This is the first project, in my 30-year career, that I have devoted to the music of someone else. It grew out of “Sitting by the Window,” a homage to Curtis Mayfield that I wrote for my band In Order To Survive. The current project develops this inspiration while trying to call upon the spirit in which Curtis Mayfield wrote his songs. We are trying to let that spirit find its voice today through musicians who not only know Mayfield’s songs, but more importantly, know themselves. They are familiar with the language of a music that includes Curtis Mayfield as well as Sun Ra.
I grew up listening to Smokey Robinson, The Temptations, Martha and The Vandellas, Gladys Knight and The Pips, and Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions. In my mind, their music was not separate from Marian Anderson, Count Basie, Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster, Don Byas, Sarah Vaughn, Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, Cecil Taylor, Bill Dixon, and Louis Armstrong. All this music is part of an African American tradition that comes out of the blues. The roots of the jazz known as avant-garde are also in the blues, the field holler, and the church. Avoiding artificial separations is the key to understanding the true nature of the music. All these artists ultimately speak using this reservoir of sounds and colors that we can use to paint our own music.
The music that passed through the life and work of Curtis Mayfield cannot be duplicated. The question becomes, how can it then continue? I also ask myself this question in connection to Duke Ellington or Thelonious Monk. It always seemed to me that when Ellington died, the music physically died with him. We were left orphaned, with just the recorded part of his work and all these notes on paper, but that is not the reality. Once you realize this truth, you can find a different way to proceed to re-create the songs. Paradoxically, you can only find a way to play the music by initially affirming that it cannot be done. Let us imagine the Creator: part of his voice was expressed through Duke Ellington, a part through Albert Ayler, another part through Curtis Mayfield. The method doesn’t consist in following or imitating anyone’s style; the method consists of plunging into the Tone World, which is the source of all music. You can’t counterfeit a music. One can only collect strands and begin to weave a new tapestry out of them.
Curtis Mayfield was a prophet, a preacher, a revolutionary, a humanist, and a griot. He took the music to its most essential level in the America of his day. If you had ears to hear, you knew that Curtis was a man with a positive message—a message that was going to help you to survive. He was in the foreground, always in the breach, both soft and powerful at the same time. For these reasons, his music still resounds in my heart.
—Jerry Wexler, Solomon Burke’s producer at Atlantic Records (also produced Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett, etal.)
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Every day I’m on the phone ministering to people. I’ve had so many people say to me, “What should I believe in?” I tell ’em, “Just believe in what’s real and makes you feel good. Whatever moves you, go there.”
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Every day they had a service [at my grandmother’s House of Prayer for All People], and the music never stopped. There was always a band with two or three trombones, tambourines, cymbals, guitars, pianos. When I speak of music, I get choked up. It was a message to God, something you feel down to your bones and your soul and your heart.
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I’ve learned to forgive Jerry [Wexler] . . . I’m also waiting for my check.
My mom was a woman who went to church two or three times a week. . . . We had gospel music in the house, and we lived in a black neighborhood, so gospel music is prevalent. I knew Aretha Franklin when I was growing up, and her father was one of the biggest ministers in the country.
Donny Hathaway died in 1979 at the age of 33. He was a casualty of mental illness. Afflicted with severe chronic depression and ultimately diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, he leapt to his death out of a New York City hotel room.
To see him there in the studio at about 21 years old, directing all these real big session guys like he’d been doing it for years, was a tremendous sight to see. But he always believed in himself. He always believed in his talent. He wasn’t conceited about it, but he knew he could do anything these guys could do and almost certainly better. I’d have loved to sign him as artist, but it wasn’t to be.
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Bassist Christian McBride on Donny Hathaway:
You can tell that he listened to Stravinsky. He listened to Debussy. He was a musician who was the full 360-degree circle.
John Legend & The Roots, live (recording studio), 2010
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Baby Huey & the Babysitters, 1971 (The Baby Huey Story: The Living Legend, produced by Curtis Mayfield and released, posthumously [the singer died, at 26, in 1970], on Curtom Records)
I must have seen Baby Huey & the Babysitters at least a half-dozen times. In the late ’60s they played the Chicago area teen clubs. Tight rhythm section, punchy horns, soulful vocals—what could be, at 16, a finer date?
Yesterday he sang gospel; today he sings soul music.
O.V. Wright
“I Feel Alright,” live, Memphis, 1975
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“I’d Rather Be Blind, Crippled, And Crazy” (Back Beat Records, 1973)
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“Drowning On Dry Land” (Back Beat Records, 1973)
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“A Nickel And A Nail” (Back Beat Records, 1975)
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lagniappe
Soul is church. Just changing ‘Jesus’ to ‘baby.’ That’s all it is.
—O.V. Wright
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Somehow, someway, O.V. Wright continues to be a mystery. Though he spent his entire life in Memphis, recorded with [producer] Willie Mitchell and was a contemporary of everyone from Otis Redding to Al Green, Wright remains a largely unheralded figure.
Hardcore soul enthusiasts and R&B historians have consistently ranked him among the most evocative and powerful singers of all time, yet his troubled life and tragically early death at the age of 41 in 1980 have consigned him to the margins of music history.
“I remember Willie Mitchell saying, after we lost O.V. — and I never will forget this — Willie said he was the greatest singer that was ever on the planet,” recalls drummer Howard Grimes.
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Wright was revered by his peers, including a young Al Green. “Al used to come in and try and listen to O.V. record,” recalls Willie Mitchell, laughing. “And O.V. would see him and say, ‘Al, what you doing here? Get out of my session!'”
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“He just had more church in him,” says Howard Grimes. “That’s what touched people.”
[Otis] Clay recalls being in the audience when Wright turned a Miami nightclub into a revival meeting. “Man, he whipped that audience into a frenzy like I’ve never seen,” says Clay. “You would’ve thought he was a preacher passing out blessings. He’d say, ‘If you love the blues, come up and shake my hand.’ And, man, people lined up, just like they would in church. That was typical O.V.”