Shining stars: Black musicians in their own words / by Lou Papineau

Every February, The Current honors Black History Month, spotlighting artists whose voices and songs changed the world, throughout the decades and across genres. This is the third of four essays delving into a rich, enduring and ever-evolving body of work.

In this installment, we've done a very deep dive into autobiographies and memoirs by jazz, blues, R&B, soul, and hip-hop icons, collecting a compendium of origin stories, "aha!" moments, philosophical musings and life lessons.

Music began with man, primitive man, trying to duplicate Nature's sounds — winds, birds, animals, water, the crescendo of fire — after which great systems of learning were set up, only to discover that music is limitless. The more you learn, the more you want to learn. And the more you hear it, the more you want to hear it…

Music to me is a sound sensation, assimilation, anticipation, adulation, and reputation. It takes me to new places and experiences. It brings me invitations to the most interesting occasions in North and South America, in Europe, Africa, Asia, and Australia. I get to smell things in India I couldn't smell anywhere else. I get a compelling urge from the cuica in Brazil. I see a flying saucer in Phoenix; a moonbow in Reno; snow and fog together in Toronto; snow and lightning accompanied by thunder in Chicago; four rainbows at once in Stockholm; and at precisely the hour and minute one year after Billy Strayhorn's demise, a celebration in the sky — a cloudburst on the New Jersey Turnpike like a testimonial to grief in the heavens…

Music is thus a key to great rewards in terms of experience. But when someone has to be told that he should study or specialize in music for the purpose of making a career — then I think more harm than good is done. Anyone who loves to make music knows that study is necessary. There are periods when music is a lucrative pursuit, but if money is the only reason for participating in it, then money can be more of a distraction than anything else. And I think this is true of every art form. Music — love it or leave it!

I had never really had time to listen to music, because I was always working — in the studio, on the road, nonstop. Ike [Turner] had almost made me hate music, because that's all there was with him: "Let's go buy records," "Let's jam," "Let's write a song." Always music, music, music, and nothing else. Well, we were in Seattle one day [in 1969], and he took me into this record shop, and that's where I first heard "Come Together." I said, "Oh, what's that?" The guy in the store said it was the Beatles. I truly don't think I had ever really heard them before. But I loved that song. I said to Ike, "Please, please let me do that song onstage." I was begging him. The I heard "Honky Tonk Women," and I just had to do that, too. Well, we had always done covers anyway, so Ike said all right. Then there was "Proud Mary." In the beginning Ike hated the Creedence Clearwater Revival song, but then he heard the version by the Checkmates and took notice. We started working on it in the backseat of the car, and continued to work on it for quite some time before we started to play it onstage.

That was the beginning of me liking rock music. It wasn't like we planned it — "Now we're gonna start doing white rock 'n' roll songs." But those groups were interpreting black music to begin with. They touched on R∓B, in a way, but it wasn't obvious. I mean, it wasn't the old thing. It was "Honky Tonk Women" — wow! I could relate to that.

As a musician and as an artist, I have always wanted to reach as many people as I could through my music. And I have never been ashamed of that. Because I never thought that the music called "jazz" was ever meant to reach just a small group of people, or become a museum thing locked under glass like all other dead things that were once considered artistic. I always thought it should reach as many people as it could, like so-called popular music, and why not? I never was one of those people who thought less was better; the fewer who hear you, the better you are, because what you're doing is just too complex for a lot of people to understand. A lot of jazz musicians say in public that they feel this way, that they would have to compromise their art to reach a whole lot of people. But in secret they want to reach as many people as they can, too. Now, I'm not going to call their names. It's not important. But I always thought that music had no boundaries, no limits to where it could grow and go, no restrictions on its creativity. Good music is good no matter what kind of music it is. And I always hated categories. Always. Never thought it had any place in music.

So I never, ever felt bad because a lot of people were beginning to like what I was doing. I never felt that because the music I was playing was becoming popular that meant that my music was less complex than some that wasn't as popular as mine. Popularity didn't make my music less worthy, or great. In 1955, Columbia [Records] represented for me a doorway my music could go through to reach more listeners, and I went through that door when it opened up and never looked back. All I ever wanted to do was blow my horn and create music and art, communicate what I felt through music.

Signing a contract with Motown represented the beginning of a whole new world for me. When I was singing under the name of Martha LaVaille, my heart's desire was to be as moving as Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, J.P. Morgan, Morgana King, and Carmen McRae. I had always wanted to be a jazz singer.

Momma had loved Billie Holiday's music so much when she was growing up that she wore camellias in her hair like her singing idol. She encouraged me as a child to pursue my dreams. "Never sing a song unless you mean it from your heart," she would tell me.

I always tried to put all of my emotions into my songs when I was starting out in the talent contests around Detroit. I took that same advice when I began recording at Motown. I wanted songs that I could believe in and put my heart into. For the most part, that was exactly what I would be given…

The amazing thing for me was the speed with which I went from being a secretary in the A&R department to a recording artist — all within the same company. As a secretary at this bustling record company, a typical day might begin with plans for upcoming recording sessions and might end up with providing hand claps and singing background vocals on someone's new hit record. There was never a dull moment at Motown, because one or more of the many writer/producer/singers were there till all hours. There were 15 or more on staff — all enterprising hopefuls, playing the piano, making out schedule sheets, and going through the creative process that goes into making music. Although I reported for duty as a secretary promptly every morning, I definitely felt more like a singer than I had at City Wide Cleaners! Now, from an artist's standpoint, Motown was much more than just an office to come to. It became even more of an exciting place where magic was created.

On some Saturdays, before the action got going at the Jones Night Spot, I'd find a corner off Church Street, sit on the curb, take out my guitar, and play some gospel songs, accompanying myself while singing "Old Rugged Cross" or "Working On the Building" or "I Know the Lord Will Make a Way." I'm looking for a way to draw attention and maybe make a little money. I'm singing with feeling and strumming with conviction. I don't stutter when I sing, so singing is easier than speaking. If people pass by without noticing me, I'll sing or strum a little louder, raise my voice a little higher, hoping someone will stop. A man does. He's dressed nice and clean and listens for a short while. He likes what he hears and hums along. This is going good, I'm feeling good, the song's flowing out of me, and the man is smiling and feeling the spirit. When I'm through, he's pleased. "Praise the Lord," he says. "Praise the Lord," I repeat, looking to see what he'll do next. "You can sing, son," he adds. "Thank you, sir," I say. "Well, keep up the good work," he tells me before patting me on the shoulder and strolling off. No tip.

I keep up the good work. I sing other hymns and spirituals and gospel tunes for other passersby — men, women, blacks, whites. Several folks seem to like me. But, like the first man, their tips take the form of praise. They say my voice is good or my guitar is sweet, but nothing comes out of their pockets. I appreciate their sentiment, but I'm looking for more than goodwill. Then I have this idea.

Change my attitude. Make a slight move from the sanctified to the secular. I strum a little blues I heard Sonny Boy [Williamson] playing last Saturday night at the Jones Night Spot,. I remember half the words and make up the other half. Something about my baby done left me and I'm feeling down; yes, she done left me and I'm feeling down; Lord knows, this here is a mighty lonesome town. Then I start singing how when she loved me, she loved me good; say, when she loved me, the woman loved me good; but now I'm the laughingstock all 'round my neighborhood. Thing about blues is that blues are simple. You sing one line; you repeat the line; and then rhyme your third line with the first two. They call it the 12-bar blues 'cause each of those lines is four bars. That's it. In that basic form, though, you can cram a lifetime of stories 'bout the woes and wonders of earthly love. Everything fits into the blues.

"Sing those blues, son," says the same man who earlier praised my gospel song. It's later in the afternoon, but I'm the same and he's the same; only difference is that "my Lord" has turned into "my baby." When I'm through with my blues, he's smiling like he was before, he's patting me on the shoulder, but — and this is one hell of a big "but" — he's reaching in his pocket and looking for change. "Keep singing, son," he says as he slips me a dime.

That was my first lesson in marketing. I saw something about the relationship between money and music that I'm still seeing today. Real-life songs, where you can feel the hurt and heat between man and woman, have cash value. I took note. I started coming to town every Saturday and spent my afternoons on that curb, singing as many blues as I could remember — and making up the rest. From 1 p.m. to 9 that night, I might make $10 or even more. Confidence made me a better singer, and people tipped bigger when I sang with more conviction. Before long, I might walk that eight miles home with the loud jingle of heavy coins in my pocket. I was astounded, delighted, and determined to keep it up.

I take this business of soul music seriously; a song, like a person, must have a soul … Soul music is cultural, and it should forever be enshrined as one of the world's greatest forms of music. It is a people, a nation, and it is the rhythm of our lives and loves and losses and wins, our hopes and dreams and passions on parade. Like jazz and gospel, it is a musical strain that will live forever because it is born out of real emotions and people's experiences. R&B isn't a fad; it's the truth … No matter how far I may venture into other genres, my heart remains in soul and the soul of my people.

Blending records.

Mixing them.

Cutting the beats together in exact syncopation and planning out my DJ sets like a chess game. These were the next steps to my progression as a DJ…

I knew I wanted a continuous groove, One made up of all these reorganized pieces of songs I'd found.

Had to get 'em in unison.

"I have to extend time."…

Using two copies of the same record — one to play and one to cue up while the other was playing — was the easy part … The hard part was playing them right on time. Playing them right exactly on the one…

I could spot the part of the drumbeat I wanted just by looking at where it was on the record. If I held it up to the light, I saw rings. The shiniest rings were where the fewest musicians were playing. I knew this just by watching the needle travel through the groove…

It was also where I knew to put the needle down — now I knew roughly where the drumbeat was … I tried counting out the beats, but that didn't work. I tried starting the second turntable in the right place, but I always got it wrong.

I tried everything…

Finally, I found a way to start the first record with my hand physically on the vinyl itself. The platter would turn but the music wouldn't play because the needle wouldn't be traveling through the groove. However, when I took my hand off the record…

BAM!

The music started right where I wanted it.

It was that simple, but I had just made my first discovery…

I finally had a way to control one record, now I needed a way to control the beats.

What if I could do this with two turntables at once?

It wasn't easy, but I kept winding the second record back and forward until I got it just right and…

BAM!

I threw the fader…

Success!

The beats matched up!

The break played twice without missing a beat!

I COULD DO THIS!!! …

After the thrill was gone, I looked at the facts: It took me three days to play two songs perfectly. To get 10 seconds of music just right.

One cut.

Ten seconds of music.

Six times a minute … Sixty minutes an hour…

Times 10 hours.

I would have to do that 3600 times to fill an all-day park jam with music the way I wanted to play it. For all the hassle it had been to get that one cut, it seemed impossible.

But I knew it could be done.

In some ways, rap was the ideal way for me to make sense of a life that was doubled, split into contradictory halves. This is one of the most powerful aspects of hip-hop as it evolved over the years. Rap is built to handle contradictions. To this day people look at me and assume that I must not be serious on some level, that I must be playing some kind of joke on the world: How can he be rapping about selling drugs on one album and then get on Oprah talking about making lemon pies the next day? How can he say that police were al-Qaeda to black men on one album and then do a benefit concert for the police who died on 9/11 to launch another? How can a song about the election of a black president and the dreams of Martin Luther King have a chorus about the color of his Maybach? … How can he do both unless he's some kind of hypocrite?

But this is one of the things that makes rap at its best so human. It doesn't force you to pretend to be only one thing or another, to be a saint or sinner. It recognizes that you can be true to yourself and still have unexpected dimensions and opposing ideas. Having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other is the most common thing in the world. The real bulls**t is when you act like you don't have contradictions inside you, that you're so dull and unimaginative that your mind never changes or wanders into strange, unexpected places.

Part of how contradictions are reconciled in rap comes from the nature of the music. I've rapped over bhangra, electronica, soul samples, classic rock, alternative rock, indie rock, the blues, doo-wop, bolero, jazz, Afrobeat, gypsy ballads, Luciano Pavarotti, and the theme song of a Broadway musical. That's hip-hop: Anything can work — there are no laws, no rules. Hip-hop created a space where all kinds of music could meet, without contradiction.

I was there when they premiered the Sugarhill Gang's "Rapper's Delight" on WDAS, 105.3 on your FM dial. I was at home with my sister, and the two of us stared at the radio the whole time it was happening; it was our equivalent of the old radio drama War of the Worlds. All the black kids in Philadelphia who were listening to the radio that day have the same story. It stopped us in our tracks. I was paralyzed. It was like we had all been struck by lightning. I remember thinking about whether I had time to go downstairs to get the tape recorder, or should I just let the song run? I ran calculations in my head. It sounded like it might go on for another five or six minutes. I went for the tape. I got it into the machine just as Wonder Mike starts his story about his dinner: "Have you ever went over to a friend's house to eat and the food just ain't so good? / I mean the macaroni's soggy, the peas are mushed, and the chicken tastes like wood." I must have listened to that tape 30 times that night. The next day in school I was a hero. I could to the whole thing. Three kids had heard the song, and they couldn't believe what I was doing. Within a week everyone had heard "Rapper's Delight," and the world was different forever … If it was a new birth for music, it was also a new birth for me. I found my identity through hip-hop. It made me popular, and immediately I started buying it.

Whenever people ask me how to learn to improvise, I tell them: Find a player you like, and then copy what he or she is doing. That analytical, mechanical approach will enable you to learn the basics, but then the trick will be to figure out how not to get stuck in copying. You have to start creating your own lines, to find your own voice…

Improvisation — truly being in the moment — means exploring what you don't know. It means going into that dark room where you don't recognize things. It means operating on the recall part of your brain, a sort of muscle memory, and allowing your gut to take precedence over your brain. This is something I still work on every day: learning to get out of my own way. It's not easy, but the times when you can do that are truly magical. Improvising is like opening a wonderful box where everything you take out is always new. You'll never get bored, because what that box contains is different every single time.

Jazz is not something you can ever completely master, because it is in the moment, and every moment is unique, demanding that you reach inside yourself. Classical music seemed more cerebral, but jazz was both cerebral and intuitive. It pulled me like a magnet, and I couldn't wait to learn more about it.

After the disco albums, I had decided that I was going to sing in my way, not try and become a conventional pop singer. I had found my voice, and once I started singing along with the heavy bass and machine-gun drums of Sly and Robbie, it was actually an advantage that I had the voice that I did. There was no place for a standard soul or funk voice in that sound. My voice was perfect for it, somewhere between half-speaking and half-singing, between expressing emotion and not expressing anything, between telling a story and remembering a dream…

[For the 1980 album Warm Leatherette, producer] Chris [Blackwell] and his team brought in songs that were unusual pop, or relatively unheard of, or plain unexpected, to suit our new approach. Nothing that was as obvious as the show tunes, perhaps, but in many ways, new forms of show tunes. New-wave show tunes, Iggy Pop as the new Frank Sinatra, ones emerging out of the new kind of songwriting that there was because of glam, punk, new wave, electro, reggae, post-punk…

When I sing a song I need to get into character, because it is all theater for me. I have to believe in them and see them in my world, where I am, and where I'm going … I never listened more than once to those tracks we chose. I knew as soon as I hear it if it is going to work and reflect my own particular philosophy, and then I leave the original behind. You can feel insecure that you are not doing it the right way if you are too aware of the original. I wanted to drag it off into my territory without worrying I was not being faithful … I have to find my voice. Make it my song. Take it from Chrissie Hynde ["Private Life"], Bryan Ferry ["Love Is the Drug"], Smokey Robinson ["The Hunter Gets Captured By the Game"] into my place, where the view is completely different.

In 1975 I was feeling sanctified and bold. I was examining the black man in me, the universal man. I wanted to articulate who I was becoming in my music. Our philosophical way of composing continued, with some good results. The song "That's the Way of the World" started as a basic track given to me by [producer/songwriter] Charles [Stepney]. His melancholy yet hopeful chord changes set the tone. [Bassist] Verdine [White] and I wrote the lyrics that spoke about staying true to yourself and remaining young at heart...It is truly the Creator's gift when something comes just when it's needed. Earth, Wind & Fire needed the song "That's the Way of the World" … And Americans needed to hear it. By 1975, Watergate had been dropped on our doorstep. We as a nation were finally coming to grips with the whole Vietnam experience. Our government had been dead wrong to get involved in the war, and it had been totally discredited. Its disgrace fostered the view that institutions could never be trusted implicitly. In fact, my stepdad, Verdine Sr., crystallized this to me. I went through my ritual of mailing him and Mother Dear an advance copy of our album. When I saw him soon thereafter, he said in a very fatherly tone, "Son, that song, 'That's the Way of the World,' is your national anthem."

It is our national anthem because 'to sing our message loud and clear' meant that Earth, Wind & Fire had, I believe a divine assignment. We were telling the world's people not to waver in their hope, not to waver in their heart's desire, no matter how crazy and out of control the world seemed around them. The world will tell you that nothing ever changes, that you're a fool to have hope — but it's each human being's divine right to hold on to hope and faith. I believe this was the ultimate message the band was created to give.

Only thing better than watching Mother [and] Father getting dressed up 4 a night on the town was watching them leave.

That's where the Imagined Life began. A place where [I] could pretend dress-up & enter a fantasy of my own direction. A different storyline every time, but always with similar outcomes — [I] am always sharp & [I] always get the girl. In my fantasy world, [I] always live far away from the public at large, usually on a mountain, sometimes a cloud, & even in an underwater cave. (How that was accomplished was never divulged but somehow it worked out.)

Superpowers — optional but always with secret flying abilities 2 enter & exit a location anytime [I] chose.

These r the necessary tools 4 a vibrant imagination & the main ingredients of a good song.