by David Ritz
Mersey contributed three seminal albums to the Franklin oeuvre: The Tender, the Moving, the Swinging Aretha Franklin, from 1962; Laughing on the Outside, from 1963; and Unforgettable: A Tribute to Dinah Washington, in 1964. Each has moments of singular grace and even immortality.
For Aretha, the highlight of her Mersey association came on The Tender with “Without the One You Love,” her own song. It was the first time she had fashioned a melody, written a lyric, and watched it all transform into a huge string orchestration.
The blues ballad, modeled after “The Masquerade Is Over,” was a harbinger of even bolder Aretha compositions to come. There was no doubt that she had the compositional gift. (A stringless and far more moving version of the song would be recorded live, with Aretha herself on piano, on her 1965 Yeah!!! album.)
There are missteps on The Tender—a mediocre Berry Gordy song, “I’m Wandering”; a heavy-handed cover of Billy Eckstine’s 1949 hit “I Apologize”; a cheesy chart of “Look for the Silver Lining”—but Aretha redeems it all with her otherworldly reading of three songs: “God Bless the Child,” “Just for a Thrill,” and “Try a Little Tenderness.” According to Jerry Wexler, Aretha’s version of “Tenderness” inspired Otis Redding to record it in his singular style. (Redding’s biographer Scott Freeman suggests it was Phil Walden, Otis’s manager, who urged him to sing it, but when I spoke with Walden in the nineties, he confirmed Wexler’s story.)
“Otis had Aretha’s Columbia album where she sings ‘Tenderness’ and ‘God Bless the Child,’ ” Walden told me. “No doubt that Otis’s take on ‘Tenderness’ became iconic because of the double-time transition. But I know he was trying to channel Aretha. He also wanted to cut ‘God Bless the Child’ but never got the chance. It was Aretha, along with Sam Cooke, that got Otis Redding into standards, which is ironic since it was Aretha’s redo of his ‘Respect’ that turned his little R-and-B tune into an enduring standard.”
The Tender, the Moving, the Swinging Aretha Franklin was recorded in April and May of 1962. In July, she appeared at the Newport Jazz Festival on the same bill as her father’s friends Clara Ward and Oscar Peterson. The lineup also included Sonny Rollins, Count Basie, Basie’s former blues belter Jimmy Rushing, Thelonious Monk, and Duke Ellington.
Jazz critic Jack Maher wrote the Billboard review: “During the Ellington time on stand, Thelonious Monk showed off his unique abilities as composer and soloist in a performance of ‘Monk’s Dream,’ especially written for the band. Duke conducted. Also a show stopper with Ellington was the appearance of Aretha Franklin, whose gospel-like vocals brought screams of ‘more’ from the crowd.”
Later that same month Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was jailed for participating in an Albany, Georgia, demonstration.
“I remember Daddy telling me about how he and Martin were talking about working up a demonstration in Detroit,” said Cecil. “They spoke often, and Dr. King knew he could count on my father. I’d say they were twin souls with the same mission.”
In August, Billboard reviewed “Just for a Thrill” and “Try a Little Tenderness,” saying, “Here are a pair of the best sides that Aretha ever cut and that’s saying a lot. She shows off some of her best vocal work yet on the two standards, and either or both could turn into her biggest seller to date.”
On August 2, Aretha appeared on American Bandstand for the second time. She sang “Don’t Cry, Baby” as well as “Try a Little Tenderness.” But neither song made the charts.
“We all were listening to Barbara Lynn’s ‘You’ll Lose a Good Thing,’ ” said Erma. “It was a hit, and we loved it. We loved Little Eva’s ‘Locomotion’ and Gene Chandler’s ‘Duke of Earl’ and Ray Charles’s ‘Unchain My Heart.’ They were all hits, they were all great, but were they any greater than the songs Aretha was singing at Columbia? I don’t think so. Ree felt like there was water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”
On September 27, the United States Department of Justice filed suit to end public segregation. Three days later, Mississippi governor Ross Barnett blocked James Meredith from enrolling at the state university.
In mid-October, the Cuban missile crisis traumatized the nation for two weeks. Aretha had little memory of the crisis but specific memories of the comics who opened for her. She spoke about Buddy Hackett and his Chinese-waiter routine, and Professor Irwin Corey, with his frizzled hair and crazy expertise on everything and nothing. She had special regard for the intellectual Dick Gregory, with whom she worked at the Playboy Club in Chicago.
The gigs got bigger, to the point where Aretha was ready to make a management change. In November, Jet reported that “Aretha Franklin’s split with her manager, Jo King, may end up in court because the rising young star wants out of their contract and the manager wants to settle for $9,000.”
“When Ted took over,” said Erma, “the man took over. He had a scorched-earth policy. Jo King was history. Anyone in Jo’s circle was history. Anyone who had previously been involved with Aretha’s career—including her own father—was marginalized. Ted demanded and got total control.”
“Why would Aretha permit that?” I asked Erma.
“I think she was more frightened of the outside world than the rest of us,” Erma answered. “I think she felt the need for protection. Our father had been extremely protective of Aretha. Maybe even overprotective. He led her to the world of show business, but then he had to return to his church world. He could no longer play the role he had been playing since she had begun traveling with him. He could no longer be her day-to-day protector. When that became clear, she looked for a substitute protector. I know it sounds far-fetched, but Ted White had many of our father’s attributes—he was self-assured, he was charismatic, definitely a woman’s man, highly intelligent, highly organized, and able to deal with the cold cruel world effectively. Daddy helped Aretha attain fame in sacred music. Aretha looked to Ted to do exactly that in secular music. You don’t need a PhD in psychology to realize that there’s a reason why we gals often call our lovers and husbands ‘Daddy.’ ”
For Aretha’s biological daddy, 1963 was a milestone. Reverend C. L. Franklin had watched as, a few years earlier, an urban renewal project had torn down Hastings Street—the bars, the clubs, and the New Bethel Baptist Church—for what would become the Chrysler Freeway. Franklin’s congregation found temporary quarters elsewhere, while the minister spent increased time on the road. According to his biographer Nick Salvatore, this was a period when Los Angeles became his home away from home. His guest sermons in churches around the country increased, along with his involvement in local Detroit politics. C.L. became founding president of the Metropolitan Civic League for Legal Action. As a progressive politician, his time had come. His sermons stressing ethnic pride and self-worth, long his signature message, had become touchstones as the national civil rights movement gained strength and wider exposure.
On March 10, he gained a new and more prominent pulpit when the new New Bethel opened its doors on Linwood and Philadelphia. Once a theater, the building had been transformed into a twenty-five-hundred-seat sanctuary by—as C.L. was quick to tell people—an all-black construction company. The minister pointed out that this was not reverse racism. He said it was proof of what “as a race we can do for ourselves if we take advantage of opportunities to qualify ourselves.”
By May, Franklin was in the final stages of formulating his plan to hold a massive freedom march in Detroit with his close friend Dr. King as the main speaker. The conservative/establishment Baptist Ministerial Alliance opposed the march—or at least a march led by Franklin. C.L.’s national stature had excited jealousy among many of his peers. When he came to the Alliance meeting to argue his case and was told by the organization’s president that he couldn’t speak because his Alliance fees were in arrears, C.L. exploded and went after his adversary. Franklin’s colleagues held him back, and the physical fight was averted. In the end, C.L. prevailed because of his close relationship to Dr. King. If Franklin could get
King to lead a Detroit freedom march, that march would go forward, no matter how vehement the opposition to Franklin’s involvement.
On May 27, Mahalia Jackson sponsored a fund-raising rally for Dr. King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference at McCormick Place in Chicago. The Freedom Fund Festival featured Al Hibbler, Mayor Richard Daley, Dick Gregory, Eartha Kitt, and Aretha Franklin. Jet reported that “gospel-turned-blues singer Aretha Franklin came on last in a tough spot after all the preachers and big stars at Mahalia Jackson’s benefit for Martin Luther King and literally broke up the show by sending the crowd home shouting when she closed with a back home rendition of ‘Precious Lord.’ The daughter of Detroit’s Rev. C.L. Franklin, Aretha then plunked down four $100 bills in Mahalia’s hands for being on the show.”
“The other area where Daddy still held sway over Aretha,” said Cecil, “was performing her civic duty. He drummed that into all of us. Ted White had complete sway over her when it came to what engagements to accept and what songs to sing. But if Daddy called and said, ‘Ree, I want you to sing for Dr. King,’ she’d drop everything and do just that. I don’t think Ted had objections to her support of Dr. King’s cause, and he realized it would raise her visibility. But I do remember the time that there was a conflict between a big club gig and doing a benefit for Dr. King. Ted said, ‘Take the club gig. We need the money.’ But Ree said, ‘Dr. King needs me more.’ She defied her husband. Maybe that was the start of their marital trouble. Their thing was always troubled because it was based on each of them using the other. Whatever the case, my sister proved to be a strong soldier in the civil rights fight. That made me proud of her and it kept her relationship with Daddy from collapsing entirely.”
Shortly after returning from Chicago, Aretha went into the studio and recorded what could be considered her greatest performance on Columbia.
“I’d say it was her best performance ever,” said Etta James. “Everyone loves her shit on Atlantic, and no doubt they’re classics, but when I heard her sing ‘Skylark,’ I told Esther Phillips, my running buddy back then, ‘That girl pissed all over that song.’ It came at a time when we were all looking to cross over by singing standards. I had ‘Sunday Kind of Love’ and ‘Trust in Me,’ and Sam Cooke was doing ‘Tennessee Waltz’ and ‘When I Fall in Love’ at the Copa. We were all trying to be so middle class. It was the beginning of the bougie black thing. I truly believe Aretha had a head start on us since she was the daughter of a rich preacher and grew up bougie. But, hell, the reasons don’t matter. She took ‘Skylark’ to a whole ’nother place. When she goes back and sings the chorus the second time and jumps an octave—I mean, she’s screaming—I had to scratch my head and ask myself, How the fuck did that bitch do that? I remember running into Sarah Vaughan, who always intimidated me. Sarah said, ‘Have you heard of this Aretha Franklin girl?’ I said, ‘You heard her do “Skylark,” didn’t you?’ Sarah said, ‘Yes, I did, and I’m never singing that song again.’ ”
The record on which “Skylark” appears, Laughing on the Outside, was recorded during the spring and summer of 1963 and is the most consistent and satisfying of the Robert Mersey/Aretha Franklin albums. It is among her most memorable interpretations of any song in any genre.
“When I heard ‘Skylark,’ ” said Jerry Wexler, “I called John Hammond to congratulate him. I thought he was still her main producer. It was stunningly good. But John told me he had nothing to do with it. Aretha was angry at him because she thought he had signed Erma, and Columbia was looking to put her with Bob Mersey, a mainstream pop guy. Say what you want about those guys, but sometimes even the corniest of them—like my good friend Mitch Miller—can do brilliant things. When it came to Aretha, Mersey served her well. Give the guy credit. His charts were gorgeous.
“Later in the sixties when I met Donny Hathaway and he started talking about singing standards, he pointed to that Laughing on the Outside album. He had it memorized. He wanted to do ‘For All We Know’ in the Aretha vein. If you listen to his version, which is bone-chillingly beautiful, you’ll hear him channeling Aretha.”
Aretha spoke often of her regard for Frank Sinatra and favorably compared her version of “Where Are You?” from her Laughing album to his.
“There are two sides to my sister,” said Cecil when I mentioned to him her bold comparison of herself to Sinatra. “She’s always been confident about her singing. She always knew she had the gift—a gift that big can’t be denied, even by an insecure person. She’d been told by every blood-washed believer who’d heard her sing in church that she was phenomenal. But even though she knew just how good she was—that at age twenty-one, she could sing a ballad with the depth of a Frank Sinatra or a Billie Holiday—another part of her was super-insecure. Her insecurity wasn’t about her talent but about her ability to get over and be a star in show business. That’s why she was willing to try anything to get over—pop, blues, ballads, R-and-B, you name it. That’s also why she was willing to let a tough guy like Ted White lead the way. She thought she needed a bull to break down the doors for her. She never thought she could do it herself—and she was right.”
The songs say as much—Duke Ellington’s lonely “Solitude,” Lerner and Loewe’s “If Ever I Would Leave You,” Johnny Mercer’s “I Wanna Be Around.” The title track, “Laughing on the Outside,” makes the same point—that beneath the veneer, behind the klieg lights of the cover shot and the glamour of Aretha’s glittering gown, there is a reservoir of deep feelings that transcend time and space. She laughs on the outside and weeps on the inside.
She also sang a song Ray Charles had recorded in Los Angeles only months before. Aretha’s New York session took place on June 12. The song—Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “Ol’ Man River”—is one of the great warhorses of American music. It contains an essential metaphor: time is a river, time keeps rolling along, time is indifferent to pain, if only we could disappear into the anonymity of time and leave the burdens of this world behind. It is also a dramatic vehicle written by white men, designed to be sung by blacks. Paul Robeson’s version is perhaps the most iconic. Ray Charles sang it at the height of his addiction to heroin. His producer Sid Feller told me, “Ray nodded out at the keyboard. At first I was afraid he’d died of a heart attack but I soon saw it was the effects of drugs. When he awoke, as if nothing had happened, he began singing the most stirring version of the song that I have ever heard. It’s hard to fathom how deep he gets. He’s literally crying.”
Aretha took the song in another direction—lighthearted and whimsical, with a jazz rhythm section swinging behind her. She declined to seek out the dark suffering but instead kept it on the surface.
“They said it was supposed to be sung by a man,” she said, “but I sang it anyway. It was written for a Broadway musical and I wanted to give it a jazzy Broadway feeling.”
Not so with Irving Berlin’s “Say It Isn’t So.”
“That’s the other item I remember from that record,” said Etta James. “My mother used to play the tune by Billie and Dinah, but it wasn’t until I heard Aretha sing ‘Say It Isn’t So’ that I understood it as a sure-enough soul song. After she’s sung it through once, she comes back and bites the song in the ass. She spits out that ‘Say everything is still okay’ in a way that you know she’s been listening to Ray. We were all listening to Ray, but Aretha was every bit as bad as he was. She could fuck up a standard so completely, with such funk and fire, you’d never want to hear it straight again. It took me forty years to approach that song—that’s how much I revered Aretha’s version. And when I finally did do it, on an album called Heart of a Woman, I put a Latin beat behind it and sped up the tempo and damned if I wasn’t still singing those same Aretha licks that had been buried inside my head for all those years.”
On Sunday, June 23, 1963, ten days after Aretha’s final session for Laughing on the Outside, over a hundred thousand people took to the streets of Detroit in the freedom march led by Reverends C. L. Franklin and Martin Luther King. The star
t time was 4:00 p.m., but as soon as the church services ended, the crowd began to swell. C.L. was certain two hundred thousand people participated; more conservative estimates said one hundred and twenty-five thousand. Either way, it would prove to be a landmark event in the history of the great industrial city, and it would never have happened were it not for the tenacity and power of C. L. Franklin. A reporter for the Michigan Chronicle wrote, “Negroes of all classes—street walkers, doctors, senior citizens, drunks, clergymen and their congregations, etc.—came from near and far to ‘walk for freedom.’ ” Biographer Nick Salvatore wrote, “The joyous marchers took possession of the streets in the city’s main shopping and entertainment district where, until recently, they had been denied equal service. Significantly, the march was a black affair. White marchers never appeared in appreciable numbers… Some black unionists expressed disappointment at the noticeable absence of most of their white coworkers.”
The march ended at Cobo Hall, where C.L. had arranged for Dr. King to speak. Before the address, though, there was entertainment—jazz pianist Ramsey Lewis; C.L.’s close friend and Queen of the Blues, Dinah Washington; jazz organist Jimmy McGriff; the Four Tops; and Erma Franklin. Aretha did not attend.
“I believe I sang a gospel song,” said Erma, “but I can’t say for sure. What I do remember is the excitement. It was one of those moments when, as Daddy would say, ‘The presence of God was everywhere.’ There was a unity among our people I had never felt before—a pride, and a sense of purpose. Given the open-minded attitude of my dad and Dr. King, it was perfectly appropriate that there were jazz artists and blues artists along with a mass choir that sang ‘Lift Every Voice and Sing.’ President Kennedy sent his congratulations and so did Walter Reuther, the union leader. I can’t tell you how proud I was of my father and what he had accomplished. Dr. King called him ‘his good friend’ and gave a stirring speech. We left Cobo Hall believing that the tide had turned and that a brighter new world was around the bend. For me it was the brightest moment of the sixties.”