Dedication
To all who have danced on a Soul Train line anywhere in the world
Contents
Dedication
Introduction
1 - Windy City
2 - Love, Peace, and Soul
3 - It’s Star Time
4 - Dick Clark’s Soul Unlimited
5 - TSOP
6 - Right On
7 - Stylin’
8 - Whites on Soul Train
9 - Disco Fever
10 - Jody and Jeffrey (and O’Bryan)
11 - 1980s
12 - Hip-Hop vs. Soul Train
13 - Overseas Soul
14 - Sex and Soul Train
15 - Ahmir Thompson: Soul Train Fanatic
16 - Soul Train Awards
17 - New Jack Swing
18 - New Hosts
19 - Selling Soul
20 - The Hippest Trip in America
21 - Last Days
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Nelson George
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
ON FEBRUARY 3, 2012, I got off the subway at Forty-second Street in bustling midtown Manhattan and rolled up toward Duffy Square, a section defined by garish red elevated seats and a glitzy booth where cut-rate tickets for Broadway shows are sold. The New York City police had set up barricades along a section of Broadway, which in the last decade had been converted into a Times Square pedestrian mall. Today this whole area was filled with women and men wearing Afro wigs, long coats, silver platform shoes, round granny glasses, and other flashbacks to fly 1970s gear. The crowd—about a thousand or so folks—was made up of wannabe dancers and cell phone–carrying onlookers. The weather was unusually mild, and that put the attendees in a festive mood, even though we were at a wake for a beloved cultural figure and his iconic television show.
Don Cornelius had died two days earlier. His legacy was strong and undeniable. He had created a television show that ran from October 2, 1971, to March 26, 2006—thirty-five years of “love, peace, and soul” resulting in countless contributions to our collective popular culture. The show was called Soul Train, and Cornelius’s death brought about even bigger flash mobs in Soul Train’s hometown of Chicago and in Philadelphia, where a Soul Train line was organized that would make the Guinness Book of World Records.
But what the New York gathering lacked in numbers it made up for in enthusiasm. An old-school dancer organized the chaos into a line that ran about a hundred feet. It wasn’t as flashy or dynamic as the Soul Train lines you can revisit on YouTube. Nothing done today can recapture that vitality. But the dozens who boogied down the line, and in ad hoc groups around Duffy Square, did so with love and a whole lot of joy.
I didn’t dance down the line. Modesty and good sense kept me on the sidelines. But the whole scene did flash me back to many childhood Saturday mornings when my sister and I would sit in front of our family’s small color TV and, like thousands of other folks, watch our favorite soul singers and funk bands perform while an amazing crew of dancers gyrated and percolated to the latest hits. The Soul Train line, always near the end of the show, was a highlight. Every show, the dancers would bust out new moves that would be imitated at parties across the country later that night.
On that day in February, we had all gathered to celebrate the life of Don Cornelius, that man with the deep voice and the remarkable wardrobe, who had taken his own life with a shotgun in his Los Angeles home. Though shocked by his suicide, the folks in the New York Soul Train line, as in the lines in Chicago and Philadelphia, weren’t sober. They had more in common with the exuberant second-line celebrations of New Orleans than anything mournful. Don Cornelius had brought us joy, and it was with joy he was remembered.
Saturday mornings in the 1970s, back in the kitchen of my family’s Brooklyn housing project, I’d sit alongside my little sister, eat a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal, and watch Soul Train—complete with scintillating dancers, soul music’s finest performers, and an ultracool host—on our rabbit-ear TV. It was a music show that not only generated hit records but also connected all of black (and a hip section of white, Latino, and Asian) America into a groovy community.
In the pages ahead, you’ll hear a lot of anecdotes like mine—tales of Saturday-morning rituals built around the show that, like the insistent rhythm of a great song, will connect you to the joy that was Soul Train’s unique combination of music, dance, and personality. These ingredients made Soul Train both one of the longest-running shows in television history and an iconic cultural touchstone for folks not born during its heyday. Somehow Soul Train has soaked into the DNA of our pop culture. The details of its creation, the rituals it embodied for viewers and participants, and the social and media context in which it existed are all part of the story I’ll tell.
For casual readers as well as longtime fans, I view this book as a platform for further exploration. I’ll mention specific shows and performances with an eye toward inspiring readers to follow up on what intrigues them via YouTube or Soul Train fan sites. The foundation of this book comes from the interviews conducted for VH1’s 2010 documentary The Hippest Trip in America, which captured the flavor of the show but, because of time constraints, only used small portions of the interview material.
I interviewed Don Cornelius many times in the 1980s. On my first trip to Los Angeles I flew out from New York to attend the Black Music Association convention. The organization was a well-intentioned attempt to pull together the culture’s various branches—record labels, radio stations, retail, concert promotion, performers—into a coherent business and social force. While the convention hardly fulfilled its lofty goal and the group has long been defunct, I did get a chance to visit the set of Soul Train. I have vivid memories of DeBarge, the family vocal group from Grand Rapids, Michigan, exiting a van and heading onto a soundstage for a taping. Any glamour I’d associated with the tapings was quickly dissipated by the sight of the dancers, most my age or younger (I was twenty-four), looking tired as they impatiently waited for the next act to appear.
When I finally met Don he was cordial, though he didn’t go out of his way to make me feel comfortable. I could feel him sizing me up. Was I a possible ally, or a too-smart-for-my-own-good asshole? The lack of outward warmth (a quality often manufactured by Hollywood hustlers on first encounters) stuck out, but so did Don’s forthright answers to my questions and his consummate confidence. My memory of that encounter with Don is very similar to the memories of others that you’ll read throughout the book. Don’s bearing, voice, and manner were consistent throughout the years, as we’ll learn from scores of people who spent time with him—from dancers, musicians, and staff to business partners and friends, from the 1960s until his death. Don’s controlled demeanor and unrelenting cool made him hard to know and difficult to get close to, but those who knew him well testify to a funnier, looser man than he revealed to the public.
Don was defined more by his actions than he was by anything he said about himself. Inspired by the civil rights movement, he saw a space for black joy on television. He believed that the music and dance of “negroes” would be as captivating on the tube as it was in a Chicago house party. He was definitely a “race man,” but he built professional alliances across racial lines with syndicators, advertisers, and record labels. In the process, he empowered many other black businesspeople while introducing the post–civil rights generation of white consumers to the dynamic power of black music.
As much as Soul Train was Don’s show, it was also owned spiritually by the dancers whose creativity and excitement leaped off the TV screen each week. How they
got on the show, the moves they made, and the show’s effect on their lives are very much the backbone of this story. So many dynamic dancers passed in front of the show’s cameras that it would be impossible to capture them all. Only a few are explored in depth here.
So let’s go back in time to the tumultuous years of the civil rights movement and the Windy City streets where the hawk—known also as the Chicago wind—blew hard and long. Pull up the collar on your maxi coat, slide into your platform shoes, and pump that Afro Sheen into your hair.
As Don so often said, “You can bet your last money . . . it’s gonna be a stone gas, honey!”
Chapter 1
Windy City
One of the problems during the period when we started Soul Train was the lack of opportunity for black talent on television. I’m talking the sixties and part of the seventies. It was a medium that didn’t feature minorities as much as it could have. And it was a medium that didn’t feature minorities in a positive way as opposed to a negative way . . . it bothered me personally and that’s kind of why I wanted to get a spot on television. So that maybe I could do something about presenting black people in particular in a positive way.
—DON CORNELIUS, 2009
THE LANDSCAPE of black images on television and in film in the mid-1960s was pretty barren. I’m not sure anyone who came of age in the 1980s or beyond will ever understand how absent “negro” faces were once on television in America. There was no Winfrey network. No Steve Harvey talk show. No argumentative sportscasters like Stephen A. Smith. The news broadcasts were when a dark face could be seen protesting, or an angry Malcolm X or an inspiring Dr. King or a local civil rights activist being interviewed about “the negro problem.”
But as far as entertainment went, Sammy Davis Jr. was one of the few blacks who was a regular on network variety shows, largely because he was part of Frank Sinatra’s revered Rat Pack. An act from Berry Gordy’s Motown Records stable, like the Supremes, the Temptations, or the Four Tops, popped up on American Bandstand, Shindig, or other teen-appeal music shows singing “the sound of young America” and executing exquisite choreography. Crossover comic Bill Cosby costarred on the NBC series I Spy for several years in the mid-1960s, the foundation of his long successful TV career.
In September 1968 the lovely Diahann Carroll was made the lead in Julia, a half-hour NBC sitcom in which she portrayed a single mother and nurse. While its existence was groundbreaking, the show’s writing and plotting was bland. Moreover, during all of the show’s eighty-six episodes, the team behind Julia was as lily-white as the rest of America’s big three networks.
At the time Julia was cautiously opening the network TV door, Donald Cortez Cornelius was already on his journey toward pop-culture immortality. Unlike a lot of prominent black figures who emerged in the civil rights years, Cornelius wasn’t a southern immigrant to the north, but a native son of one of America’s biggest cities. He was born on September 27, 1936, in Chicago’s Bronzeville, a densely packed, segregation-created black community on the city’s South Side. Two of the greatest works of postwar black literature were set on these same tough streets: Richard Wright’s Native Son (1940), which features a restless young man named Bigger Thomas whose life ended tragically, and Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun (1959), which featured a restless young man named Walter Lee Younger who made mistakes in search of a better life for his family. Wright’s bestseller was draped in despair, while Hansberry saw a brighter future in the face of racism. Perhaps the difference between the two characters is the difference between America in 1940 and 1959.
Don was twenty-three years old in 1959 when Hansberry’s play first appeared. He must have shared its optimism and, thankfully, was way more Walter Lee than Bigger. He attended one of the city’s most important black high schools, DuSable (named after the black trader who founded Chicago), and after graduation he joined the Marine Corps and served in Korea for eighteen months. He married Delores Harrison in 1956 and quickly had two sons, Anthony and Raymond. His personal ambition can be seen in the jobs he worked prior to moving into media: he sold tires and automobiles, briefly was a policeman, and dabbled in insurance—a rapid journey from blue to white collar in the space of a few years.
He was tall and handsome, and it wasn’t long before that foghorn voice gave him the idea of doing radio. In 1966 he took a three-month radio course, and a year later he landed a job at Chicago’s WVON, one of the greatest of the rhythm and blues radio stations that were the backbone of black music and the communities they served.
These are the early biographical details of Don Cornelius, but we can’t introduce him without also discussing the quasi-mystical, midcentury quality popularly known as “cool.” Professor Robert Farris Thompson, a historian of West African culture, traces the concept of “cool” to Yoruba and Igbo civilizations. Thompson has argued that “The telling point is that the ‘mask’ of coolness is worn not only in times of stress, but also but in times of pleasure . . . I have come to term the attitude ‘an aesthetic of the cool’ in the sense of a deeply and completely motivated, consciously artistic interweaving of elements serious and pleasurable, of responsibility and play.”
Whatever its roots in Africa, among black Americans, “cool” signified a certain elegant restraint, a control of facial expression, posture, and gesture, that projected danger as well as grace. Behind this outer calm, rivers of deep emotion and passion might be felt, but the exterior projected a laid-back hardness that intimidated men and seduced women. Jazz trumpeter Miles Davis gave musical expression to this ethos with his exquisite suits, red sports car, and musical mastery. With the 1957 release of his album Birth of the Cool, he became the poster child for cool.
Cool wasn’t limited to black folks. (White movie idol Steve McQueen definitely possessed the required chill.) Nor could every black person achieve it. For many black big-city brothers, cool was an elusive prize. In their strident attempts to achieve cool, many became self-conscious parodies of the persona. Trying too hard to be cool was not cool. Cool was a way of being, not a goal to achieve. You were cool when others perceived you as such. It was not something you could declare yourself. Truly cool people are anointed by those around them and baptized by the appreciation of others.
Don remembered overhearing two girls in high school talking: “ ‘You know, Don Cornelius thinks he’s cool, doesn’t he?’ And the other girl said, ‘No, honey. He is cool.’ That’s just something, for whatever it’s worth and for whatever it means, that’s something that’s just born in me.”
In the Chicago of his young manhood, cool was a currency that drew people to you, garnered respect, and made upward mobility easier. Cornelius’s cool would help him impress authority figures, whether they were advertising executives, radio station personnel, or record-business gatekeepers. Cool was the intangible element in Don’s rise that would be much commented on in later years but, in this early part of his career, it was the unspoken element that gave others confidence in him.
Now, to understand the heritage of WVON and why it was such a crucial stop in Cornelius’s journey, we have to go back to the post–World War II period when, for the first time, black radio announcers with ethnic voices began appearing on the nation’s airwaves. Black announcers had been on the radio before the war, but usually they’d been instructed to lose any black accent and cleanse their vocabulary of slang.
Arthur Bernard Leaner, aka Al Benson, a onetime vaudeville performer and sometime storefront preacher from Jackson, Mississippi, would break the mold and, in a number of ways, set the stage for Soul Train. At the time, there were no stations dedicated to serving black listeners in the Chicago market. (In 1947, Memphis’s WDIA became the first “negro”-oriented station; in 1949 the first to be black owned, WERD, opened in Atlanta.)
When Arthur debuted in Chicago radio in 1945, he hosted a fifteen-minute Sunday-night show during which he preached the gospel while a choir sang in the background. He’d expected to get underwriting from local ad
vertisers, but a dispute with station management led Arthur to revamp his persona. Out went the preaching and the choir. In its place he became Al Benson, “the Ole Swingmaster,” and he began playing blues, swing, and the emerging style of dance music eventually labeled rhythm and blues. By 1947 he was broadcasting twenty hours a week on two different stations and garnering advertising support from businesses around the city.
By 1948 the Chicago Tribune had declared Benson the most popular disc jockey in Chicago, white or black. Key to Benson’s popularity was what he called “native talk,” meaning that on the air he spoke with a southern black accent, used current slang, and referred to the struggles black immigrants from the South were confronting in the Windy City. By playing electrified urban blues or rhythm and blues, sounds then being released exclusively by independent labels like Chicago’s Chess, Benson established a template for how black DJs could compete with their white counterparts and, eventually, for the sound and style of black radio that continued into the soul era and endures today in hip-hop radio.
With radio as his power base, Benson staged shows at the Regal Theater, Chicago’s answer to New York’s Apollo, and he started his own record label, Parrot Records. In 1951, a year before the debut of American Bandstand, Benson hosted his own variety show on a local station, making him the first black DJ in Chicago to do so (perhaps the first in the country). So Don Cornelius grew up with Al Benson as a huge, innovative figure in his world.
Benson’s business acumen was very much in keeping with the energy of black Chicago, which, more than any other American metropolis, was home to some of the most important black businesses of the postwar era. John H. Sengstacke’s weekly Chicago Defender was a force championing civil rights and the integration of the armed forces and encouraging southern blacks to move North. John Johnson founded Ebony, a monthly black version of Life magazine, in 1945 and followed up with the pocket-size Jet in 1951, both of which remain staples in black households. Black hair-care companies based in the city prospered as well, with Fred Luster’s Luster Products, founded in 1957, and George Johnson’s Johnson Products, started in 1954, both generating millions in profits and thousands of jobs in factories and beauty salons nationwide. And Chicagoan S. B. Fuller was one of the slickest black businessmen ever. He started selling products for a white company—soap and deodorant—door to door to South Side blacks in the 1920s. By 1939 he’d made enough money to open his own factory, and almost ten years later Fuller purchased the company of his white distributor (while wisely keeping his black identity secret). During the 1950s Fuller was likely the richest black man in America.
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