Respect: The Life of Aretha Franklin

by David Ritz

  “ ‘Mr. Wexler,’ he said.

  “ ‘Call me Jerry.’

  “ ‘Call me Ted.’

  “ ‘I heard your artist is available, Ted.’

  “ ‘I heard you were interested in my artist, Jerry.’

  “ ‘Very interested. Intensely interested.’

  “ ‘Then we should meet.’

  “ ‘Right away,’ I said.

  “ ‘Name the time and place.’

  “ ‘Monday in New York. My office at noon.’

  “ ‘We’re there.’

  “And they were. Right on time. I was delighted to see that they came with neither a lawyer nor an agent. In our first meeting, Aretha dressed in a conservative brown suit. She gave me little eye contact and was closed-mouth in the extreme. I couldn’t get her to call me Jerry. It was ‘Mr. Wexler.’ Though it was against my nature, I had to reciprocate and call her ‘Miss Franklin.’ I couldn’t get her to say anything about the kind of music she wanted to make, other than ‘I want hits.’ When I asked her to discuss her experience at Columbia, all she said was ‘It was nice. I did some nice things. But now I want hits.’

  “ ‘And money,’ added Ted.

  “ ‘I can advance you twenty-five thousand dollars for your first album,’ I said. ‘The second we sign, you’ll have the check.’ I expected the arm wrestling to start. I was sure that Ted would ask for fifty thousand. Much to my shock, though, he didn’t.

  “ ‘We’re going to accept the twenty-five,’ he said. ‘As important as front money is, what’s more important is that Atlantic establish Aretha as a superstar. No reason she shouldn’t be selling as many records as Otis and Sam and Dave.’

  “ ‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Ted. That’s why I want to turn her over to Jim Stewart at Stax. We do their distribution and promotion. We’re their selling arm and they’re one of our production arms. She’ll love Jim.’

  “ ‘Stax has had a lot of hits,’ said Aretha, not objecting to my suggestion.

  “ ‘And they’re just getting warmed up.’ ”

  When Wexler told me that he’d initially chosen not to produce Aretha himself, I was surprised. He said he had tracked her career from the start and considered her a major talent. Why would he want to hand her over to Jim Stewart?

  “Aretha’s voice was always there, no doubt,” he said. “And I definitely saw her as part of our stable. At that point, though, I was into delegation. I was looking to free up my time. I had my eyes on winters in Florida. Because of our success, I started thinking of what it would mean to sell the company and cash out. Ahmet and Nesuhi were initially not enamored of the idea, but—because persistence is my middle name—I kept at them. Along with Motown, we were the indie label stars of the midsixties. The early sixties—especially after Ray Charles had left us for ABC Paramount—had not been easy for us. Now that we had a strong string of hits, who knew how long it would last? I didn’t want to take any chances. So at the very moment Aretha arrived, my mind wasn’t focused on producing; it was on finding a buyer. Besides, the Stax machine turned a raw rhythm-and-blues singer like Otis Redding into an international sensation. There’s no reason why they couldn’t do the same with Aretha. So you can imagine how surprised I was when Jim Stewart turned her down.

  “ ‘You sure you want to pass on Aretha Franklin?’ I asked Jim.

  “ ‘She’s great,’ said Jim. ‘I just don’t see her recording in this environment.’

  “I couldn’t have disagreed more, but Jim was his own man. He didn’t sign her—I did—so now it was up to me to put my time and money where my mouth was. Looking back, I see that turning her over to Stewart would have been a colossal mistake. My atheism does not allow me to thank God for Jim’s decision to reject her. Instead I thank the good angels of R-and-B who were protecting Aretha and, by extension, me, her humble servant.”

  As Wexler was firming up the contract with Aretha, word got back to Columbia.

  “An internal memo came down from the top indicating that Aretha was talking to Atlantic and that their deal was all but consummated,” John Hammond told me. “Of course I was not pleased, but what could I do? She had been out of my hands for several years. And even though I admired the more recent material that Clyde Otis had developed for her, I realized that, with all Columbia’s enormous resources, we had not served her well. Of course, Ted White and Aretha didn’t always help. They had their own ideas that often conflicted with the Columbia producers’. The results were often confused. Our promotion and salespeople were also confused about how to sell Aretha. All this is a great pity because, at least on paper, a great record company like Columbia should have been able to make her an international star. At the same time, I was hopeful that Atlantic might provide her with the kind of culture that suited her personality. Atlantic was not a corporation but a small label specializing in R-and-B where the owners—Jerry, Ahmet, and Nesuhi—actually produced the artist themselves. They were passionate and highly skilled record men. Wexler was especially adept at promoting. When he had a product he liked, he’d go to the ends of the earth to make sure the right people heard it and played it on the radio.”

  The Billboard article on December 3, 1966, made it official. Under a photo, the caption read: “Jerry Wexler, vice-president of Atlantic Records, signs blues singer Aretha Franklin to an exclusive contract while her manager, Ted White, looks on from above. Her first release with Atlantic is slated for January.”

  “When I explained to Ted and Aretha that I, and not Jim Stewart, would be producing her,” said Wexler, “they had no objections and even seemed somewhat relieved. They liked the idea that one of the Atlantic bosses was going in the studio with them. Then came discussion about the studio. They wanted to record in New York. I argued long and hard for Muscle Shoals. I cited the fact that Percy Sledge had cut his monster hit ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’ at Fame—the studio I wanted to use—and that I had enjoyed several smashes with Pickett, all done at Fame. Ted said he had apprehensions about the South and had heard that Rick Hall, the Fame owner, was overbearing. I joked and said the only overbearing personality was me—and that I’d be running the sessions. Rick’s role would be minimal. He would not be producing. Ted said that Aretha was used to recording in New York. New York was her comfort zone. I argued that Muscle Shoals would be an even greater comfort zone because we were going to record in an entirely different way. We weren’t going to have prepared charts like they had at Columbia. Nothing would be written down. ‘That’s good,’ said Ted, ‘because she can’t read or write music.’ I told Ted my theory of preliterate geniuses—musicians who bypass mere notations because they hear it all in their heads. They can call out the parts. They can sing out the parts. They don’t need to write down notes. They just play them by ear. ‘That’s Aretha,’ said Ted. ‘She has the complete picture before she starts. We’ve been trying to tell producers that for years.’ ‘You don’t have to convince me,’ I said. ‘I’m sold.’

  “At that point Ted said he had a few songs he wanted to sell me, songs by writers in his publishing company that were custom-composed for Aretha. I was all ears. The first was ‘I Never Loved a Man (the Way I Love You)’ written by Ronnie Shannon, one of Ted’s guys in Detroit. I loved it. ‘Good,’ said Ted, ‘she’s already figuring out how she wants to cut it.’ ‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘The boys in Muscle Shoals could not be more flexible. Flexibility is what this thing’s all about.’

  “He had a tape recording of something he said Aretha had written, called ‘Dr. Feelgood.’ Just her and the piano. All I could do was smile and wave my hand like I was in church. ‘Fabulous,’ I said. I saw it straight in the Bessie Smith–Dinah tradition of a woman demanding her sexual satisfaction. ‘Don’t put it to Aretha like that,’ Ted said. ‘She doesn’t like to think she writes sexy songs.’ I suggested two covers—Henry Glover’s ‘Drown in My Own Tears’ that Ray Charles had made famous and Sam Cooke’s ‘A Change Is Gonna Come.’ ‘She loves both,’ said Ted. ‘We’re all on the same p
age. She has another cover she’s been doing live—Otis Redding’s ‘Respect.’ ‘Long as she changes it up from the original,’ I said. ‘You don’t gotta worry about that, Wex,’ said White. ‘She changes it up all right.’ ”

  “Jerry Wexler deserves a ton of credit for producing Aretha right,” said Ruth Bowen, “but I think it should be clear that she was developing her own sound and style without anyone’s help before she met Wexler. I actually heard her do that version of ‘Respect’ live, the one that became the signature song of her career. She was singing ‘Respect’ before she ever signed with Atlantic. Jerry definitely put her with the right musicians, but she came to the party full prepared. She came with the goods.”

  As the musical elements of Aretha’s life were brought into harmony, the personal elements became more dissonant than ever.

  “If Ted hadn’t helped put together that Atlantic deal,” said Erma, “I’m not sure their marriage would have lasted. Their relationship was on its last legs. Changing record companies only postponed the inevitable. It was the beginning of a strange but beautiful period in Aretha’s life when she leaned on her family more. She was putting together her sound—in her own way—and she realized that no one could augment that sound better than me and Carolyn. I don’t care what you say, but siblings who sing—especially siblings who began singing in church—have a certain built-in harmony you can’t find anywhere else. Think of the Clark Sisters and the Winans. Aretha knew that, and when she started envisioning churchier-sounding backgrounds to highlight her lead vocals, she turned to us. We were there with open arms. Whatever the past friction—and the past friction was serious—we remained sisters in Christ. Our father taught us that.”

  “It took Aretha a while to leave Columbia for Atlantic,” said Carolyn, “because Columbia was the most prestigious label. I think she felt like she’d be giving up status. But Aretha was also aware of the current market, and she decided that Columbia wasn’t. Ironically, when she gave up the idea of ‘crossing over’ into the mainstream with jazzy standards à la Ella or Sarah and Dinah, that’s when she crossed over the most. That’s because she became more fully herself.”

  As far as studios went, Wexler prevailed, convincing Ted and Aretha that Muscle Shoals was the place where magic was being made. They were set to meet there at the end of January 1967. Hopes, confidence, and expectations were all high.

  “I didn’t see how anything could go wrong,” said Wexler.

  And then everything did.

  “Before we got to Muscle Shoals, Aretha had worked out the pattern for the songs on her Fender Rhodes at home,” Wexler explained. “She and her sisters worked out the background parts. The plan was to have her come into the studio, show that bad Muscle Shoals rhythm section her outline, and let them jam around her. I thought it was important not to have an all-Caucasian band so I made sure to get the Memphis Horns and Bowlegs Miller. I loved all the material Ted and Aretha brought—Sam Cooke’s ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’ and ‘Good Times,’ Otis’s ‘Respect,’ and the three Aretha tunes—‘Dr. Feelgood,’ ‘Don’t Let Me Lose This Dream,’ and ‘Baby, Baby, Baby,’ written with Carolyn.”

  Wexler loved King Curtis, who, along with Motown’s Junior Walker, was the reigning king of R&B tenor saxophonists. Beyond his instrumental prowess, King was a prolific writer and arranger. He’d soon become Aretha’s musical director. For this first record, Wexler gave Aretha one of King’s best, “Soul Serenade,” a song Curtis had written with Luther Dixon, whose “Blue Holiday” Aretha had sung on Columbia.

  “The first day started off fine,” Wexler remembered. “We had Chips Moman and Jimmy Johnson on guitar, Roger Hawkins on drums, and Tommy Cogbill on bass. Spooner Oldham knocked everyone out—including Aretha—with those opening chords on electric piano. Those were some mournfully funky riffs that became a permanent part of the song. Aretha was on acoustic piano, and because she had walked in the door with the groove in hand, it happened quickly.”

  “She was a very shy and withdrawn woman,” Roger Hawkins told me. “She called everyone ‘Mister’ and we called her ‘Miss Franklin.’ There was no small talk. She was all business. That made me nervous because mostly we’d done sessions with singers who picked up our relaxed manner right away. Not Aretha. She stayed to herself. But when she sat down at the piano and began to hit those chords and that sound came out of her mouth, nothing mattered. I’ve heard a lot of soul singing in my time, but nothing like that.”

  “Aretha sang it with the conviction of a saint,” said Dan Penn, who was at the session, where, on the spot, he and Chips Moman wrote “Do Right Woman—Do Right Man,” a song that would eventually be included on the record.

  “Before she started playing we were worried she might have qualms about playing with a white rhythm section,” said Jimmy Johnson, “but when we all got to grooving, it was nothing but a party. She didn’t like the support we gave her—she loved it. She knew that, color be damned, we were all coming from the same place. The woman just sang—and sang—and sang some more. We were hysterically happy, giddy happy, like schoolchildren, running into the studio to hear the playback. To the last man, we realized we were watching the birth of a superstar. The experience gave joy new meaning.”

  Until the joy stopped and the heavy drama started.

  “My plan was to do everything live,” said Wexler. “Have Aretha and the musicians playing together in real time. Of course, Rick Hall was there because we were using his studio. There had been tension between me and Rick earlier about Clarence Carter, a big-selling R-and-B artist with hits like ‘Slip Away’ and ‘Patches.’ Hall stole him from us. But I put that aside for the sake of having a smooth Aretha session. The euphoria of these first takes of ‘I Never Loved a Man’ led to some celebratory drinking that night. I had left the studio before it got bad, but apparently it got ugly between Ted and Rick Hall.”

  “I confess that I’d been doing some drinking,” Hall told me, “but so had Ted. And so had Aretha. No one was in his or her right mind. It began when one of the white horn players, who had also been drinking, got into some argument with Ted. Whether the racial stuff started with Ted or the trumpet player, I don’t know. But it was there. So Ted stormed out of the session and took Aretha with him. That was a crying shame ’cause the session had gone so well. I knew Wexler, who was my client, would be pissed out of his mind. So I went to Ted and Aretha’s room to try and make it right. I made it worse. Ted didn’t wanna hear any explanations but I gave ’em anyway. That just led to a bunch more yelling with Ted telling me how he never should have brought his wife down to Alabama to play with these rednecks.

  “ ‘Who you calling a redneck?’ I said.

  “ ‘Who you calling a nigger?’

  “ ‘I’d never use that word.’

  “ ‘But you were thinking it, weren’t you?’

  “ ‘I was just thinking that you should go fuck yourself.’ That led to Ted taking a swing at me and I swung back and we both landed a couple of good blows and before I knew it, I was in a full-blown fistfight with Ted White.”

  “The very thing I had worked so hard to avoid was racial animus,” said Wexler, “and that’s exactly what the night session had excited. Everyone was playing the race card. At the motel there was screaming and yelling and doors slamming. At six in the morning I was in Ted and Aretha’s room trying to undo what Rick had done. Ted, though, could not be consoled. ‘You were the one who said Muscle Shoals was soul paradise,’ he said. ‘Far as I can see, Muscle Shoals is soul shit. These honkies down here are some nasty motherfuckers. I will never submit my wife to circumstances like these. We’re outta here.’

  “ ‘But what about the schedule?’ I asked. ‘We were going to do all her vocals this week and the sweetening next week. All we have in the can is one completed song—“I Never Loved”—and the beginning of “Do Right Man.” That’s all I got.’

  “ ‘What you really got, Wexler,’ said Ted, ‘is one big fuckin’ mess on your hands. I’m not
sure this lady is ever gonna record for Atlantic again.’ And with that, he showed me the door.”

  When Aretha wrote about the incident, it was entirely different. She said she couldn’t recall any details and wasn’t in the room where Hall and White came to blows. She knew there had been discord and arguments intense enough to make her want to leave. But in Aretha’s account, she left on her own, not with Ted. She packed up and headed out to the airport.

  “I’ve never been so frustrated in my life,” said Wexler. “In all my years in the record business, I had never experienced a better session. I knew we had a goddamn smash and now it looked like it was all in vain. The singer’s husband/manager gave indications that he wanted out of the deal. He had physically fought the studio owner. He and Aretha had run out of Muscle Shoals after the very first day. I was crushed.

  “When I got back to New York, Ahmet said I looked like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I said I was on the verge of what I was convinced could be one of the most important and successful records in Atlantic history and suddenly it had all fallen apart. I couldn’t let that happen. I called Ted but couldn’t get through. Through the grapevine I’d heard that [Aretha] was back in Detroit—without Ted. I got a number. Carolyn answered. She said she couldn’t tell me anything—that her sister needed some time alone.”

  “After that Muscle Shoals incident,” said Carolyn, “I was sure that Aretha and Ted were splitsville. She felt that he had undermined the session. She said he was drunk half the time and belligerent as hell. She said she didn’t want to see him again.”

  “I was going crazy,” said Wexler. “I had disc jockeys calling her, I had preachers calling her, I was on the verge of calling out the FBI and Canadian Mounties. At the same time, I had a completed song—‘I Never Loved a Man’—but only half of another. We’d only begun to cut the song that Dan and Chips wrote in the studio, ‘Do Right Woman—Do Right Man.’ There was no vocal. Where was my artist? Where was her manager? Were they really leaving the label before we even got started?