Bobby Womack Midnight Mover

by Bobby Womack

  I always wanted a little girl, always wanted one. I told Regina, ‘Babe, boys don’t turn out too good.’ We had a girl and we called her Ginaree.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE POET

  In my time, I’ve been called a few names. Nobinee, Stack, by Pickett, and The Poet. That caught on after I cut an album in 1980 and called it The Poet.

  Some people call it my comeback album after all the squabbling over BW Goes C&W and my departure from UA/Liberty. Columbia, MCA, they’d been OK, but by the end of the 1970s I was without a record deal.

  I turned around and Wilton Felder, the bass and sax man of the Crusaders, asked me to be a guest vocalist on his solo album Inherit The Wind. The song was a hit and got the attention of a guy called Otis Smith, who was promoting the Crusaders.

  Otis Smith I had heard of. He’d been around the business a long time as a record label executive, and was good at what he did. A good promotions man, too. Then Smith started his own venture, Beverly Glen. He named the label after that big long boulevard that snakes down from Sherman Oaks, through the Hollywood Hills, Bel Air and down south of Westwood.

  Smith’s pitch was pretty good. He said that the white man had been taking money from the black artist for too long. I wasn’t signed with anyone, so I got myself a new label. Me and Smith talked about how it would work out. One suggestion was that I could have done a job scouting, helping to bring some acts to the outfit. I had resurfaced mentally and spiritually. I was happy.

  Later, Johnny Taylor, who replaced Sam Cooke in the Soul Stirrers and recorded for his SAR and Derby labels, joined and had a record out on Beverly Glen. Anita Baker, the female lead singer of Chapter 8, who Smith worked with, also recorded her first album, The Songstress, for his label in 1983.

  I went in the studio on my own and started recording. I put the whole band together. I had Patrick Moten on keyboards, who I met through Ike Turner. He helped produce the album with me (he’d also helped produce Anita’s first album). Guitar was me and David T Walker; James Gadson on drums, and David Shields and Nathan East sharing bass. It was all guys that I knew could come right in and also bring something to the table. Curtis helped out on vocals, and Regina and Vincent were both in there somewhere with handclaps.

  We cut the stuff in a few days. When you’ve got ideas and you know where you’re going, it don’t take that long. I even got my brother Cecil in to help, and we were fighting. I also did his song, ‘Just My Imagination’.

  Eight tracks; the album started with ‘So Many Sides Of You’ and finished on ‘Where Do We Go From Here’. Somewhere between them is ‘If You Think You’re Lonely Now’, which is one of the stand-out tracks and one of the album’s hits.

  The Poet came out in 1981. It was hailed as a masterpiece. That was about as far as it did work out, because the next bit was a real blow. I didn’t get paid. The album was selling tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands, but nothing was coming my way, very little anyway. Smith looked at me as a worn-out junkie, somebody who had talent but didn’t know who he was. He disrespected me.

  I asked Smith for something like $50,000 against future royalties. He told me he’d get back to me the next day. I didn’t get that 50 grand, nowhere near it. Then I saw Otis Smith less and less. The next time I saw him he was in court.

  It took nearly three years for the case to go through the legal process. It was a really drawn-out battle and the bills kept stacking up. Attorneys would leave the case, new ones would join. I spent so much time in that damn courthouse I ended up writing a song there.

  I had my day, week and month in court. Gave my evidence and sat and watched Smith deliver his. Watched and heard several versions of the truth come out. Then at the end of each very long day I would go back to the Beverly Hills Hotel, have a drink – a cocktail – order dinner and then go through the strategy plan for the following day’s session. I’d order wine, go over it. Do some more preparation during mains, finish that and then work on it again through dessert. I used to do all that every single evening after court finished. And I had a dinner companion. That was Allen Klein.

  Allen Klein is a shrewd, sharp businessman. Allen also has a lot of heart. That’s something I know. He might not be a singer or a writer, but he can take a song across the world just as easily.

  When I first knew Allen Klein, in the early 1960s, he was Sam Cooke’s accountant. Allen was young then – and fat. He wore one blue suit and a stripy tie. The suit used to shine so much you could use it as a mirror.

  He was the kind of guy who didn’t care how much you pushed him away. He would keep coming back time and again, like a bee on honey. JW Alexander was around then, but JW was not as smart as Allen. Smart and aggressive, a real go-getter, Allen was also white, which helped in dealing with the predominantly white-run record labels.

  Sam admired Allen’s chutzpah. I think Sam thought, if he kept his end up, then Allen would take care of the rest of it. What impressed me about Allen was that Sam always worried about what he had to say: what he thought about the show, what he thought about this, what he thought about that, what he had to say about his life – period.

  Allen would never come in the dressing room after the show and say it was fantastic. He’d only be there to tell Sam what the problem, or problems, were. Tell him the show sucked, that the third song shouldn’t have been there or that the outfit wasn’t making it. He was the only guy who did that.

  Sam would tell him to get the fuck out of there. He’d chase him out. Sam told him, ‘You don’t know the fucking problem. You don’t sing, you don’t do this, get out of here, man. I don’t want to hear no criticism from you.’ Even then, Allen would keep at it with the criticism. It’s easy to get yes men around, but Allen wasn’t one of them.

  Allen’s remarks would bug Sam. He’d go back home and they’d nag at him. Sam would ask me what I thought about what Allen had said. That got me thinking. I thought, ‘If Sam spends this much time worrying about what Allen is up to, Klein must mean something to him.’

  He did. They got tight when Allen bet Sam he could find some money for him. Cash that the labels or publishers owed Sam, but hadn’t passed on. Just let it lie in a drawer.

  Sam didn’t believe Allen at first, told him to get out of there. We were all naive back then, expected to be paid by the business, but Allen persisted. He kept whispering in his ear about that missing money, told Sam about audits. He said, ‘There is gold in them hills.’ And there was: he turned up with something like $100,000.

  Sam was shocked at how much cash had been swilling around, cash that was his by rights, and he was very interested in Allen after that. And the moves Allen made. He gave him a piece of the real action then and that put Allen on the management track.

  Barbara had sold some of Sam’s publishing to Allen. I did the same a few years later so Klein and his company, ABKCO Music, became my publisher. They didn’t get all my songs, but enough, including a lot of the songs from The Poet.

  That was something else I regretted. At the time – I sold it in the 80s – Allen advised me against it. I wanted to lay my hands on some big money and fast, but Allen told me not to sell. He said the publishing, my writing, had no price. It was priceless. He also told me it would take care of me for life.

  I didn’t listen, so Allen told me that whichever publishing company won out with the highest bid, he would triple it. Don’t know why I didn’t ask for a loan, but I have too much pride. I wouldn’t want to ask somebody for something without giving them some sort of collateral. That collateral was my songs, my songwriting, my life.

  One time I told Allen, ‘Money don’t mean nothing to me.’ I was angry about something. That was my statement. Allen told me that scared him. He was afraid of that kind of talk. And I never forgot that.

  Allen Klein was at the Womack versus Smith court sessions every day. Then he had dinner with me after and discussed the case, every night.

  Allen would give me advice like, ‘Bobby, you are in court now, don’t gi
ve them nothing to elaborate on. Just answer yes or no.’

  Allen would get tired, he’d have rings under his eyes, but he told me, ‘I never quit, I never quit at anything.’

  I didn’t care for Smith. Often he would be in court and he would whisper these snide asides. Man, that wound me up tight, but I got a crack at him. Literally. I punched him out. One day outside the courtroom, I landed one on his jaw and knocked him down. I drew my fist back so far to punch Smith that I hit his attorney, too. Smashed him with my elbow, knocked him over, then swung for Smith and put him down too. His lawyer threatened to sue me for assault.

  While this was going on, Smith was still selling the album and making deals because he had the master tapes. What I did then wasn’t strictly legal, but I was desperate. I stole back my masters.

  I knew Smith had them locked up in a warehouse in LA. I called it up, lied and told them I was Otis Smith. I said, ‘Hey, this is Otis. I’m sending Bobby Womack by to pick up the masters, he wants to go in and redo some things on them.’

  The warehouse guy said, ‘No problem, Mr Smith.’

  I got the tapes and then called up Smith. ‘You ain’t paid me no money,’ I said.

  He gave me some bull about how he had reignited my career when I was down and out and that I was ungrateful.

  I listened to that. Then I told him about the tapes. I said, ‘What would you say if I told you that you don’t have to give me the kiss of life now because I just stole those tapes back?’

  That got his attention. He couldn’t believe it and begged for them back.

  I said, ‘Goodbye, Otis,’ put the phone down and smiled for the first time in months.

  In court, we won the music rights back, but the judge ordered me to hand over the masters, said those tapes were Smith’s by law. It didn’t make sense, but I had my fun.

  The Poet was the most successful album I ever had, but typically a lot around it turned out bad. The Poet brought me back, but I could have done without Otis Smith.

  Our contractual dispute put me a little behind track, but I finally broke free of Smith and Beverly Glen and got around to putting out The Poet II in 1984, this time through Motown. I brought Patti LaBelle on for that.

  I was on the road, performing in Philadelphia, and Patti came to sing with me. We demolished the house. After that, I said we should collaborate and asked her to do a guest shot on my album.

  We ended up duetting on three tracks, including ‘Love Has Finally Come At Last’. I knew if we put that song out it would be a smash record; it was.

  That wasn’t the last I heard of Smith. Beverly Glen cashed in on the success of The Poet a year later when it released an album culled from my sessions, Someday We’ll All Be Free.

  I’m a firm believer that when people do you wrong they catch it somewhere down the line. I don’t know what happened to Smith, but I heard he wasn’t in the music business any more.

  CHAPTER 16

  HARLEM SHUFFLE

  After Sam died, Ronnie Wood became my closest friend. I would – and could – talk to Woody if there was a problem.

  Wherever he was – at home, on tour – he never changed. He was just a guy. Silly sometimes, never any pressure, not like a lot of musicians I hung with. I could never get close to them because they would never let you in; they put this aura around themselves.

  We first met when The Faces called me to support them on their last tour. I first heard of Rod Stewart in 1966. He had just recorded a version of Sam Cooke’s ‘Shake’. It wasn’t Sam, but it wasn’t bad neither.

  Four years later – and like the Stones before him – Rod taped my song ‘It’s All Over Now’. That helped give my career a kick. Then, another four years after that, in 1974, The Faces sounded me out about being their support act.

  Woody got me on the phone, handed it to Rod and he grilled me. Wanted to know what sort of cigarettes Sam Cooke smoked. Told him L&Ms. What did he drink? Told him martini cocktails. Or Beefeater gin.

  I got the tour. What I didn’t know then was it would be the last hurrah by The Faces. And the outing would also enter the annals of legendary alcohol and substance abuse.

  At the start, I could never tell the difference between Woody and Rod. They both just looked alike to me, both had their hair in a little shag. I guess Ronnie was a little more outgoing of the pair. They were a good bunch. They wanted to know how I got my voice raspy. I told them it was singing with bad microphones first, then hipped them to the Jack Daniel’s. The trick: take a swig just before going on stage, then gargle.

  Next time I saw them, they’re passing around a bottle of Jack, taking a slug and going ‘ga-ga-ga’. I asked them what they were doing.

  ‘You’re the one that told us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To gargle.’

  I laughed. ‘Man, I was just bullshitting you. You can’t do that with bourbon, that’ll tear your fucking throat out.’

  ‘So, what do you do with it?’

  ‘I dunno about you, man,’ I said, ‘but Jack Daniel’s, I drink that shit.’

  So that was it with me and The Faces, they would be up playing jokes on everyone. Dumb stuff like stomping up the toilets and flooding the bathroom, putting gum in the keyholes. They partied a lot. If they didn’t get thrown out of a hotel it wasn’t fun.

  So I did that last tour with The Faces. I liked them. Rod had wanted me on it so I could do a couple of Sam Cooke songs with him, like ‘Bring It On Home To Me’ and ‘I’m Having A Party’.

  Woody told Rod that he now had a good reason to do the Cooke songs because I had a direct link to the man. I thought it would be good if I made that tour, but the way it went was Rod called me out, I did the two songs and that was it. I was bored waiting back there when I was all fired up, so I also played guitar in the band.

  I picked up a vibe that there was arguing between the band from the start. The band was accompanied by an 18-piece string section: someone told me this was Rod’s idea, that he wanted to do it his way or no way. The band wasn’t so keen and it meant tempers were frayed.

  It didn’t help that Rod remained isolated throughout much of the tour. He and his then girlfriend, Britt Ekland, travelled separately. When they checked into hotels, they used the alias Mr and Mrs Cockforth.

  On top of the personal beefs within the band, there was a whole army of journalists who had attached themselves to that circus. Media conferences became the norm, sometimes with Britt holding court while Rod silently seethed. One particularly pushy pressman had his note pad torn up and thrown in his face by an enraged Rod.

  The band’s antics meant that the tour manager had a headache getting them into hotels as they’d been banned by the Holiday Inn chain. Some nights he resorted to booking rooms as Fleetwood Mac.

  Despite that, there was still mayhem. In one hotel, the management were caught between accommodating Rod and Britt and Helen Reddy and her husband. Reddy was due to check into the penthouse suite. The problem was it hadn’t been cleaned and it was still occupied by The Faces singer and his girlfriend. The desk clerk tried to hurry Rod on his way. Big mistake.

  Rod, the rest of the band and the roadies took the matter into their own hands. On Rod’s command, everyone ripped into the suite for the next 20 minutes destroying the bed, smashing the TV and anything else that wasn’t nailed down.

  Throughout the tour, there were rumours that Rod would be quitting. Then, Ronnie confided in me that it was going to be the last Faces tour. He said, ‘Rod is leaving, he ain’t taking me with him.’ I asked what was going to happen with the rest of the guys and he said, ‘I don’t know, man, but this is it.’

  Next thing I heard Ronnie Wood was going to join the Rolling Stones. That was a good gig. We were close by then so he asked me to go to Paris with him to meet Mick Jagger, negotiate his deal joining the group. He was going to replace Mick Taylor, who had replaced Brian Jones. Mick was with Bianca Jagger at the time. We visited them in a hotel.

  Ronnie asked me, ‘What do
you think I should ask them for?’

  I said, ‘Man, I don’t know. I never thought about the money they make. Ask them for a million dollars.’

  ‘You think that much?’

  I didn’t really know. ‘Just a million to get started with it,’ I instructed, but I really didn’t know what I was talking about because I didn’t know how everything worked. ‘Just listen to what Mick is talking about,’ I advised, ‘and sit there with him and let him tell you what he is going to do, and then you can say you will get back to him.’

  It was years and years before Woody became a full Stone. And he had it rough. Anything they wanted to dump, they dumped it on Woody. I guess after Jones they wanted to be sure – make it so no one would take a piece of the pie and then find they couldn’t get rid of him.

  Ronnie is just a sweetheart of a guy, and if he was in your corner he was in your corner all the way. He always tried to bring people together, to stop the bickering and fighting.

  Keith took Woody under his arm. Keith had been with a lot of guitar players, but to play together you almost have to live together. Keith could get that out of Woody, and Woody was willing to give him that. They built a strong, powerful relationship and that kept Woody in the group.

  Keith Richards was a true warrior and a very soulful guy. He was frank: if Keith didn’t like someone, they would know it right away. He reminded me of somebody in my neighbourhood, like a little ghetto kid who is just mad ’cos he’s in the ghetto and he is going to kill anybody who looked better than him. Keith had that attitude, but if he liked you he was real cool.

  One time Keith was mad at me. Didn’t speak to me for a while. I think he thought that anything that fucked with Woody or got him in trouble was down to me, ’cos we were close. Keith’s attitude was: ‘Why is Womack always there? He’s part of the problem.’