Page 28 - the NOISE October 2014

ARethA AnD the Boys
Jerry Wexler was excited.
He had bided his time and now she was his.
It was late 1966 and Aretha Franklin had opted not to re-
new her Columbia Records contract and instead sign with At- lantic. She was going to be big, Wexler could feel it.
For years, the Atlantic Records co-owner/producer/talent scout had watched Aretha Franklin’s career on Columbia spin its wheels and go nowhere. From 1960 through 1966, Co- lumbia released a succession of Aretha’s LPs and singles that failed to make much of an impression on the charts or the public consciousness.
Columbia Records was the home of Percy Faith and Ray Conniff, the kings of easy listening. Along with Broadway cast albums, it was the label’s bread and butter. A few years down the line, Clive Davis would attempt to shed Columbia’s square image by signing Janis Joplin and other hip underground acts. Until then, they were stuck in the land of schmaltz, hungrily eyeing the youth market with no idea how to break into it.
Aretha was a case in point. In concert, she was an absolute dynamo. From the minute she hit that stage, she had the au- dience in the palm of her hand. EVERY night. More than once, the headliners Aretha was opening for would cancel their set (claiming illness) after watching her bring the house down. At a performance in 1965, the house MC awarded her a tiara and proclaimed her “Queen Of Soul.”
But she couldn’t sell records worth a damn. Columbia first tried pitching her as a smooth jazz crooner, then as a middle- of-the-road mom-and-dad entertainer. She found sympathet- ic producers, but the material was weak: tired old standards, Broadway showtunes, girl group pop. She was obviously a wasted talent. It was a shame Columbia didn’t know what they had or what to do with her.
Jerry Wexler knew what to do with her. Put her in church.
If Aretha was a pro in the black dance halls, she was elec- trifying in front of a congregation. Aretha was the daughter of legendary Baptist minister C.L. Franklin and she had been singing in church all her life. It was her home. Wexler had seen Aretha perform at her daddy’s chapel and he was blown away. She was the best gospel singer he had heard since Mahalia Jackson, maybe better.
And Wexler knew that rhythm and blues (a term he coined) was gospel’s flipside, its twin. The shouting, the dramatic vo- cal swoops, the call-and-response between the singer and the backups ... it all came out of church. Only instead of the songs being about God, they were about f*cking.
Sam Cooke had made the transition successfully. With his undeniable good looks and friendly velvet voice, his gospel following was near fanatical. Sam took the big step from the pulpit to the Copa and made it look easy. Columbia had tried the same with Aretha, but she wasn’t cut out for the Copa. Her people were right here, in the house of the Lord. The sinners.
Jerry Wexler, a skinny Noo Yawk Hebe with a jazzbo goatee, sat there in the pew surrounded by big loud sweaty Dee-troit brothers and sisters all testifyin’. He stared at Aretha. She was so beautiful and so young but when she sang she was Nefertiti, the primal Earth Goddess. Her voice was the voice of the ages.
Wexler thought: “We have to SHOW this to people.”
He knew just where to make it happen, too.
FAME Studios was located in rural Alabama, in a little burg
called Muscle Shoals. Rick Hall, the studio’s owner, had cul- tivated himself quite a crew of musicians. They could tackle anything but their forte was rhythm and blues, strangely enough for a group without one black person in it. Hall’s orig- inal lineup had recently jumped ship for Nashville, but the new guys were even better.
The band centered around keyboardist Spooner Oldham, guitarists Jimmy Johnson and Chips Moman, drummer Gene Chrisman (replaced within a year by Roger Hawkins), bassist Tommy Cogbill (replaced in 1970 by David Hood), and sev- eral auxiliary horn players. They had no name. Eventually they were referred to as the Muscle Shoals crew (and later, The Swampers). In 1969, they too would leave FAME and establish their own studio, naming it after the town of its birth.
But in 1966 they were one of the best-kept secrets in popu- lar music. Wexler had been bringing acts to FAME since the early 1960s and was never let down. When he told city girl Aretha that he wanted to record her deep in the country with a band of honkies who had just as much juice as any Motown spades, Aretha laughed and said, “Sounds great, Jerry.”
Her management took a little more persuading.
Shortly after her 18th birthday, Aretha Franklin had defied her father’s wishes and eloped with Ted White, a family friend much older than she. Despite having no experience in the field, he appointed himself Aretha’s manager. He filled the young girl’s head with dreams of stardom that he was going to make come true. Aretha was plagued by insecurity and let her hus- band make most of the decisions. Unfortunately, the majority of White’s choices regarding Aretha’s career were the wrong ones. Seven frustrating years on Columbia bore this out.
It didn’t help that Ted White was an award-winning assh*le, either. He openly berated Aretha in public and slapped her around at home. She couldn’t even talk to another man with- out his jealousy flaring up. White had shown no previous mu- sical ability, but his name started popping up as co-writer on Aretha’s originals. His management style was simply to use the brute obnoxious force of his personality with the volume cranked up to get what he wanted. He made no friends at Columbia and very few connections elsewhere.
But he had Aretha. And anyone who wanted her had to go through him.
White was opposed to the Alabama trip. THIS was Wexler’s great plan? His wife had recorded at Columbia Studios, a state-of-the-art complex, and now she was headed to some cracker shack in the boonies? Muscle Whats? Was Aretha go- ing to sing fruity country music tarted up with strings, like Ray Charles? It wasn’t until he was played some of the records FAME had been involved in that White grudgingly agreed. Wexler told him to drop by the studio if he had any doubts. It was an invitation he would soon come to regret.
The session took place in January 1967. Wexler had chosen “Do Right Woman (Do Right Man)”, by Memphis songwriter Dan Penn and FAME guitarist Chips Moman. It was a soulful
28 • OCTOBER 2014 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us