Tag: Southern soul

LISTEN: Ruby Velle & the Soulphonics, ‘Broken Woman’

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Artist: Ruby Velle & the Soulphonics
Hometown: Atlanta, GA
Song: “Broken Woman”
Album: State of All Things
Release Date: December 1, 2017

In Their Words: “For this track and the concepts sparked from it, we wanted to take our fans and listeners through a sonic experience we’ve never done as a band — experimenting with heavy synth sounds and deep reggae-influenced bass and vibe guitar. At the time, the band was going in a new direction with that instrumentation, so it was a great opportunity for us to tell a different story lyrically, as well. To even further open it up to unchartered territories, I co-wrote the song lyrics to ‘Broken Woman’ with my now-husband, so this single really took some bravery to create from all sides!” — Ruby Velle

Photo credit: Jimmy Johnston

Anderson East, ‘King for a Day’

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Writing alone and working in artistic isolation can breed a particular kind of creative output — one often praised above all else. But collaboration has been at the heart of so much of music’s inherent culture, even as we try to elevate and honor the solo songwriter and take down what feels like Music Row’s cult of committee. Short of “super groups,” we don’t often stop to recognize moments of harmony where two (or more) great minds come together and breed something even better. We should. There’s magic in that meld.

Anderson East, one of Nashville’s most soulful voices, is a believer in the art of the partnership — in both his personal life and his creative one. And “King for a Day,” the newest offering from his forthcoming sophomore LP, Encore, is that synergy at its best. Written with country legend-in-the-making Chris Stapleton and Chris’s wife and powerhouse vocalist in her own right, Morgane, it’s an ode to vulnerability and the payoff that comes from letting your heart beat alongside another, even if it ends up broken. With East’s signature rasp and some booming horns, it’s a fine taste of Motown-in-the-South that feels even sweeter with that Stapleton swagger. “I’d rather be king for a day than a fool forever,” East sings. However that romance ends up, the partnership that made this music come to life will always have been a wise choice.

LISTEN: Marc Broussard, ‘Easy to Love’

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Artist: Marc Broussard
Hometown: Carencro, LA
Song: “Easy to Love”
Album: Easy to Love
Release Date: September 15, 2017

In Their Words: “What can I say about this song? It represents a lot for me. There are only 11 lines of lyric, which is notable to me. I think it’s beautifully simple, and I had a lot of fun breathing new life into this Joe Stark original.” — Marc Broussard

The Sound of the Shoals

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Attempts to codify the “Muscle Shoals sound,” which fueled a plethora of rhythm and blues hits in the ‘60s and ‘70s, often result in anthropomorphizing. Musicians, producers, and fans alike refer to its heart, its pulse, its gut, and, above all, its soul. Originating in the Shoals — a group of small towns located along the Tennessee River in northwest Alabama — it drew musical heavyweights like Aretha Franklin, Etta James, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan. Now, the public can experience a slice of that musical history. The success of filmmaker Greg Camalier’s 2013 documentary, Muscle Shoals, prompted Beats Electronics and Google to put up nearly $1 million for the restoration of Muscle Shoals Sound Studios, the site of some of the region’s most legendary recordings. While the studio just reopened for tours on January 9, the Alabama Tourism Department has already named it the state’s top attraction for 2017.

Located at 3614 Jackson Highway in Sheffield, Alabama, the studio dates back to 1969, when the session musicians at a neighboring musical hallmark, FAME Studios, decided to open their own facility. Affectionately known as the Swampers, the Muscle Shoals rhythm section consisted of Jimmy Johnson on guitar, David Hood on bass, Barry Beckett on keyboards, and Roger Hawkins on drums. During their time at FAME Studios working with founder Rick Hall, they played on classic records ranging from Wilson Pickett’s popular cover of “Mustang Sally,” to Aretha Franklin’s “I Never Loved a Man (the Way I Love You),” and Etta James’s rendition of “Come to Mama.” Their approach wasn’t anything like the arranged compositions played in the studios in New York. Instead, their process was reminiscent of a jam session: Once in the studio, they would noodle around on their instruments together and come up with an arrangement to go with the vocal. While Nashville had country music and Memphis had the blues, Muscle Shoals sat between the two, becoming a melting pot of Southern rock, R&B, and soul. And the Swampers, with their bass-heavy funk, helped catapult that sound. The result was a musical renaissance that crossed racial boundaries. During a time of extreme racial tension, some of the most iconic Black artists in music history would travel to the South to record with a white producer and a white band.

Four towns make up what is considered the Shoals: Florence, Sheffield, Tuscumbia, and Muscle Shoals, itself. With a combined population of around 71,000 according to the most recent census reports, this small, rural region was an unassuming hotbed for musical innovation. “It always seems to come out of the river, you know, even in Liverpool, you know, the Mersey sound and, of course, the Mississippi,” U2 frontman Bono says in the Muscle Shoals documentary. “And here you have the Tennessee River. It’s like the songs come out of the mud.”

The Shoals’ rich musical roots can be traced back to the water. The Yuchi Native American tribe first made note of the Tennessee River’s musical power, naming it “The River That Sings.” It was their belief that a woman in the river sang songs to protect them. Years later, the town of Florence became the birthplace of both WC Handy, known as the “Father of the Blues,” and Sam Phillips, the “Father of Rock ‘n’ Roll.” Phillips went on to become the owner of Sun Studios and Sun Records, putting Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis on the map. Through Rick Hall’s production at FAME Studios, Muscle Shoals became the “Hit Recording Capital of the World,” with Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records sending his artists to the Shoals to record.

Once the Swampers struck out on their own with the help of a loan from Wexler, Muscle Shoals Sound Studio was a haven for popular artists who flocked from recording hubs like New York City and Los Angeles in search of the “Muscle Shoals sound.” Cher became the first artist to record at Muscle Shoals Sound Studio, followed by the Rolling Stones, who recorded both “Wild Horses” and “Brown Sugar” from their 1971 album Sticky Fingers. Before long, the Swampers were cutting around 50 albums per year, with countless legendary artists. The shortlist includes Paul Simon, Boz Scaggs, Levon Helm, John Prine, Joan Baez, Cat Stevens, the Staple Singers, Willie Nelson, Santana, Leon Russell, Bob Dylan, and Bob Seger. (Yes, that’s the shortlist.)

Measuring about 75 feet by 25 feet, Muscle Shoals Sound Studio is located across from a cemetery and had once been a storage unit for headstones, grave slabs, and coffins. There’s something poetic about the fact that the very room that housed markers of death ended up becoming a space of remarkable rebirth. The Swampers closed the location in 1979, moving to 1000 Alabama Avenue. It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and was sold to the Muscle Shoals Music Foundation in 2013.

Judy Hood, the wife of Swampers bassist David Hood, is the chair of the Muscle Shoals Music Foundation, which still owns and operates the studio. The facility’s recent renovations aim to bring an authentic Muscle Shoals recording experience to tourists. Replete with vintage recording equipment in the production booth, original guitars, basses, organs, pianos, amps, and retro chairs and paint colors, the atmosphere stays true to how the studio looked in the early ‘70s. Studio tours start in the basement, also known as the “den of debauchery,” where musicians hung out during breaks from recording. Visitors will also be able to visit the bathroom where Keith Richards wrote “Wild Horses,” the couch where Steve Winwood took a nap, and the “listening porch” where the Rolling Stones took smoke breaks. But most importantly, visitors will have access to archives of music, bringing the “Muscle Shoals sound” front and center. More than anything, the “Muscle Shoals sound” is a feeling, and visitors can now walk on hallowed ground and experience that Muscle Shoals soul firsthand.

“What music built there is not something that you can see with your eye,” Bono explains at the end of the Muscle Shoals documentary. “In fact, if you look at the recording studios, they were humble shells. But what they contained was an empire that crossed race and creed and ethnicity. It was revolutionary.”

Photos courtesy of Music Shoals Music Foundation

LISTEN: Southern Avenue, ’80 Miles from Memphis’

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Artist: Southern Avenue
Hometown: Memphis, TN
Song: “80 Miles from Memphis”
Album: Southern Avenue
Release Date: February 24, 2017
Label: Stax Records, a division of Concord Music Group

In Their Words: “’80 Miles From Memphis’ is a song about my journey — how I left everyone I loved behind and set to chase my dream. I wrote this song coming back to Memphis from a show we had in Clarksdale, Mississippi. That lonely feeling got to me, and I felt like I had to express it with a song.” — Ori Naftaly

Photo credit: David McClister

‘Groove and Grind: Rare Soul 1963-1973’

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As R&B collections go, this four-disc, 108-song set gets high marks for its intelligent and well-conceived presentation. Producer James Austin wisely eschews the folly of the eye-burning, 5,000 word "expert essay" in six-point type in favor of a few hundred introductory words of enthusiasm for the music, the kinds of singles for which every crate digger lusts with every weekend expedition to the local swap meet.

The rest of this box set’s 120 pages of verbiage (written by an actual expert — Bill Dahl) is housed in a glossy, well-constructed, 8" x 8" hardcover book and focuses exactly where it should: on the songs and the artists who made them. In the case of Don Gardner, whose 1966 single “My Baby Likes to Boogaloo” opens the collection, we learn from whence he came (Philly), what he did (He was once part of the duo Don and Dee Dee.), and where he recorded “Boogaloo” (in the '50s and '60s unofficial Black music capitol of the world — Englewood Cliffs, NJ). There are plenty of photos of the actual singles (a nice touch), a long list of resources (including one of the great R&B blogs, Funky 16 Corners), and a helpful tracking of the songs in each of the collection’s four subgenres: urban soul, group soul, Southern soul, and funky soul.

Musically, the collection stays true to its purpose as stated in the introduction: “There’s not much in the way of hits here, but the grooves are skin-tight, the singers are utterly amazing, and this collection won’t cost you a small fortune that these selections would in their original 45 form.” In many cases, the grooves are strong and the singers are amazing. Gardner’s “Boogaloo” certainly qualifies on the former count, as does the Tempos’ Motown groove of “(Countdown) Here I Come,” the Dynamics’ “Bingo!” (tracked by Ed Wingate, Berry Gordy’s biggest competitor during the '60s). and the Mandells’ ultra-funky “There Will Be Tears, Part 1.” On the latter count, Alvin Robinson leaves his heart on the studio floor on the April ‘66 cut, “You Brought My Heart Right Down to My Knees”; Hoagy Lands channels Sam Cooke on the ‘71 single, “Do You Know What Life Is All About”; and Willy McDougal’s slinky “Don’t Turn Away” is just that — as slinky as it gets.

Passing R&B fans will fail to see the point — not every song here is off the charts and most never made the charts — and audiophiles might be miffed about the mastering as it’s clear a lot of the material was lifted from vinyl, master tapes likely being long gone. But when all's said and done, this is a welcome document of some excellent music which, as the producers noted, wouldn’t be accessible to us without their efforts. To that, they’re owed a tip of the hat.

St. Paul and the Broken Bones, ‘Flow with It (You Got Me Feeling Like)’

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St. Paul and the Broken Bones' first full-length, Greetings from St. Paul and the Broken Bones, was filled with the kinds of croons that felt familiar on their first listen, like something you know you must've heard in your grandparents' living room or in mom's old station wagon and just can't put your finger on. Having toured with the Rolling Stones and shared stages with their idols, the sophomore effort would naturally be up against maximum expectations, but lead singer Paul Janeway and the band have met those expectations effortlessly in the new Sea of Noise.

On the 13-song collection, Janeway goes deeper with his lyrics, touching on issues of race and violence and reconciling today's world with his own faith and values. But it's not all heavy, lyrically, and the album, as a whole, is as buoyant and danceable as fans have come to expect from the Southern soul outfit. The second track, "Flow with It (You Got Me Feeling Like)," combines the best of the band's brazen beginnings with a refined producion. This number showcases the subtler soul sounds that characterize Sea of Noise — a scaled-back, nuanced approach that feels like a natural next step from the band's retro debut. From the opening strains to Janeway's last funky high note, the Broken Bones' new tunes prove that this sharp group of noisemakers aren't recreating the past … they're fusing it with the future.

Counsel of Elders: Tony Joe White on Playing from the Heart

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Tony Joe White’s protracted Southern drawl crackles across the telephone line. Underneath his deep, husky tone, the phone hums with a slight buzz thanks to a series of thunderstorms rolling through Franklin, Tennessee, where the iconic swamp rock musician lives. It seems fitting, as if his voice — one of his music’s trademarks — creates an electrifying response even for his landline. Conversing with White is not the same as listening to him sing. For one, he speaks softly, carefully. His speech contains no excess fat, none of the verbose over-sharing that has come to exemplify interpersonal communication in the 21st century. Instead, White is a man quietly in tune with the nature around him and the way it has helped him write some of his most definitive songs.

Classics like “Polk Salad Annie” and “Rainy Night in Georgia” aligned White’s name with a musical style evoking heat, humidity, and good ol’ Southern funk. They also garnered the attention of Elvis Presley, Dusty Springfield, and others who have covered his work over the years. But don’t relegate White to the past. Yes, he’s a legend; but that doesn’t mean his best work is behind him. His newest LP, Rain Crow, shows he hasn’t slowed down and has no intention of doing so.

The album’s opening number ,“Hoochie Woman,” focuses on the relationship between a conjure queen and her “Smoochie Man.” But as wild and feverish as that song sounds, it’s not White’s only writing talent. He’s equally adept at love songs. They appear throughout his repertoire, vulnerable and honest offerings about the power that emotion has over him. One such track on the album, “Right Back in the Fire,” looks at a relationship still burning with passion even after many, many years together. It brims with a heat equally indicative of the song’s title, as well as White’s feeling for its subject.

At 72, he’s still channeling the inspiration — the itches — he gets for new music. They are the ideas that bubble in his psyche until he knows he has to sit down and work something out. 

I read that you like to build fires in order to write music, and there’s certainly a heat about your work. At first, it could be attributed to the Southern region that bred this sound, but perhaps there’s a greater sense of what you’re using to help you compose. What does fire bring to the songwriting process?

I can’t say, but the fact is, I’m part Cherokee Indian. My mom was half, and I always really liked to be around fire. Over the years, I would say 90 percent of the songs I write I’ll be around the campfire with a cold six-pack of beer. I go out on the river and build a fire and sit there with it, and suddenly a guitar lick comes up, or a line, so it helps me. Whether it’s real or not, in my mind, it does.

It ties you back to some essential part of the past.

It could be, yeah. I never really give a whole lot of thought to the end of it, but like I said, when I get some kind of idea in my head — a guitar lick or a line — usually that evening I head down to my spot and I’ll build a fire and it will come. I really like it in the Fall and even when Winter comes. I got a spot out there by the shed that kind of leans out and I keep the fireplace under it and, if it rains or snows or sleets, whatever, it don’t matter. It sounds good on that tin roof, and I got all the warmth I need right there. It’s important.

It seems like many musicians nowadays take to the studio once they have an idea, but they lose that connection with nature, with a distinct environment.

Yeah, there’s plenty of times, if I’ve got a machine — a tape machine or something — I lay something down and play it back. I don’t notice it at the time, but I’ll play it back and I can hear a screech owl, sometimes even a lone wolf down the river. I’ll send ‘em over to the publisher or the record company and they’re like, “Man, who’s your background singer?” I go, “The very best.”

You say sometimes you get a lick or a line. Where do you believe that comes from?

It all comes from up above. Everything. It’s all God-given. You just have tov…vwhen it comes by, you grab a piece. You do your best to make it turn out as it can turn.

How are you able to refine what you’re given?

I don’t know.

That’s fair. It’s a hard thing to articulate where creativity comes from.

Yep.

Characters play a large role in your songs. What interests you about that kind of songwriting or subject matter?

You know, my songs go all the way from stuff like “Rainy Night in Georgia” to love songs to alligators to the street. It goes everywhere. I never really try to direct it or know which way it’s going to go. I think to have total freedom in that way. If I don’t try to corral them, I never know how they’re going to turn out.

“Rainy Night in Georgia,” I drove a truck on the highway in Georgia. I’d just got out of school and was staying with my sister, so I was trying to write about things I knew, but also things that were real. So "Polk Salad Annie" was a real girl down in Louisiana, or maybe three or four girls could be "Polk Salad Annies." Then there was "Willie and Laura Mae Jones," a Black couple that was not too far from us and we picked cotton together and we played guitar together, he did and I did. So the characters went right along with staying real with this stuff. Then, all of a sudden, a love song will pop up or a song like “Mother Earth,” for instance, trying to say that there’s something to helping the environment. I never know which way they’re going to go.

Who has helped inspire you throughout the years?

Oh man, that’d be hard, because I have so many heroes I care about. I’d have to go all the way back to the very first — Lightnin’ Hopkins doing “Baby, Please Don’t Go.” That kinda kicked me into the guitar. I was about 15.

As far as artists doing your songs, a lot of them are my heroes: Tina Turner, Joe Cocker, Elvis even. Not only were they doing the songs, but I was actually getting to go in the studio and play guitar with them. I feel like I was a real part of that vibe they were putting out at the time. “Steamy Windows,” for instance, from Tina … it was like a live show inside the studio.

God, that must’ve been something.

It was.

As you’ve gotten older and you’ve become someone other songwriters and artists look at as a hero, how has that affected your outlook?

I hadn’t really given it that much thought. I just come off a tour two days ago and so many people come up to me and say stuff like that and it’s fine and it’s good, but I mainly — like I told you at the very start of the conversation — just try to stick close to an idea. I got this one tune that’s really been bugging me lately. It’s fixing to be popping out soon. But if somebody really means it, say, “God, you really kicked me with this.” That would make me feel good.

But it’s not the defining mark.

No.

What kind of advice would you give to younger songwriters?

I would say only write or play what’s in your heart, straight in your heart. And not try to do it for radio, TV, or YouTube and others. Write what you think is important to you.

I think that’s applicable to so much more than songwriting

It pretty well covers it.

Photo credit: Joshua Black Wilkins

Soul Man: An Interview with Nathaniel Rateliff

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Folks who are familiar with only Nathaniel Rateliff's earlier albums might need to forget everything they know in order to embrace his new release, Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats. Gone are the somber, acoustic ruminations about love and loss. And, in their stead come rollicking soul romps intent on getting the party started. It's a musical direction the Missouri native has long-wanted to pursue and finally has, with an endorsement from none other than Stax Records.

You grew up in Missouri, but you've lived in Denver for a pretty good while now. Has the Midwest ever left you or are you still pretty rooted there?

I feel like the landscape of Missouri is really at the heart of me, for sure. But, as much as I love it, I feel like it's a little stuck. I like being where I'm at now. I love the Midwest and I love my family that's there, too.

Missouri's had a tough year.

Yeah, it's sad to see the stuff that's happening there right now. But, hopefully, it'll help bring about change throughout the rest of the States.

You moved to Denver to do some missionary work. I've seen you live, man. You do not look or sound like a missionary. Was that a teenage flight of fancy or something else? A way to get out?

[Laughs] I made a joke with … one of my best friends joined the Navy to get out of Missouri. And I was like, “Man, it sure sucks that you had to join the Navy to leave Missouri.” And he said, “Yeah, it sucks you had to join the occult to leave Missouri.” [Laughs] I was a kid when I left home. As much as you think you know when you're 18, you don't really know anything. If you're raised in a Christian family, you hold all of that as truth. But, as you get older, you discover things like Alan Watts and Joseph Campbell. You stop worrying about God and the existence of God and what you're supposed to do with your life and what God supposedly wants you to do. And you just do things for yourself because it feels right.

I mean, I'm a spiritual person, but the whole premise of missionaries is bewildering to me. Seems like that sort of hard-sell misses the whole point.

Correct. I was having a hard time with religion and all that stuff while we were still training and preparing to go out and minister to the world. It's come up so much that I end up having to talk about it, but it's hard to explain yourself. I was having a hard time before we left Denver to go minister to people. Then, when we started to minister to people, I was like, “This isn't right.” The people I was with, I thought were really inconsiderate of and rude to other people's cultures. We didn't even leave the U.S. We ended up working with the Hopi Indians. I've always had a huge interest in Native American culture and spiritual beliefs.

But when we were there, I was just so offended by the way everybody treated these Native Americans and were trying to save them. I was like, “But, if God was real … [wouldn't] he or she have come down and shown themselves? Are these people's stories any different than ours?” Then when you start to research Mediterranean history and what was going on there at that time of Christ, it makes a lot more sense that the supposed messiah was just another guy who was trying to get the Jews out of Roman rule and law. Just another zealot who had no reason to be doing what he was doing. And “POP!” But it takes a long time when you're … a lot of the world reads the Bible, but sometimes that's the only thing they read. That's my wife's biggest complaint.

How do questions of faith and the big picture work their way into your songwriting?

​I think, if they do, it's more set up as prose — one liners versus really large statements. I haven't gone through my John Lennon phase yet, so we'll see.

[Laughs] Right. So … why soul? Why now with that?

It's something I've been wanting to do for a really long time. And I feel like, throughout my career, I keep doing these things in increments of seven or eight years. I work on something and try to establish it. Born in the Flood was a little longer than eight years before I started the Wheel which became just Nathaniel Rateliff. Then I did that for seven or eight years. I've always loved soul and R&B music, even blues and gospel and old field recordings and Alan Lomax. I've always thought that stuff was awesome. I grew up singing to — and learning how to sing — to that stuff. I always wanted to write soul songs, but I didn't think, as far as what I wanted to write, I didn't feel like I could connect with it, lyrically. I didn't want the songs to be like “Golly Gee” or things that were appropriate in the '50s and '60s. I wanted to sing about the stuff I've always been singing about. You know, tragedy and love. [Laughs]

After I finished Falling Faster Than You Can Run, I got dropped from Rounder so I made the record by myself and it really didn't have a home. We were trying to shop it around and I was really proud of the material. It was going to be the follow-up to In Memory of Loss. I had the material long before it came out, but it took a couple of years to get into the studio and get it all laid down. The recording process was quick; it was just getting it all set up and having the time to not be out on the road still working. After that was all done, I was pretty discouraged and was like, “Well, I guess I'll be a gardener or get a job as a carpenter.”

Like Jesus.

[Laughs] Right. Right. Exactly! I didn't really know what was going to happen and I had a friend who was like, “Hey, man, you should come to the studio and we should record some songs to tape and put it out on a 45 — like two songs.” I was like, “Okay. I've always wanted to do some soul and R&B.” I went home and it was either that day or the next that I wrote “Trying So Hard Not to Know” and recorded it at home, played all the parts. After I'd written and recorded that song, later that night, I was in bed and I had this idea at the end of “Trying So Hard Not to Know” to have horns come in and have a reprise that would go right into another song, which ended up being “Look It Here.” All of a sudden, I had two songs and I was like, “This is pretty cool sounding.”

“I can keep going with this!”

Yeah, exactly. In a short amount of time, I had the whole set of songs. And another friend was like, “Hey, man, I have an album release show coming up. Do you want to play?” And I was like, “Well, I can't really play as Nathaniel Rateliff because we have some festivals and stuff coming up in town and I don't want to piss people off for breaking contracts.” So then I had a couple months' deadline to piece together a band and have a 30-minute set. I managed to do it somehow.

Our first show was kind of a surprise to all of us. It was a lot of fun and different from anything that I'd done in the past. That was kind of it.

You said, and I agree, that a lot of that classic soul/R&B stuff in the '60s was just “Hey, baby baby.” But there was also the other side of it, like “Change Is Gonna Come.” You're not doing that side of it, either. You're splitting the difference a little bit, yeah?

Right. A lot of that Stax stuff, like “Soul Man,” they were still speaking in a subtle way about stuff they wanted to have change.

One article I read on you said that you were “Bon Iver’s competition for the title of saddest lumbersexual alive.” Is it your fault that Justin [Vernon] is retiring that project? Can we put that on you?

Can I say off the record, isn't it probably [redacted]'s fault that everybody stopped playing acoustic guitar? [Laughs]

Photo credit: Malia James