Luv dancin’

I’m sure that there are many a reader of A Story To Tell who are not ashamed to admit to the nerdish and in many ways irrational joy that comes from a simple lump of vinyl plastic, melded into a disk, flattened, and pressed with grooves of sheer delight. The trusty 12” record, the creator of many a wonderful night, manipulated on turntables to create aural soundscapes and hazy memories, or simply cherished in the comfort of your own home.

Come the digital revolution, bring forth your luxuries, but the 12” record will always be special. And that feeling of snapping the polythene cover to break out the latest discovery, whatever your music of choice, is one that we all savour still, even if the salad days of supping greedily from this well of joy are now less frequent. Nothing can beat the ritual twist of the Technics power button, the smooth start pad, weighted arm lift and drop, and then that wonderful crackle presaging unlimited musical wonderment. And in house circles there is one label that, for me, always brought with it an extra frisson of anticipation.

The orangey-red brickwork and graffiti logo that told you that you were holding a release from Strictly Rhythm, and more than likely were about to be knocked off your feet in some way. The list of artists and releases from this ground-breaking and incredibly significant label (now thankfully operating and releasing again through the UK’s Defected label, following years of major label wrangling with Warner), are too numerous to go into here. From Kenny Dope and Louie Vega to Roger Sanchez, from Josh Wink to Joey Negro, Roy Davis Jr to David Morales, Armand Van Helden to Todd terry, the list of pioneers and greats goes on and on. And the records of note that the label spawned could surely make a digital hard-drive weep and claim unfair working conditions if asked to upload in one session, such is the magnitude of such a roster.

The Twelve Bar Sessions recently featured Barbara Tucker’s incredible 1994 release “Beautiful People”, a top contender if ever there was one, but we must return to that gem another time, for the prompting behind this nostalgic trip back into the Strictly archives, was another classic, and one which I dug out while having a brief reunion with some old vinyl recently. The tune in question is Underground Solution’s seminal 1990 cut “Luv Dancin’”, simply a monster of a record and additionally noteworthy of course for being Roger Sanchez’ debut release. “Luv Dancin’”, in many ways, is just classic Strictly Rhythm, beautifully soulful, understated in the sense that the groove just creeps up on your insides without brashness or bravado, but also complex in composition, layered, deep and downright funky. The vocals are incredibly well crafted, and the intro to the original always sends tingles down the spine with its breathy precursors to the full sample. The sample is itself from a classic source, 1980’s disco monster from Loose Joints “Is It All Over My Face”, and in using it Sanchez draws direct links from the emergent house scene back to the disco work he so admired.

In particular the cello-inspired work of disco pioneer Arthur Russell, producer Steve D'Acquisto and of course Larry Levan. That he took elements of his inspirations and created such a new sound is testament to the golden touch he has gone on to prove he has with music, house or beyond. So big up to Strictly Rhythm and a topic that we can return to again and again on these pages such is the richness of the seam they have mined. For now though, just thanks that they have given such joy to those that simply luv dancin’

Hyperbolicsyllabicsequedalymistic

Life is funny, and at times the humdrum and the routine is pierced momentarily by a poignant and serendipitous occurrence that just makes you stop and think. I’m not talking about any flashes of mysticism, or spiritual awakenings, not about metaphysical musings on the meaning of life and everything else. Just that funny knack that life has of throwing you the odd curveball, the occasional coincidence to give you pause for thought in an other wise busy day. So there I was last week on a work trip to Japan, and had 30 minutes spare in Shibuya, just long enough to pop into the brilliant Sam’s for a dose of the best of black music in the heart of the city.

And one of the things I picked up, and have been searching on for some time, was a DVD of the legendary WattStax concert from 1972, encased within Mel Stuart’s brilliant 1973 documentary. The sight of the mighty Isaac Hayes resplendent in golden chain mail waistcoat from the concert itself that adorned the DVD cover then reminded me to pick up a CD version of Hayes’ “Hot Buttered Soul”, “Black Moses” and “..To Be Continued”, three of the finest records of all time, and up until that point owned by myself only on vinyl (or in the case of the latter a ropey old cassette tape). So happy with my purchases on Saturday, I fly back to the UK on Sunday and get online for a news update (having been incommunicado largely whilst in Japan) and also to get the disks onto the ipod quick smart. And then, of course, I was greeted with the news that you all have learnt and been saddened by, namely the untimely death at just 65 years old of the very same soul legend.

Odd timing as the purchase of the CDs and DVD had lead me to be planning to write a post on this musical master this very week. And now the timing could not have been sadder. For I am genuinely saddened by this passing, as I am sure we all are, not only because of the legacy of the man who played on more Stax records than virtually any other individual, who changed the very face of soul music in the late 1960s and early 1970s, but because I always felt that Hayes had one last great piece of work in him. I don’t know why, I just always felt that he would return to form with another masterpiece in his later years, a feeling increased by the quality of the two mid-90s albums “Branded” and “Raw and Refined”, and his rise to popular re-appraisal and visibility following his role as Chef in South Park.

In many ways it matters not, however, because even if the only thing that Hayes had ever done was to have produced the song he is most famous for, 1971’s “Shaft” soundtrack and the lead “Theme from Shaft” single, or any one of his early 1970s albums, to me his legacy would be secure. Indeed, even if he had merely continued to be the multi-instrumentalist and songwriter who contributed so much to the canon of incredible Stax material throughout the 1960s his passing would have been of some note. That he did all of these things, and produced along the way some of the finest soul music you are ever likely to hear makes his death a subject of true mourning.

I would go so far as to say that with the afore-mentioned “Hot Buttered Soul”, from 1969, he produced simply one of the most significant and perfect slices of music in all history. Not only for its daringly long and complex compositions, it’s languid delivery and downright soulfulness, but also for how it just changed the game, subtly at first, but then monumentally. It set the standard, and the template, for so much to come, rendering Motown archaic, the Godfather himself as over-pomped, and defining the places where black music could, and indeed would, go to. And the ripples are still felt today, not only in soul and r’n’b, but in hip-hop itself, in clothing, in design, in our very culture. Hayes’ music in this album is perfection, the syrupy production of another level entirely, his performance breath-taking, and the ambition within enough to make you weep with the sheer audacity of it.

His tough yet sensual persona straddles the work, and introduces a new dynamic to black music, a dynamic which paved the way for the Blaxploitation he is commonly associated with because of Shaft, but also for the many high-points of black music in the decade that followed. It helped define an identity that the civil rights movement had fought to allow breathing space. And that “Hot Buttered Soul” is merely one highlight in his one-man musical odyssey serves only to shine a beam on why we have lost an extremely special individual. And so, the only thing to do is to wish that he rest in peace, that his Scientology beliefs of personal upliftment serve him well wherever he now resides, and dig out any one of his recorded output, and drift into the deep, and eeply important, music of Mr Isaac Hayes. Sometime hyperbole is justified. For Hayes, it was invented.

What's in a name?

Song titles can range from the obscure to the straight-up statement of fact, from the long-winded and metaphorical, to the concise and direct. They can be the summary of a song's content, or the repeated rhythmical coda of a song's chorus, the very thing which can lodge itself in your brain and whirl round and round without respite, prompting you to dig out the original at the earliest opportunity and scratch that internal itch. And yet a title is never unimportant important, for it is often the calling card of the slices of melodic composition to which we devote so much of our time.

Titles don't necessarily have to bear a resemblance to the subject matter that they represent, but there is a certain satisfactory tidiness when they do. And one song that does precisely what it says on the tin with stunning simplicity is none other than the Sounds of Blackness' masterful cut of house inflected gospel, the mighty joy that is "Optimistic". For here is a song which wears its heart proudly on its sleeve, and oozes the sentiment of its name through every note and beat. Rarely has the symbiosis of title and topic been more wonderfully realised, for "Optimistic" is simply a song that lifts you up with its pure positivity, no matter what your mood. If in the depths of sorrow, as with the lyrics that kick the song itself off, then you will soon be walking with a spring in your step.

Even if you are floating on a cloud of titties and think the day can't get any better, a listen to this tune will always notch you up that little bit higher. Taken from their immense debut album, 1991’s "The Evolution of Gospel" (itself an apt moniker if ever there was one), "Optimistic" is that rare example of a song that transcends any genre definitions. Instead, like the album that spawned it, the song combines elements of the gospel sound from which the group has its foundations, as well as uplifting House, the contemporaneous new jack swing sound, classic soul and r'n'b. With lead vocals from the always impressive Ann Nesby who gives a smoothly delicious performance here, the song's real standout element, however, is in its production.

This comes from none other than fellow Minneapolis scenesters Jam and Lewis who signed the group to their Pespective Records label, and turned their talents to a choice number of the cuts from this debut release, while fresh from Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation sessions. The result is a quite brilliant example of the urban soul sound that they virtually owned in the early 1990s. Jam and Lewis produced the three standout tracks from this long-player, "Optimistic", "The Pressure (Parts 1 and 2)" and "Testify", a combination that proved commercially as well as critically powerful. But group leader Gary Hines is no compositional slouch either and the rest of the album follows and expands the winning template, with songs of richness, subtle complexity, celebration and joyful beauty.

You all know “Optimistic” I am sure, and probably “The Pressure” also, if only through Frankie Knuckles' incredible remix. But if you haven't dug out the longer album for a while then the time is right for a revisit, for it is an album that has truly stood the travails of time, an epithet that can't necessarily be applied to other formerly well-received efforts touched with the new jack brush. i particularly love "Your Wish Is My Command" and the beautiful "I'll Fly Away", but there are true gems throughout and the album is well worthy of some kind of classic status. For now though, a delve straight into the masterpiece that is "Optimistic" will suffice. Come on get lifted. As another famous song title once said, albeit in a less brilliant fashion, I love your smile

A bass guitar in spider webs, longing for the funk

I make no apologies whatsoever for returning repeatedly throughout the pages of A Story To Tell to the purple genius that is Prince Rogers Nelson. After all, a man with a reputed virtual lifetime’s worth of songs, hidden album projects, videos and god knows what else in his vaults Is surely worthy of our attention every now and then. And that is the thing with Prince, his output is so prodigious that there is just so much to say about him.

And I don’t even count myself to be particularly knowledgeable, certainly when compared to the reams and reams of information that can be unearthed on fan sites across the world wide web. Seriously, the amount that has been written on forgotten bootlegs, rumoured side-projects, lost albums is itself a sight to behold. I came across one the other day which is all about a rumoured song that can only be found in the vaults of the US Library of Congress, a song written but rejected in 1988 for Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” album, entitled “By Alien Means”. Almost worth a trip to DC for. I say almost, but trust me there are plenty of fans who would have made that crazy pilgrimage, and more power to them I say. That is truly dedication. But I wanted to talk briefly here about a song which is one of those that is fully released and available, indeed featuring on 1988’s incredible “Lovesexy” album, but rarely heralded or commented upon.

To me however it epitomises much of what there is to love about Prince, through it’s obvious musical accomplishment, but also the innovation that lies behind it and seeps out of the speakers on each listen. The song in question is the skittering funk of “Dance On”, a tune that continues the social commentary of “Sign O The Times” in terms of its subject matter, but which does so to a syncopation of stunning complexity. For some this jars as an aural experience, the amalgam of a frenetic drum pattern interspersed with some rock guitar licks and a driving bass (indeed the running bass throb sounds remarkably like the source for Q-Tip’s solo stormer “Breathe and Stop” but I am unsure if this is truly the case).

Whatever the case, for me this song does something that perhaps even the master of 80s funk didn’t set out to achieve. Because “Dance On” is a song that packs so much funk per ounce into its tiny body, that it almost transcends the music that it is rooted in. If funk is the groove that gets into your soul and shakes your booty in a primeval sex-swamp, then “Dance On” is a record that is so damn funky it goes over the precipice and takes the funk a step further in evolution, into a place where the usual rules don’t apply. It is a dance record with so much groove you can’t actually dance to it. Now that, my friends, is the true source.

An over the top appraisal you may feel, but it is a point worth making in urging a repeat listen to this tune, and indeed the whole of the “Lovesexy” set, an album which commercially marked a slight downturn for Prince, but which is a stunning collection for all sorts of reasons, some of which we have mentioned, and some we will doubtless return to. For now though, if you can catch the groove, just dance on, dance on*

No barking from the dogs, no smog, and momma cooked a breakfast with no hog

We have long been used to hearing of a certain type of day-to-day life in the ghettoes of LA through the music that we love so dearly. Hip-hop has given us numerous tales of the gritty sides of the struggle for existence in South Central, Watts, Compton and other LA districts, and whether the OG realism of Ice-T, the thugged out anarchy of NWA, the chronic-led chronicles of Dre, Snoop and others, or even the wigged out weirdness of the Pharcyde, we all have an affinity of sorts with the wild, wild west. Movies too have played their part, and who amongst us cannot recite verbatim segments of John Singleton’s seminal tale of morals and murder “Boyz N The Hood”, or indeed the Hughes’ brothers’ equally important “Menace II Society”, both of which are key celluloid moments for film generally, and for the music that inspires and informs them.

And yet there is a film that pre-dates all of these cultural touchstones, a hidden classic that has gone largely unnoticed by the mainstream for decades, and yet which paints perhaps the most vivid portrait of life in South LA. Indeed it is arguably one of the most perfect portrayals of everyday life in any downtrodden district of any urban sprawl, such is its deft touch when dealing with the mundane, the workaday, the listless detachment and humour of life in the margins of the big city. But it is also specifically about Watts, South Los Angeles in the late 1970s.

The film is Charles Burnett’s “Killer Of Sheep”, shot in stages through the early part of the decade, but completed in 1977 and only recently given a full cinematic release. “Killer of Sheep” was actually Burnett’s submission as his thesis for his Masters at LA’s University of California film school, but has gone on to be heralded as a key moment in American film history. It is no less than a certified national treasure, selected as one of the first fifty for preservation on the National Film Registry, and chosen by the National Society of Film Critics as one of the "100 Essential Films" of all time. It is consistently high in critics’ all-time lists. And so why is it so little known in the mainstream? Well there are a number of reasons, the main one being that the rights to the music used throughout the film (to absolutely stunning effect) could not be secured for cinematic use, relegating showings of the movie to film festivals and educational screenings.

Thankfully the UCLA has now paid for music rights, and 2007 saw a full cinematic release, long overdue but still hugely welcome, and is now also available on DVD. There are other reasons also, however. Burnett shot the film for under $10,000 using largely untrained actors. It is a black and white art house film. It depicts the life of black families in the Watts ghetto. It’s story meanders, awkwardly at times, through an austere working class life, saying seemingly nothing and yet so much at the same time. Even if rights were secured, distributors in 1980s America, or elsewhere, were unwilling to touch it as a commercially viable venture.

But as I say, now it is freely available, and I saw the film at London’s brilliant BFI recently. And what a treat it is. Beautifully shot, it features a series of sometimes seemingly unconnected mini-vignettes, centring around the life of Stan, the sheep-killer of the title (not in some fetishist way you understand, but through his mundane and oppressive job in an abattoir). Bu there is little narrative, little in the way of character arc, little in the way of story at all. And yet it is gripping, moving, funny, tender, awe-inspiring and more than anything, real. For it depicts with stunning accuracy and authenticity that which movies often seek to portray and yet distort with ease. Life itself. “Killer of Sheep” may sound a little bleak, depressing even, and containing little of allure to the casual film-goer.

And yet it is far from it. The wide, sweeping and often silent scenes which intersperse the juttering yet real dialogue, scenes of children playing through the urban playground, of chancers and thieves eking out an existence, all side-by-side and connected by the necessity of growth and endurance. It is life in the margins of America, in a quite brilliant film that has itself been largely left in the margins of history. And all-powered by a soundtrack that defies belief in its aptness and quality.

Burnett claimed to want the film to be a history of African-American music as well as a depiction of an element of African-American life, and from Paul Robeson to Dinah Washington, Earth, Wind and Fire to Little Walter, he achieves this equally brilliantly. Although it was ultimately the music that held this masterpiece back from wider recognition, it is the music that gives it roots back into the world it depicts. I told you it was like real life.

I would go out tonight, but*

I would struggle to name my favourite Smiths album, let alone a favourite song, such is my affection for the group. However, if I was forced on pain of death to name one tune it would have to be the classic 1983 single “This Charming Man” (only their second ever release), a choice in which I am sure I am far from alone in making, both within the vast legions of fellow Smiths fans, but also perhaps amongst more fair-weather aficionados.

For there is little doubt that the song is one of their most famous numbers, if not the most, and is also the single release that propelled them from indie pretenders with a solid live reputation and a burgeoning critical acclaim, into a band that tore up the pop and rock charts throughout the mid-Eighties and along the way inspired a generation of musicians to seek to emulate their greatness. Few, however, came close. The influence of The Smiths, and indeed the story of this and other milestones in their recording career, is for another time though. For now I just want to dwell on the song itself, a moment of pure pop genius that still sends a tingle down my spine every time I hear Johnny Marr’s immortal jangly guitar intro, Andy Rourke’s rollicking bass thump soon after, and then the perfect brief pause before the onset of Morrissey at his most captivating, fey and swoonsome.

For here is a song that just encapsulates everything that there is to love about the group, and wraps it in under three minutes of blissful pop brilliance. There is Johnny Marr at his pop guitar best, creating a lick of sheer delight that cuts you to the core with its simple joy. There is the oft overlooked but crucial drum and bass drive of Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce. And then there is Morrissey as the king of the multi-layered lyric, revelling in his own arrogance, and yet somehow fragile in his own as yet fully-fledged sense of sexuality. And it is the lyrics which suck me in every time I hear it, sung in Morrissey’s trademark plaintive half-sigh, half croon, with power and purpose, and yet so textured and dense they have the feel of a George Eliot novel condensed into pop stanzas.

That the song is about bisexuality and an old fashioned hidden and coded homoeroticism has been analysed and raked over too many times to warrant attention here. Instead it is worth just pausing slightly to marvel at the sheer poetry of a man who can begin a pop song with a line about a puncture on a desolate hillside and not seem, well frankly, ridiculous. But even when ridiculous, Morrissey is convincing and authentic, and indeed often can be found with his tongue in cheek, evoking a very British sense of humour and sardonic mirth. I have spoken before about the scenes of the north of England that the music of The Smiths evokes, and arguably none more so than with “This Charming Man”.

It is quite simply a superb song amongst a catalogue that boasts an embarrassment of riches. But as I said previously, a musical epic that excites like the first time on every hearing. A classic from the very first note to the last. As the man himself might have said, why pamper life’s complexities when simplicity sounds as good as this?

The loops for the troops, more bounce to the ounce*

While not perhaps the greatest example of the so-called G-Funk sound that you will ever come across, one of the most widely known records to bump the west coast funk is of course 2pac’s massive-selling “California Love”. And while the song itself has its merits and its own tales to tell as to where it sits in the respective canons of 2pac and beat-master Dr Dre, not to mention its place in the convoluted Death Row story, a crucial third element of the tune’s creation often goes relatively unheralded.

The element to which I refer is of course the appearance within the song of legendary funkateer and Zapp frontman Roger Troutman and his trademark vocoder talkbox, the alien funk that drives the chorus and gives the song its quirky standout character. There can be little doubt upon hearing the pounding piano lick, fat bassline and filtered exhortation to “shake it shake it” that California does indeed know how to party. But rather than triggering a late-career renaissance for Troutman and the Zapp band, prompting a new generation to rediscover their quite brilliant output, the appearance on “California Love” proved to be a last hurrah of sorts for Troutman himself. Only three years later he was dead, the victim of a murder-suicide by his own brother and co-founder and member of Zapp, Larry Troutman.

The murderous event, which took place in April 1999, is still unexplained, with family members (including the remaining Troutman brothers and Zapp alumni Terry, Lester and Tony) still unable to say why the bizarre episode of violence took place. And so it will remain something of an unexplained tragedy, a strange and unwelcome epilogue to a quite extraordinary musical career. For as Zapp the Troutmans, and in particularly lead singer Roger, have a musical legacy which deserves some real plaudits and close attention. And far from being a musical novelty, Roger Troutman’s use of the vocoder deserves special praise, for he was a true innovator in the use of this strangely alluring instrument, forging a musically creditable approach which has influenced a myriad of artists since, including of course the G-Funk genre. Snoop’s recent “Ego Trippin” offering is just the latest in a long line of records that illustrates the effectiveness of this instrument, but for the winning entry surely we have to come to Dre’s Blackstreet production “No Diggitty”, a killer in every sense.

However, I digress, but the point is that there can be little argument, from EPMD’s “You Gots To Chill” to Biggie’s “Going Back To Cali” (each sampling the massive Zapp hit “More Bounce To The Ounce”) that Troutman’s influence is significant, particularly in rap music, and within and without the world of G-Funk.

And so what of Zapp’s music itself for the uninitiated? Well, put simply, it is damn, damn funky. Protégés of none other than the incredible Parliament-Funkadelic, and inspired by hometown heroes the Ohio Players (two of the funkiest outfits to ever lay to wax), Zapp are criminally under-represented in the funk hierarchy. Formed in 1978, debut album “Zapp” was released in 1980, and simply blew the funk sound into new waters. Contemporaries such as Rick James, the SOS Band, Cameo and The Gap Band have all made their own significant contributions to the dense, layered funk of the early 1980s, but Zapp arguably did it all first, and best, and all with a vocoded twist that enhances rather than irritates.

Hit single from the debut offering, “More Bounce To The Ounce” is the prime example, but it is also worth noting that the group also slowed down and sexed up the sound. Ballads such as “Be Alright” and the later “Computer Love” are epic in their own way, and prove the versatility of the band, and of Roger as a lead singer and composer.

There are too many highlights to choose, and for an entry point the best bet is probably the compilation “Zapp & Roger * All The Greatest Hits”, a collection that brings together the finest work of the group in all of its guises, and also of Roger Troutman as a solo artist. “So Ruff, So Tuff”, “Dance Floor”, “Doo Wa Ditty” and the incredible take on “I Heard It Through The Grapevine”, the record grooves from start to finish. Even a bizarre mega-mix of tunes to close has an appealing quality, even to just prove how many great beats these guys had. It is actually quite rare to come across true innovators, and to my mind Zapp were exactly that. Perhaps not the most lauded, but certainly worthy of attention.

Call it space-age soul, call it futuristic funk, call it galactic groove or just call it too damn funky. Worth it’s weight in gold and then some. After all, they’re the boys with more bounce to the ounce, and that’s just the weigh it is.

I know, I know , I knowiknowiknow, I know*

Now before we start, this posting isn’t meant to be taken to mean anything strange, and there is no hidden meaning in the proposition I am putting forward here. We have spoken before on these pages about the ambiguity that now comes with being a fan of Michael Jackson, the outrageously talented performer whose life has become something of an equally outrageous prolonged freak show and bizarre series of events to say the very least. But I am not here to judge or preach. Many of you will have your own views on the whole crazy world and let’s leave it there.

Regardless, we all know the man created some of the finest pop moments of all time, taking disco, funk, soul and more into uncharted and quite stunning new territories. But rather than focussing on the brilliance of The Jacksons, and the partly simultaneous rise of Jackson as an adult solo star through ”Off The Wall” and beyond, I wanted to pause for a moment and look back to the original introduction of the Jackson 5 as a group of themselves. And particularly I wanted to look at Michael Jackson as lead singer of that outfit, and a distinct element of their output, namely their brilliant ballads. Now we all know about the bubblegum pop sound with which they first burst onto the scene, the genius of “I Want You Back”, “ABC” and “The Love You Save”, and the fact that this heralded a talented group with a super talented lead singer in 12 year old Michael.

But their fourth single, and fourth straight number one hit, flipped the script somewhat with the sensational “Ill Be There”. Here was a 12 year old leading a group of brothers themselves largely still in adolescence, in singing a song of longing, regret and commitment. And killing it. I mean totally killing it. Make no mistake, “I’ll Be There”, released in 1970, is a gem of a pop ballad, and Jackson’s performance is absolutely breath-taking. And do not be fooled either, because this was a risk, and as it turns out, master-stroke from Berry Gordy, and took his Motown disciples to new leagues of possibility in terms of sales and stardom.

And there were others to follow. Standouts include the brilliant “Never Can Say Goodbye”, Jackson's first solo venture with the emotionally-wrenching and beautiful “Got To Be There”, and the Bill Withers cover “Ain’t No Sunshine”, to my mind the funkiest thing Jackson ever did, Seriously, it is brilliant. And these are just the cream of a rich crop. But I was listening to “Never Can Say Goodbye” the other day and it struck me, as I sung along with my own inimitable style, that here is quite an odd phenomenon.

A boy, barely into puberty, singing ballads of great depth and emotion with a conviction that some of the greatest soul singers could never muster. How did he do that, despite surely having never even encountered many of the emotions himself at that stage in his life? I seriously don't know. And then I realised that I can’t think of one other example of an artist who has done this. Not that there have not been child artists to achieve great fame and musical accomplishment, Little Stevie Wonder for one, but to pull off great soul balladeering at such tender years is a phenomenon of sorts, and further evidence of just what a rare talent Jackson was, and perhaps still is. The last questions is moot anyway, but I for one have always thought that these songs are highpoints of an already stellar musical output. And as I say, if you have ever wondered how an already classic song of anguish and love-riddled despair could sound better than it’s brilliant original, then dig out Jackson’s cover of “Ain’t No Sunshine”.

Peep the breakdown at 1min45 and revel in the greatness. Soul music is filled with covers and interpretations, and for me this is one of the essences of the music, the ability to stamp authority on a great piece of work. A great song can make an average singer sound great. A great singer can make an average song great. A great singer can turn a great song into a work of genius. Jackson often had all three.

Motherless Child

If you have come across Willie Mitchell within the annals of soul music it is most probably through his ground-breaking work as writer and producer for Al Green, including his most stellar hits “Tired of Being Alone” and “Let’s Stay Together”. Mitchell was head of his own Hi Records label from 1970 and as well as Green, produced massive hits for the likes of Ann Peebles, Syl Johnson and O.V. Wright, helping to define the Memphis soul sound.

Indeed the sound of Hi Records itself was relatively distinct, with much of the music featuring the hard kick-drum driven sound produced by Booker T and the MG’s own Memphis legend Al Jackson Jr. However, the reason for mentioning Mitchell and I records, as well as the drumming of Mr Jackson Jr, is in order to delve more closely into one of the artists mentioned above, the brilliant and oft-overlooked O.V. Wright. Overton Vertis Wright (what a name to begin with!) was a singer of quite stunning individuality and power, and an artist whose live performances were renowned far and wide for their energy and sheer dynamism.

He, along with the Hi Rhythm section mentioned above, helped to define southern soul, and by rights he could have been up there with stable mate Al Green himself as a revered figure in the soul canon. And yet he died from a heart attack at the tragically early age of 41, his system ravaged by narcotic abuse. His recording career, rising and rising in the early 1970s, also stalled and never recovered following a narcotics-related incarceration in the middle of the decade. However, cuts such as “Ace of Spades”, “A Nickel and a Nail”, “Motherless Child”, “Id Rather Be (Blind, Crippled and Crazy)” and my own favourite “Drowning on Dry Land” remain as testament to his talent, a recognisable style that somehow retains an element of uniqueness that is hard to pin down, but which is definably Wright’s own.

It was Wright who had first recorded “That’s How Strong My Love Is” a song which was then covered, recorded and released by Otis Redding, for whom it became a massive hit. And yet the original, if you can find it, is testament once more to the talent of O.V, even when set up against the supremely gifted Otis. It is Wright also that you hear on Ghostface Killah’s “Motherless Child” from his “Ironman” set, or on “Be A Man” from Rza’s “Bobby Digital” album. Indeed it would appear that O.V. Wright, and other Hi Records acts, provide something of a rich seam of sample material for the Wu beat master, if a study of their sample list is anything to go by. And as you listen to O.V. Wright in particular there is certainly something of the dark and slightly macabre world of the WU in his music, and a sense of melancholic too amongst the soul.

And that is about all I know about O.V. Wright, but am trying to discover more. But in the meantime there is always the music, such sweet soul music, and a singer who seemed to feel every note and every lyric down to his core, the way it should be. O.V Wright is a legend without a legacy, a true great of soul without a plaque to mark it. But now that you know, you know. He deserves his place up at the very top table.

Deserves an Encore

I have stated before on A Story To Tell that there are certain songs which are simply guaranteed to knock me stone cold off my feet on every listen. And right towards the top of the pile is an absolute classic, and a song that while relatively well known amongst aficionados of soul, funk and disco, rarely seems to get the airing onto dance floor speakers that it truly deserves. The record in question is Cheryl Lynn’s dreamily beautiful disco cut “Encore”, released in 1983, and taken from the surprisingly under-rated “Preppie” album. Forget the fact that Cheryl Lynn possesses a voice of exceptional range and depth, and that she is one of the most slept on female soul singers out there.

Forget that she is also responsible for the incredibly massive “Got To Be Real”, the impeccable 1979 record that is undeniably one of disco’s defining moments, and the eponymous debut long player from which this is taken is itself a hidden classic album. Forget that she was first catapulted to success through NBC’s dreadful talent contest The Gong Show, becoming the first and arguably the finest talent to emerge from a TV talent quest and go on to commercial and critical success, including the more recent glut of wannabes and idols (with their different league marketing power). Forget even that she is also responsible for the best cover of a classic Marvin Gaye/Tammi Terrell duet out there, teaming up with Luther himself for a 1982 version of “If This World Were Mine” that almost topples the sublime original.

None of these matter at present however, because the real thing to focus on here is the brilliance of “Encore”, and to revel in its perfect combination of vocal prowess and faultless production. For twisting the boards on this particular masterpiece are none other than Jam and Lewis, evidently taking a quick break from redefining cool pop funk with The Time. Lynn’s sweeping, smooth and soulful lyrics soar and drive the track along, while the production provides the brilliantly timed echoes of the chorus, and the rousing crowd cheers and understated bass brilliance. And the message of the song compliments the whole perfectly, with a celebration of a love so good it deserves and encore, a celebration which simply bursts from the speakers and presents the listener with a dose of free euphoria. “Encore” is one of those tracks that always sound fresh, always sounds good, and is always a welcome addition to a night (or day for that matter).

Cheryl Lynn is an artist well worthy of closer inspection, and as I say “Preppie” which features “Encore” as opener is a surprisingly charming slice of early 80s pop soul, while her debut is just brilliant. In fact why not start with the latter and then reward yourself with the former as an encore, a perfect night in or out.