with black-and-silver trim, a white shirt, two chains, a white do-rag, and a black knit cap. He stands about 5′ 10,” and his clothes hang off his lean frame, just loose enough to be cool but not baggy enough to look sloppy. His cologne is overwhelming, like a pine tree sprayed with Axe.

But it’s the mustache that steals the show. Thick and black, it swallows his upper lip and curls down as far as the bottom one. He’s had it since he was 15. Dennis Graham is the oldest man in the bar.

After grabbing a Labatt Blue, he walks back outside to a group of tables in front of the bar’s entrance. At the only occupied table, a girl examines him, her eyes locking on the newcomer.

“You’re somebody,” she says.

She knows she’s onto something but can’t quite figure out what. The Memphis sky is cool and gray, heavy with rain — and that lingering question. She pauses, looking him up and down.

“… Related to somebody?”

Graham — Drake’s dad — remains quiet and keeps walking toward the next table. But the girl doesn’t give up. She wants to know.

“Who are you?” she asks.

It’s a good question, one that begs asking and one that Graham surely sometimes asks himself. He wanted to be a famous musician. But if you believe the things that have been written about his relationship to his famous son and the things Drake has sometimes said and rapped about, Graham wasn’t always committed to being a good father.

Now, he is most recognized as a superstar’s dad. Beyond that, he is Dennis Graham, a veteran but mostly an unknown musician who’s never reached the big-time. He is also Drake’s dad, and his famous son has made it very big.

Is he somebody? Or is he simply related to somebody?

When he arrives at Blues City Cafe on Beale Street, a man exclaims, “There he is!” Hugs and dap follow. Inside, a waitress smiles at him. Toward the front of the bar, a large man — his size and demeanor give the impression that he only stands for special occasions — gets up from his table and walks over to shake Graham’s hand.

Justin Fox Burks

Dennis Graham hanging out at Blues City Cafe on Beale

The place is mostly empty. A poster advertising a Mike Tyson/Lennox Lewis bout hangs behind the front bar. Beyond it, 10 or 11 high tables soak in the neon-red tinge of a giant “LIQUOR” sign hanging near a well-lit stage. From the bloodshot shadows, eight or nine customers watch Earl the Pearl and his band perform their weekly Tuesday night set. A cool breeze carries deep bass lines and funky guitar riffs through the dark bar and into the night.

Graham takes a seat to the left of the stage. He knows these guys, and he knows they will ask him to get on stage and sing, to come out of the shadows and into the spotlight.

“I’m not gonna do it,” he says. Then, as if realizing he has closed a door he might want to keep open, he adds, “Depends what type of mood I’m in.”

Justin Fox Burks

Graham has emerged from the shadows before — as a young boy playing music on the streets of Memphis. His cousin played the cardboard box. He played an overturned metal tub. Girls would dress up in their majorette uniforms and parade down the street with them, ribbons and everything.

One day they were playing on Union Avenue, downtown. Only a few blocks from Beale, Graham and his cousin sat on the street, beating on a cardboard box and a metal tub like they always did. But Graham stopped banging his drumstick — a broken mop handle — when he heard someone yell at him from above.

“Hey!” the voice beckoned. “Come here.”

It came from a man on a hotel balcony across the street. Graham walked over.

It was James Brown.

The famous soul singer called his drummer out to the balcony and made him give young Dennis his four-piece drum set. It was Graham’s first set of drums.

Graham went on to play drums professionally for Jerry Lee Lewis’ band. He also became a regular at Royal Studios, where Al Green recorded in the 1970s.

He played lots of gigs in Toronto, where he lived with Drake and Drake’s mother. But more time playing music meant less time being at home with his family.

“Yeah, that’s a hard one,” Graham says, before looking away. “I would never do it again.” He stares at the ground.

“That ruined part of his mother’s and my relationship. Yeah. I’m coming home after 2 a.m. every night and…” he hesitates, his distinctive swagger broken for the first time. “It just doesn’t work.”

Justin Fox Burks

A little boy named Aubrey Drake would wait at home for Graham. Sometimes he would get to go onstage or into the studio with his dad. Other times he would be left alone, waiting, as he told GQ in an April 2012 interview: “Me and my dad are friends. We’re cool. I’ll never be disappointed again, because I don’t expect anything anymore from him. … I spent too many nights looking by the window, seeing if the car was going to pull up. And the car never came.”

Graham says some of his son’s lyrics and interviews paint an inaccurate picture of their relationship. But his son’s voice is big and gets heard; Graham’s voice does not. His reality never caught up with his dreams, and now he sits silently in a bar, not far from the streets where James Brown first found him.

“I mean, like, I played with a lot of people. I don’t name all the people I played with,” he’d says. He speaks confidently at first, then stumbles a bit through the next few sentences. “Like, I’ve worked — I mean, I’ve played with — God, some of everybody. You know, big stars.”

The more he talks, the less sure he sounds, like maybe speaking of it makes more tangible the vast distance between the world he used to inhabit and the one he occupies now, on this stool in this bar, sipping Bud Light and watching friends he knows from long ago perform without him. As promised, they try to goad him back onstage to sing “Stand By Me.” He declines, laughing and saying, “I ain’t sang in so long, I can’t remember the words.”

The bar stays pretty empty throughout the night and though locals say hi to Graham, he’s mostly left alone, a rare thing for a man who has become something of a folk hero on the street. Normally, there will be picture requests from adoring fans. Fans — Graham knows — of Drake’s dad, not of Graham. “The reason these people all want to take pictures with me is due to the fact that I’m Drake’s dad,” he admits, not without pride. “You know like, hey, I got a picture with Drake’s dad.”

Graham knows who he is, and he doesn’t mind.

“I want to be known as Drake’s dad,” he says. “That’s my son.”

Justin Fox Burks

Graham sits in the driver’s seat of his 2002 Jaguar two-door, its V8 engine propelling him through the streets of his hometown. The windows are halfway down, and cold Memphis air flows in from the night. It’s dark and the glowing lights of the dash’s analog dials pool in the lenses of Graham’s red-framed glasses.

Every summer for 17 years, Drake sat next to him, making the 15-hour trip from Toronto to Memphis. Dad wanted to expose his son to the place and the music he called home. They would argue about what music to play. Graham wanted soul and blues — Johnny Taylor, the Spinners. Drake wanted rap. They would split it up, until Drake turned 17, and they started taking his car. Then, Drake got to listen to whatever he wanted. His car, his music. Then he left Memphis behind, going on to make the music the world came to know.

Those road trips are memories now. Graham reaches to turn on his sound system. His car, his music. He turns the dial, and the music gets loud.

It’s a new song Graham wants to release featuring Drake, his son.

Graham never became the musician he dreamed he would be, the musician his son eventually became. And he’s okay with that now. When Drake was a little boy, he bet $5 he’d do more television and more music than his daddy ever did. He was right, and when he came to Memphis for a show, a proud father gave his millionaire son $5.

“I don’t want to be that big star now,” Graham says. “I want him to stay the star.”

But now his son’s fame has turned him into something of a star, anyway. Graham stole the show in Drake’s music video for “Worst Behavior,” and toured with Drake and Lil Wayne last summer. When Drake asked his father to sing at his yet unplanned wedding, Graham said yes. He seems happy being dad, and Drake seems happy having one.

But he’s excited about this single, about how big a hit it might become and how many more people might get to know his name. There will be no more free interviews after this, he says.

Drake’s part hasn’t been recorded, so it’s just Graham on the track. The car fills with deep bass and cigarette smoke. Graham sits low, reclined in his beige seat, his right arm is bent at his side, holding what remains of an American Spirit cigarette. His left arm reaches straight forward, hand on the steering wheel. He grips it tightly, but his posture is relaxed. His foot taps to the beat. Though his mouth remains still under the thick, black mustache, his eyes smile.

At a red light at the corner of G.E. Patterson and Main, two ladies waiting outside a bar turn and look.

Five months from now, Drake still won’t have recorded his part, but Graham doesn’t know that now.

The light turns green, and Drake’s dad accelerates through the intersection and back toward Beale, through the streets and shadows where Graham used to play blues with a broken mop and a metal tub.

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Film: Take Me To The River

It is said that all art aspires toward musicality, and no form comes closer than film. The linear flow of moving images naturally mirrors the aural motion of music. When the sound era dawned, the very first thing filmmakers did was turn their cameras on Al Jolsen and let the music do the talking.

Perhaps because of the two media’s similarities, many directors are also musicians. Such is the case with Martin Shore, a drummer from San Diego who toured with Cody Dickinson’s Hill Country Revue. Shore’s day job is as a film producer, and Take Me To The River, his directorial debut, is the latest music documentary to take on the question, “What makes Memphis music so special?” Guided by North Mississippi Allstars’ guitarist and son of legendary Memphis music producer Jim Dickinson, Shore gathers a who’s who of Memphis music legends together to make a record while the cameras roll.

The problem facing the directors of all music documentaries is how to balance the story and the music. It’s a simple problem of arithmetic: Unless you’re Martin Scorsese and HBO gives you three hours to tell George Harrison’s story, you have a limited amount of time to work with. Without the music, it’s hard to care about the story; but give the story short shrift and you lose the reason the audience is there in the first place. In Take Me To The River, Shore errs on the side of the music, and this is probably wise. The epic sweep of the Stax story has already been told in Robert Gordon’s Respect Yourself, so Shore constructs a series of vignettes from footage of the recording sessions interspersed with interviews with the musicians.

This approach makes for some magical moments. Al Kapone chats with Booker T. Jones as the legendary keyboardist drives his van around town. The Hi Records backup singers the Rhodes Sisters recall how Willie Mitchell used to exclaim “God the glory!” when they hit a note he liked. Frayser Boy, who wrote the Academy Award-winning flow for “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp” admits to Skip Pitts, who played guitar on Isaac Hayes Academy Award-winning “Theme From Shaft,” that he has never recorded with a live band before. Pitts refuses to even look at a chart before launching into the Rufus Thomas song “Push And Pull.” The magnetic and eternally young Mavis Staples changes the song at the last minute, and then soothes her collaborators’ nerves with a few well-placed smiles and a stunning vocal performance. William Bell tells the story of David Porter writing “Hold On I’m Comin” while an amused Porter looks on. Narrator and Hustle and Flow star Terrence Howard becomes completely overwhelmed by emotion after recording with the Hodges brothers, including a frail looking Teenie. Bobby Blue Bland teaches Lil P-Nut to sing “I Got A Woman.” And finally, Jerry Harrison of the Talking Heads produces a session with Snoop Dogg and the Stax Academy Band pulling together more than a dozen musicians to cut “I Forgot To Be Your Lover” in less than 30 minutes.

It’s fun to be a fly on the wall in these recording sessions held in historic spaces, and the camaraderie and respect between the players is evident. The talent, discipline, and instincts on display are amazing, because, as the indomitable Deanne Parker says, these musicians came of age in a time when “we didn’t have any technology to make you sound better.”

Take Me To The River never answers the question of why this city produces so much great music. But then again, no one else has ever been able to put a finger on what Charlie Musselwhite calls “that secret Memphis ingredient you can’t write in a book.”

Take Me To The River
Playing Friday, September 12th
The Paradiso

Categories
Music Music Features

Teenie Hodges: 1946-2014

CREDIT: Robert Allen Parker

Mabon “Teenie” Hodges wrote a song that one could mistake for a 19th century gospel standard. “Take Me to the River,” which he penned with Al Green in 1973, has a startling simplicity to it. But then so did Teenie Hodges’ guitar playing. He was a master refiner of ideas and phrases, whittling them down to a profound and economical beauty.

Hodges passed away Sunday night in Dallas from complications of emphysema. He had gone to Austin in March to promote the film Take Me to the River, which is based in part on the world that Hodges lived in with his brothers Leroy Jr., a bassist, and Charles, a keyboardist. In Austin, they celebrated a lifetime of soul music and success. Teenie never made it back to Memphis, but his soul and his spirit leave an indelible mark on our city. The Mitchells and the Hodges are founding fathers of Memphis’ musical identity.

“My dad and mom had seven kids in four years,” Teenie’s brother Charles Hodges said last March before heading to Austin. “So there were three sets of twins in a row. Leroy (bass) is my oldest brother. Teenie is between Leroy and me. Teenie’s twin is a girl, and I have a boy twin. They had eleven kids in all.”

It was a musical home: Their father, Leroy Sr., had been a musician and kept a decidedly musical house. One might think that a home with so many brothers might collapse into a competitive mess. But that was not the case.

“We didn’t compete. We worked together,” Hodges said. “We didn’t go to school for it. It was a gift from God. My dad just helped us develop our talent.”

Robert Allen Parker

The Germantown Blue Dots, Teenie far right.

Named “Teenie” due to his diminutive stature, Hodges began playing in his father’s band at age 12 and was soon noticed by bandleader Willie Mitchell, who played a profound role in Teenie’s life. But Teenie made major contributions to the Mitchell empire too. “Howard Grimes,” Charles said. “Willie had another drummer after Al Jackson went with Booker T. and the MGs. Jeff Greer. … Willie wanted to change the drummer. So Teenie told him about Howard Grimes. We heard Howard, and he just blended in.”

The records that came from this period are classics and key elements to our musical culture as a city and as a country. Al Green, Ann Peebles, O.V. Wright, and the Hi-Rhythm albums don’t need further explanation. If you don’t know them intimately, you have a problem. The music Teenie made with Mitchell also became the gold standard for young players, and his openness as a person and a mentor provided a supreme example to younger players.

“Memphis lost a cornerstone of its musical identity,” Luther Dickinson of the North Mississippi Allstars wrote of Hodges’ death. “Similar to Al Jackson, without Teenie, Memphis soul will never be the same. Teenie was so cool. He elevated the whole city singlehandedly. He was one of the real Memphis guitar heroes, like Scotty Moore, Roland Janes, Steve Cropper, and Reggie Young, playing melodies and rhythms on records that millions of people love worldwide. His guitar style is ingrained in the human collective consciousness.”

Joe Restivo, through his work with engineer Scott Bomar and his band the Bo-Keys, was occasionally called upon to fill in for the ailing guitarist.

“I didn’t quite understand his genius until I got to play within the context of Hi-Rhythm. There’s a way that whole thing fits together. That’s when the light bulb goes on. … His parts fit perfectly in relationship to Howard Grimes, to Charles, Leroy, [and] Hubie [keyboardist Archie Turner]. If you’re playing that role — and I had the opportunity to do that a couple of times — you find yourself doing Teenie. You can’t do anything else. It’s his style, his concept, where he laid it in the pocket.”

Charles addressed the same approach to music when we talked last March. “The bass player knew what I was going to do. I knew what the guitar player was going to do. The drummer knew what we all were going to do. We didn’t get in anyone’s way. We came together spiritually. Teenie, Leroy, and I are biological brothers. But Howard and Hubie are just like our biological brothers. We’re spiritually connected. We just feel each other.”