After the show, she came back to my hotel to spend the night with me.
I had given all my love to Nicky in London the week before. Annika and I just held each other through the night, and I boarded a plane for Denmark the next morning. She rode with me to the airport, and I never forgot her face, or her touch, or how she cared for me and my things. She carried my case, ordered my food, smiled quietly at me, and never let go of my arm.
Annika spoke no English, and I spoke no French.
Who can speak the language or hear the voice of life when it decides fate should make a move?
When a storm is brewing, the atmosphere changes. Leaves tremble, people and animals behave strangely, a sallow pall envelops the sky. And just before the squall, an eerie calm that’s easy to miss.
I missed all the signs. People complained privately about Steve, but I never expected the “intervention.”
I heard a thud. Duck (just out of Steve’s sight, on the couch in front of the speakers) fell off the couch and onto the floor, trying to suppress his laughter.
Al ran to the door, hit it open, and dragged me out to the street. “Jones, I swear, I’m gon’ knock that motherf—er out! I swear!” Apparently, Cropper had said something that sparked this behavior.
My fear was that it would fall on me to try to stop Al if he did go after Steve.
The experience was embarrassing. Bill Halverson, the engineer, heard Steve, but he didn’t comment. Here’s Steve, this guy who worked his tail off and contributed immensely to all the processes, including mixing, negating the good effects of all his amazing handiwork in the blink of an eye.
Even if Steve really was telling the truth, or believed he had been, it was this kind of “revelation” that he was continually prone to, as well as other frequent musings and behaviors of his, that provided the incentive for the infamous “meeting” in Al Bell’s room.
The stated purpose of the “intervention” was to “rein in Steve Cropper’s ego” or something of the sort.
I don’t remember the tension between Al Bell and Steve being discussed openly. It was a rift that could have split Stax Records with a fatal rupture.
I walked into the room and seemed to lose my sense of time. I looked briefly at a few faces—Deanie Parker, Al Jackson—took a seat in the crowded room, and then kept my eyes on the rug. I felt Steve’s eyes on my dropped head. Al Bell was in the armchair on my right. There was no chatter. People were waiting quietly for more principal players to arrive. It was somber.
I think if I had been called to such a meeting, I would have turned and walked out of the room. Even before a word was spoken, there was no doubt who the alpha male was. This process was just a formal verification of the changing over of power in the company.
Joe Arnold came in, looked around, and stood by the door, realizing he was the last to show up. His face told me I wasn’t the only one to feel sorry for Steve. But, then again, Steve had asked for it. As I often did in uncomfortable situations, I let my mind drift to events outside the room. I was good at that.
The allegations were bona fide. Steve’s vindication was unlikely, and I stayed quiet during the thrashing. I didn’t add to the complaints about Steve. He was still a member of my band, the MGs.
If the intention of the intervention was to change Steve’s behavior, it failed miserably. He left feeling he had been the victim of a mass betrayal. The company he’d busted his balls for had just slipped through his fingers, unfairly. He’d been the first to unlock the studio doors and the last to leave at night for years. And this was his reward?
On the other hand, I can’t imagine any organization that Al Bell was a part of that he didn’t rise to the leadership position. He was a born leader. It was his nature, and he slipped easily into the role.
As far as I know, nobody helped Steve lick his wounds.
MEMPHIS—Spring 1967—7
A funky unison organ/guitar introduction, a double snare/slap, a brusque, and commanding bass pickup introduce the undeniably infectious dance groove that is “Hip Hug-Her”—quite possibly the funkiest groove ever to come out of Stax Studios.
The hallmark of “Hip Hug-Her” is its bass line. The funkiest thing you ever want to hear. Not to mention the sound, which makes it seem like Duck is going to break the string on every note, he pulls it so hard. His amp is turned up so loud it distorts, and he plays like he will never get to play another song again. Ever.
So for the first few bars, we just lay back and play rhythm to Duck’s bass.
The organ melody, with its oriental tone, sets the curious, mystical character of the tune. Right out of my subconscious, and my fascination with things occult, the melody is searching for its purpose. Finding no answer, our musical path gravitates to the four chord, with the same result, so we go back to the one chord, the tonic. Finally, instead of going to a standard five chord, we stay on the one—searching, we find the minor three, then the major six and down to the four! It makes sense. Resolution! Thank God! You can really dance now, as Al rocks out and we play the rhythmic phrase triumphantly on the familiar one chord. Steve bends back, pushing the really high strings up top in minor thirds—crying! His guitar is crying!
MEMPHIS, Edith Street Home—1964—11
William Bell and I were staff songwriters at Stax, a revered position that allowed us first dibs at the label’s artists. One of the most prized acquisitions was bluesman Albert King.
William and I were informed that Albert was coming to the studio and needed a song ASAP. That night, we went to the piano in my den, much to the discomfort and chagrin of my wife, Gigi, and wrote the song. It was rumored that Albert King kept a big pistol in his guitar case. I remembered my experience in New York with Jimmy Reed and wondered what tomorrow’s session might be like. Turned out he was the sweetest soul ever to walk into that studio.
Learning from composers like Wagner and their use of keys for emotional impact, I knew for instance that a song like “Born Under a Bad Sign” (by Albert King) would be much stronger in C sharp minor than in, say, B flat minor. One of the most significant things I learned from Wagner was the powerful emotional value of the use of a key such as C sharp minor, which was the key of my choosing for Albert King’s blues classic, “Born Under a Bad Sign.”
On the piano, I started to play the signature line on the lower notes, G flat, A flat, C flat, D flat, F flat, D flat, and so on, and William started singing the words of the title line above what I was playing. We looked at one another and smiled. We had a song.
Next morning, in the studio, I had the thrill of my life. Sitting at the piano, after having taught the main bass line to Steve and Duck, Albert pulled the strings and made the first bent wail of his introductory guitar solo, and it was like electricity struck! I never dreamed I would work with such a master craftsman of the blues. I knew for sure I was alive, because my heart was making movements I’d never felt before, and I was playing notes on the piano I’d never played before. It was just so exciting! I was in the same room with, and at that moment playing with, the inimitable, peerless blues legend. It was a moment I will never forget.
Of the Kings, there was of course B.B., there was Freddie, and then there was Albert, who was left-handed. That gave him an advantage: he could pull the strings instead of push.
Trusty David Porter, always willing to work behind the scenes, hung back behind the vocal booth, whispering William’s words into Albert’s ear, saving him from the embarrassing admission of not being able to read.
Albert was a contortionist. Sacrificing his body for the sake of making notes on the guitar. I have no idea why he was so feared. If Albert ever threw a guitar, or a person, across the room, I feel certain it would have been justified. He was the gentlest man I encountered at Stax.
I don’t remember if I got paid for the session, or much else about that day, just that I felt, well, successful, happy, and accomplished. The experience created a special closeness between me and Albert that lingered until he died.
MONTEREY—June 1967—9
In the conspicuous absence of Joe Arnold, who played tenor on the European tour, and Otis himself, Wayne said, “How are we s’pose to do this?” referring to the impromptu rehearsal in Andrew’s room for what was to be our biggest show to date in the States: the first Monterey Pop Festival. We hadn’t played with Otis since Europe, weeks ago, so there was nervousness and trepidation, especially since we only had time for a hurried run-through with no bass, drums, keys, or guitar. It had seemed like the whole affair was trumped-up from the beginning. “Why hadn’t we been offered the date sooner?” We could have been more prepared. Good thing we had just toured Europe a few weeks earlier.
The first day was a gorgeous one, with sunshine, and I was awakened by the refreshing ocean mist. Walking around Monterey alone, I was struck by the absence of police and by the offering of free sandwiches at restaurants, even people offering to share their hotel rooms, making for such a new, unique environment for an American city. People didn’t hide their joints and smoked grass on the street.
The front desk called. “Ginger Baker would like to say hello.” It was one in the morning.
“Send him up.”
There was a knock on the door. Ginger Baker was surrounded by people. I looked down the hall and it was packed—all the way to the elevator. As many as could followed him into the room, and they made themselves at home. Ginger had an entourage. It was my first experience with that phenomenon.
Quiet and respectful, Ginger was a large ball of hair. It was everywhere on his body, but mostly his head. He smelled like a bouquet of Eastern fragrances. He was wearing thick glasses and custom leather clothing with fringes and sandals. I had my pajamas and bathrobe on. His reputation preceded him. I wished we could go to a studio and play because I knew he could make a drum set sound like an orchestra.
He stayed about an hour, and we talked quietly, with references to Max Roach or Philly Joe Jones, Blakey, drummers he admired, becoming friends in the process. When he left, his court left. My room, and the hall, were suddenly empty. I had been visited by either the Art Blakey of rock or the king of England—I didn’t know which.
From our hotel, we were escorted by a large cadre of Hells Angels to the fairgrounds amid a deafening roar from their motors.
Then there were the teal-green mohair suits from Lansky Brothers, which seemed such a good idea in Europe. There wasn’t a suit in the whole town, except ours, and we didn’t have anything else to wear.
But more important, what would they think of our music? How would they be affected by our groove—which was anything but “Somebody to Love,” a song being played nonstop all over San Francisco radio? The crowd was a far cry from the audiences that so warmly and enthusiastically received us in Europe. They were hippies, a counterculture with long hair who embraced tie-dyed clothes, psychedelic drugs, and no sexual inhibitions.
I was the only person in fifty miles who didn’t take or smoke anything. I refused joints that were offered me a gazillion times. Everywhere. At the hotel. At the festival. I didn’t need to take or smoke anything—I was so sensitive to the stuff, I was on a contact high. People offered their hotel rooms for me to share, and room doors were generally left open, but I went back to be alone every night. Even on the third and last night, when it seemed I had a whole hippie family sleeping in my room.
Still reeling from the Hells Angels escort to the fairgrounds, I searched different faces in the dressing room, trying to get my bearings. I missed most of the concert. It seemed like the right time to meld the divergent cultures, so I stayed backstage talking to Jack Bruce, who I erroneously assumed was one of the performers since he was backstage. Before Otis came on to close the show, we played nervous renditions of “Philly Dog,” with Wayne and Andrew, “Booker-Loo,” “Hip Hug-Her,” and “Green Onions.”
It was the first time I was faced with a shaky performance from the band. It had been awkward starting the Mar-Keys song, especially with only two horns. I wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe it was the unfamiliar crowd and the cold night. But they warmed up considerably when Otis came on.
There was no feeling like being onstage with Otis Redding doing “Shake,” with Al Jackson on drums. You just wanted to get up and dance. And sometimes I did. Standing right there in front of the organ. The crowd went crazy. Otis had that warm, inviting smile, and they felt it. He hadn’t been able to wait to get out on that stage. Even in the cold drizzle, with the sickening teal-green mohair suits on, we just started to have a good time! You couldn’t help it. Otis was shouting the provocative, “Shake! Shake!” like a possessed man. What a song! It earned us instant acceptance. People rushed the stage. You just had to be in the moment. You didn’t have a choice.
The show went on, and the weather got worse. What luck. We started “Respect,” and it seemed the crowd ignored the drizzle. It was such a demanding beat, with Otis stomping and the horns bleating, nothing was lost from the energy of “Shake,” and the groove continued without a break. By the end of “Respect,” the rain was pouring, and Otis was reminding the hippies that they were “the love crowd,” which brought us to “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long,” a natural selection for the love theme. Otis begged his way through the song, pleading from the bottom of his heart, with our steady rhythm embracing every triplet with loving care.
When it became apparent we needed to end the set, and the concert, immediately, we did a quick stomp through “Satisfaction,” followed by a painfully stubborn rendition of “Try a Little Tenderness.” At that point, they would have to physically remove us from the stage. Otis had won the game, and he correctly called the shots. Don’t speed this one up. Don’t cut it short. We left the stage victorious! Soaked! And cold! Spent and drained!
NEW YORK CITY—Summer 1967—11
I insisted on having only people directly involved in the recording process present in the studio. At Stax, my wish was honored, as if they realized how visitors and onlookers distracted me to the point of writer’s block.
It was decided, however, that we would record “Slim Jenkins’ Place” at Atlantic Records’ fifth-floor studio in New York, with Tom Dowd at the board.
The tracking session went well until, just before I started to overdub an organ part, a young man entered the studio and sat on the floor with outstretched legs crossed. I hesitated. The fellow didn’t look at me or say anything. Tom came on the talkback: “Ready, Booker?” Cropper, Dunn, and Jackson were in the control room. I was outraged.
“Who the f—k just walked in on my session?”
I got up from the organ, walked past the man and into the control room, with WTF? written all over my face.
“Oh, it’s just Eric,” Tom said. “Don’t mind him.”
In the hall between the control room and the studio, I paused, half pondering catching a cab to LaGuardia and a flight back to Memphis. Instead, I returned to the studio and overdubbed the descending melody and solo the best I could—completely distracted, eyes on the strange visitor the whole time, who never once looked me in the eye or addressed me.
Thirty years later, at Crossroads in Dallas, I asked Eric Clapton if that had been him all those years ago. “Yes,” he admitted. There is, interestingly, no guitar solo on the song.
Nervous, disjointed organ solo and all, “Slim Jenkins’ Place” found its place on the And Now LP by Booker T. & the MGs. Like “Green Onions,” Mrs. Axton had stepped in and exhorted, “You can’t name a song ‘Slim Jenkins’ Joint’!” with the same finality she had years ago with our first record’s title, but the name originated from a real place on McLemore Avenue, very near Stax Records.
MEMPHIS—Summer 1967—4
Stax was a home away from home for many people. But its greatest omission, or defect, was that i
t didn’t have a bar. Or worse, it wasn’t close to a restaurant. Whites had always been free to use any black institution or establishment. So, enter the Four-Way Grill, Slim Jenkins’ Joint, and the Lorraine Motel. I don’t know if you can have a great studio without having a great bar and restaurant nearby.
Even better if the restaurant serves soul food and is part of a sixteen-room Green Book–listed establishment that welcomed whites, like the Lorraine. The only inconvenience was that every guest had to pick up a key at the front desk. If you were checking in or going to your room, you could see the front desk.
It all illuminated how curious and interesting it was that Stax’s white males boasted of their trysts with white girlfriends to us black coworkers but kept their indiscretions with black women to themselves. But we saw the goings-on. There’s no more revealing a place in town than the check-in counter of a hotel or motel.
Slim Jenkins’ Joint was located in the last unit of our building, on the other side of the radio parts store. We sat in the large dark booths near the back, with one eye on an exit, as you did in Memphis’s honky tonks, especially if you had white counterparts like we did. Out the front window, we could see Packy Axton and his father, Everett, perpetual figures, standing or sitting on the sidewalk, a case of Bud within reach. Our trips to Slim’s were brief. Back to the studio as soon as possible so as not to get into a rift with one of the locals.
One block north and two blocks west on Mississippi at the corner of Walker was located the Four-Way Grill. The Four-Way was the only eatery my mother would go to for Sunday dinner. It was a nice restaurant in back, a bar and grill in front. Good, famous soul food. There was a great-sounding jukebox with lots of Bill Doggett and Jimmie Smith hot organ records on it.
The Lorraine, meanwhile, was the only hotel for blacks in town. Stax staff meetings were held there over lunch at midday, then an afternoon swim before heading back to McLemore Avenue. On any night, you might find Eddie Floyd and Steve Cropper holed up in their favorite corner room, laboring over a new groove. Albert King loved to surprise me with a room key, which I would use to open the door where a beautiful girl awaited. Such was Albert’s love for me.
Time Is Tight Page 13