The Holy Land Part Four: Julius Bradley

This is a chronicle of what it's like to become a blues singer at the not-so-tender age of 40-something. To read the story in chronological order, please use the links in the right sidebar.

Interlude: It's been all too long since I updated this blog, I know. I was never good at regular or even semi-regular posting. But in the middle of telling my Memphis story, a lot happened that saddened my heart so much that I couldn't find the words to write about Julius Bradley and Willie Mitchell.

See, Julius became ill with a brain tumor and was hospitalized for surgery. After the tumor was removed, he couldn't speak. But worse, he couldn't tolerate the sound of music at all. Hearing that just hurt my heart. Sylvester was beside himself with worry and that also hurt my heart. Then Mr. Mitchell's house was rendered unlivable after a kitchen fire. So he moved into the most logical place for him to be: Royal Studio. While living at Royal, Mr. Mitchell fell and broke his hip. He had already broken his ankle shortly after receiving his Grammy and it was full of pins and bolts. (I saw the X-ray!) His ankle, because he has diabetes, was not fully healed when he went in for hip surgery. After more complications for Julius and more trial and tribulation for my brother in soul, Sylvester, I found myself without the will or courage to go on with the story. Until now.

Why now? I'm running fund-raising campaign to make my first CD. Basically, it's a pre-order scenario with some other goodies thrown in. But it's not to raise funds that I've decided to go on with my story. Sylvester and I have continued to speak about once a week on the phone and he asked me to send him the ad. When he saw the title of the album, "Undefeated," he said it inspired him. "Undefeated!" he cried over a warbly cell phone connection. "Undefeated! U-hmmm...that's all of us." he said. "You gave me the courage to get up and get back to work on this music. All of us, you, me, Red...we got to be undefeated!" So, I'm going to be true to the title of my first CD and not succumb to defeat. I'm going to continue on with the story and share with you how all these events way out in Memphis have affected my effort to make a record.

The ringing of the hotel telephone woke me early the morning after I sang among the din and flair of TGI Friday's. It was Sylvester. He was at Julius Bradley's home and he wanted me to come over to sing for them. But they only had about an hour to work with me. Since I had just woken up, my voice wouldn't be ready for a couple of hours. Plus, I had a head and throat full of sand from the previous evening's tequila and cigarette experience. Sylvester declared that the timing was bad and rescheduled us for Sunday. And then I realized: it was the first morning since the breakup that I hadn't woken up crying. It was a strange mixture of emotions. I was both elated and still hurting. But for the first time since early October, I started to believe I might survive just one more heartache.

Without tears, I showered, dressed and went out into the cold streets of Memphis in search of a hole-in-the-wall breakfast joint. I was truly hungry and I wanted some down home authentic cooking complete with greasy potatoes, biscuits and some kind of melted cheese and egg concoction. I was shoveling a fluffy three-egg omelet into my mouth when Sylvester called again. He wanted to arrange for Julius and I to sit together at the O.V. Wright Memorial Concert that night. I promised to arrive early to ensure that we would be tablemates at the show. On tap for the day was the Goldwax Rendezvous and a private tour of the Stax Museum.

Back at the hotel, I ran into the group of musicians from Columbia, MO that I'd met the previous day at Royal. We sat around chatting about the upcoming luncheon at the world famous Rendezvous rib joint. We were to meet up with Roosevelt Jamison and Quentin Claunch. Not only did Claunch serve as guitarist on many Sun Studio recordings, he was a partner in the Goldwax record label. With so many hits to his credit, among them sides by James Carr and O.V. Wright, we were all excited to meet the 88-year old funky gospel pioneer. Later that afternoon, we walked to the alley where the Rendezvous is located together, talking about music and where we came from, why were were there. It was a common theme of conversation among the group of attendees. Everyone was curious about why their fellow O.V. admirers had come to Memphis. Looking back, it does seem a bit extreme that we came from all over the world to lay a headstone on the grave of a long-dead soul singer that most people have never heard of.

Though Mr. Claunch was unable to make it to the luncheon, Mr. Jamison and his lovely wife Linda joined about 14 of us at a long table where the cross talk was as interesting as the conversations I was involved in. I heard snippets of concert reviews, loving descriptions of prized vintage vinyl collections and debates as to whether the musicians credited on a record's liner notes actually played on those records or if there had been errors identifying the musicians. The latter intrigued me greatly. I have an O.V Wright CD on which the drummer is identified as Al Jackson Jr. But it was released on Hi. And I had always believed with certainty that Howard Grimes, one of my favorite drummers of all time, had played on all of O.V.'s Hi recordings. Here we are at our very long table of music lovers. (Or rather, here they are. My chair is unoccupied as I was taking the picture.) The young man in the foreground is Chase Thompson. Remember Chase because he became an important part of my pilgrimage to Memphis.
The group at the near end of the table ended up in an interesting conversation about inaccuracies in liner notes, whether or not we could hear that the musicians had been misidentified and how the very idea of liner notes has become archaic in the era of digital music delivery. It was one of the liveliest conversations of my adult life. I've never had so much in common with a group of complete strangers! Here's a long shot and a photo of the lovely, kind and hospitable Jamisons.

Next up was our private tour of the Stax Museum. I hate to say it, but I was disappointed after having visited Royal. The original building was demolished years ago. It was rebuilt and on the outside, it's faithful to the old familiar Stax building, but it lacks the soul of Royal. All the ghosts are gone. I saw a lot of amazing memorabilia at the museum, including Isaac Hayes' old Cadillac (complete with shag carpeting) and pristine copies of albums that I still own. Of course, mine are tattered and worn from years of handling and play. Though I didn't feel the history like I did at Royal, I do appreciate what those folks are doing to ensure the music of "Soulsville USA" is never forgotten. We were asked not to take pictures inside. Though temptation was very great with my camera hanging right there on my wrist and no staff to enforce the rule, I refrained. Here's the outside of the new building:

We stayed too long at the museum and before I knew it Sylvester was calling to ask when I would arrive at the Ground Zero Blues Club for the show. It was early yet, but people were starting to arrive and Sylvester was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold a table for me and Julius. I told him I'd be there as soon as I could. I piled into the van with Chase and the rest of his group and we rushed back to the hotel where I took the fastest shower of my life, changed clothes and headed out for the club on foot in the frigid Memphis wind. By the time I got there, I was chilled to the bone, not having a decent coat and all. As luck would have it, Sylvester had managed to save a table right up front.

"You are frozen through, child!" Sylvester said as he embraced me. I was, but I didn't care. I was about to meet Julius Bradley and see the legendary Hi Rhythm Section with Howard Grimes. I was warmed by excitement and anticipation. When Julius arrived, Sylvester made introductions and then ran off to help Red with various details that had to be taken care of before the show could start.

Julius is a thoughtful man who speaks in quiet tones. But you can't let his soft-spoken nature fool you. His every sentence is packed with meaning, whether he's asking you a question or imparting a piece of wisdom. He talked about Sylvester's review of my singing from the previous night. I was embarrassed. Here I am sitting with the man who had composed for Al Green, Otis Clay and Lynn White among others, and had released his own gospel record, "He Is Coming Back." And we're talking about my voice? The waitress interrupted us to get our food order, which gave me a chance to collect myself slightly. When she had gone, we sat quietly for what seemed like a long while. Finally, Julius began to question me.

"What kind of music do you want to sing?" he asked.

"Blues, soul," I said and then added, "I do a little bit of jazz, too."

"What if your voice is better for country music? I hear some country in there."

"I sing a little country, but my heart isn't in those songs. Not really."

"What kind of song do you want to sing?"

"I want to sing something that makes me feel something," I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, took a sip of his water and surveyed the room. I fidgeted. Finally, he looked directly in my eyes and said, "I want you to sing something that makes me feel something."

Without considering my answer, I said, "If I don't feel anything, you sure as hell ain't gonna feel anything."

As a smile played around his mouth, I immediately regretted not thinking through my response. And using profanity while talking to him.

His grin widened and he nodded, "You're right about that."

I felt as if I had passed a test.

Sylvester rejoined us and asked Julius what time we could meet the next day. But as it turned out, Julius would have to be at his church all day so we wouldn't have time to get together. I told him it was okay. I told him I would be coming back to Memphis. And I meant it. That was when Sylvester nonchalantly announced that I would be recording with them at Royal Studios when I returned. We were sitting at a high cafe table and I was suddenly glad the stool had a back on it. I would have fallen over backwards and hit my head on the concrete floor! Before I could question him about his assumption that Mr. Mitchell would even want to record me, our food arrived. Someone snapped this picture of us as my head was spinning:

L-R: Sylvester Sartor Jr., Me & Julius Bradley

The concert started as members of the Royal Studios family started to arrive. Mr. Mitchell would not be able to attend because his foot was giving him too much trouble. His granddaughter Ana became one of my favorite people while I was there. She's warm and kind and funny. I was cold; she gave me her fur coat to huddle under. She wanted to come to Florida; I told her to come on! (With all the pictures I took, it's hard to believe I never got one of Ana and me.)

I'll leave this post with select photos from the concert, which was simply amazing. Sure the guys were a bit rusty after not having played together for decades, but after only three rehearsals, they got up on that stage in front of a full house and paid tribute to O.V. And that's all that mattered.

Charles Hodges, Teenie Hodges (in the background) & Otis Clay

O.V. Wright Jr. singing his dad's music. A gathering of every musician in the house to sing some gospel for O.V.

"The Kids" as Sylvester and I started calling them from Columbia, MO

Photo ops with Howard Grimes and Otis Clay

Thanks to the efforts of Red Kelly and others, a comprehensive photo album of the events, the concert and the memorial service can be found at the O.V. Wright Memorial web site.

Believe it or not, there is more to my Memphis story, so once again...

...to be continued...

The Holy Land, Part Three: Lessons from Memphis

This is a chronicle of what it's like to become a blues singer at the not-so-tender age of 40-something. To read the story in chronological order, please use the links in the right sidebar.

There are nights where I wonder why I sing at all. I've had a few of those lately. I've felt like quitting about a half dozen times since my last blog entry. The reasons aren't really important. Call it a crisis of confidence. A crisis of calling, maybe. I would probably quit now if I didn't have so many good people behind me, in fact, counting on me. So, I thought I'd remind myself why I'm doing this by continuing on with the story of Memphis.

After the tour of Royal Studio, I got in Sylvester's car and immediately broke his cell phone holder. He said it was already broken, but I have a feeling he was just being nice. Anyway, I was slightly nervous. I didn't know much about Sylvester then, but I knew he was part of the Royal family and being in his presence sort of unnerved me. He lit a cigarette and said, "There was a different energy in that studio today."

"People are excited to be here. It's all for O.V." I said.

"That's how strong our love is," he smiled.

"Yeah," I smiled back. "I know I was feeling it." Especially in that booth, I thought.

He took his eyes off the road and took me in for a moment. "U-hmm," he said.

I fidgeted. I tried to keep my hands and feet where they wouldn't do any more damage to his car. I think Sylvester sensed my discomfort because he started firing questions at me so fast I didn't have time to be nervous. "So, where did you come from? What's your background? How do you know about O.V.?"

I gave him the story. In Memphis from Florida. Dad's music. O.V.'s music and how it's always been there for me. Other soul singers I admire and respect. He asked if I sang or played. I told him I just started singing, trying to downplay it. Here I was, a rookie singer in the cradle of the Blues. I felt like an impostor.

I changed the subject, asking about his connection with Mr. Mitchell and the studio. Turns out he's a producer. The artists he works with all record at Royal. He had recently recorded the first cousin of a very famous R&B singer who comes from a long line of gifted singers, but this cousin loved other activities more than the music. Tens of thousands of dollars had gone up in smoke. But he took it in stride. He told me he had just finished recording a Romanian woman's first album. She had traveled across the globe to record at Royal. It was a romance album. He said it was the kind of record two people put on when they light the candles and open a special bottle of wine. His description of her love songs made me sad beyond words. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

Back at the hotel, we sat on a bench outside the lobby, waiting for the others. The group was supposed to get together in the hotel bar, a TGI Friday's. I'm not crazy about restaurant chains, but I was almost hungry, which was unusual because I hadn't eaten much of anything since the break-up. It was about six weeks between Mike and Memphis and I'd already lost eight pounds. I know it flies in the face of the stereotypical jilted woman, but I just can't eat when I'm upset. So, I hadn't eaten a thing all day and I was in need (if not want) of food. Plus, after everything I felt and was still feeling - I wanted a drink. A strong, strong drink.

Sylvester went inside to see if Red had used the restaurant's street entrance instead of going through the lobby. I waited outside. My thin leather jacket was no match for the chilly Memphis wind, but I didn't care. The cold felt good, and it seemed like my shivering was helping bring me out of my dreamlike state. I sent a text message to Andrew:

Me: That was a RELIGIOUS experience.
Andrew: What was?
Me: Royal Studio. Meeting Willie Mitchell.

He didn't text back. He was happy for me, but I know he was also jealous. He had wanted to be in Memphis for O.V. Wright Night so badly, but he couldn't make it. I didn't mean to rub it in, but I had to tell someone. Someone who would understand. Someone who would know what it meant. Someone who understood the meaning of the journey I was on.

I didn't know it yet, but Sylvester would prove to be one of those people.

"I was just texting a friend about the tour," I said, handing him his cigarette back.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I told him it was a religious experience."

"A religious experience," he repeated. "A religious experience. U-hmm." He smoked his cigarette. I lit one, too. "I saw you in the booth," he said.

"I hope it was okay. I just wanted to...to stand there. I didn't touch anything."

Sylvester continued as if he hadn't heard me, "I've done a hundred of these tours, but there was some different energy in that studio today. I thought it might be you. Then I saw you through that glass. It was you."

I didn't know what to say, so I smoked silently.

"So what do you sing, Loretta?" He put the emphasis on the "etta" like Dan sometimes does.

"Blues, mostly. Some deep soul. A few country tunes and a little bit of jazz here and there. Blues is my first love. But I'm not very good."

He raised his eyebrows at me, "You're not?"

"Well, I'm trying. I mean, I don't know...I guess I'm just another white girl singing the blues. I'm no O.V. that's for sure."

"U-hmm," Sylvester said, looking at me. "I wonder if Red's here yet. Doesn't matter. Let's go in. You're freezing in that little Florida jacket of yours. I bet you don't own a decent coat," he smiled as he opened the door for me.

We settled in at a high table in the bar. Other members of the group started to arrive. Sylvester ordered coffee and Jack Daniels. I ordered tequila and a beer and some pasta thing because the picture on the menu looked somewhat appealing. We were drinking to O.V. and talking about music, what we all did for a living, where we came from and the most interesting topic of all: why we had come. Some of us were just deeply devoted to the soul singer's music. For some it was a combination of a chance to get away from it all and go to a great concert. I told them that for me it was musical pilgrimage. I was also running away from my broken heart, but I kept that part to myself for the moment.

Sylvester listened, occasionally injecting anecdotes from the annals of Memphis soul history. Suddenly he said, "Loretta, sing something for me. I want to hear that voice."

"Here?" The restaurant's speakers blared Artificially Flavored Vanilla Pop Music. The bar was two- and three-deep with people who had just finished work or attending one or another convention in the hotel. Some wore suits and skirts or the business casual uniform of khakis and polo shirts. Others wore t-shirts with sports teams or rock bands emblazoned across the chests and backs. With the exception of our table, it was clear this was not a blues crowd. "I can't sing in front of all these people."

"When your band plays, you don't sing in front of people?" Sylvester looked directly into my eyes.

"But the house music...it's too loud. It's a TGI Fridays..."

"U-hmm," Sylvester said. "I want to hear you sing."

Somehow I felt this was important. Like if I didn't sing, I'd miss something vital about Memphis. And I got the feeling Sylvester wouldn't ask me again.

I don't remember consciously choosing "Cry Me A River." I just started singing. (It's a torch song. You can't really call it a blues song, but if it ain't the blues, I don't know what is.) I inhaled, summoned my courage and sang the first line of the last verse. The sound of my own voice surprised me. Not only was I on pitch, my voice was strong, clear, and LOUD. I all but drowned out the house music. People at the bar turned and stared. I felt my face flush. I closed my eyes and kept singing.

Now you say you love me
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river
Cry me a river
I've cried a river over you
I've cried a river over you

After I sang the last note, I opened my eyes. Everyone at the bar was still staring at me. I was sweating. And I don't mean perspiring, I mean I was sweating. After just one verse, I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

Sylvester was nodding his head, his eyes closed. "U-hmm. There's something in this girl that just has to come out," he said, mostly to himself. "Has to come out." And then he changed the subject.

I picked at my food and gulped my tequila. Red made a comment that started a discussion about God. Over the course of my life, I've gone from Believer to Atheist to Agnostic. The latter, I had finally decided, was the only position a reasonable person could take. My heart started to close. But then something in the message, and in Sylvester's Amens, opened me up -- heart and mind. I listened while Red told how he came to understand God differently through his connection with soul, gospel and blues. He talked about the peopled he had interviewed in his travels as Soul Detective. He had come to understand God in his own way. He believed God wanted us to understand in our own way. He talked about how religion has nothing to do with God. (I tossed in my own heartfelt Amen at that.)

I listened while Sylvester talked about how he believed God gave us to music to break down all barriers between people. How music can erase lines between races and smash borders between countries. "God puts the music in your heart," Sylvester said. "God gives us the song we need." Sylvester wasn't talking directly to me, but when he said, "It don't matter to God or Memphis if a black man sings the countriest country music or a white girl sings the hell out of the blues," there was a fine point on it.

I suddenly felt disconnected again. Since I'd arrived in Memphis, I had had several of these moments. It was as if my life was constantly being interrupted like a television show: "We'll be back after these important messages..."

"Will you take me to church on Sunday," I asked Sylvester. I hadn't been inside a church in 30 years. I still have no idea what possessed me to ask.

"Loretta," he said, "I'm going to be your driver while you're in Memphis. If you want me to drive you to church, that's where I'll drive you."

I nodded and pushed my cold food around my plate with a fork. A sip of tequila followed by long drink from the cold beer did nothing to loosen the tightness in my throat. My thoughts chased themselves around in my head. There was a burning pain in my chest. I couldn't get a handle on my feelings. I felt fully exposed, a walking raw nerve.

I guess that's why I didn't hold a thing back when Red asked me why I started singing. I told about my dad and how he'd always wanted me to sing, but had abandoned his family while I was still very young. About my first husband who beat me within an inch of my life before I finally found the courage to leave him. About my second husband who viewed me as a product, who became angry with me for getting older and gaining a few pounds, though he didn't seem to mind spending the money that came with my maturity. About how I had recently let myself believe -- really believe -- in love again. About how I had ended up with my heart battered and bleeding. Again.

When I finished, I was suddenly embarrassed at having told so intimate a story to a table full of strangers.

Then Red said, "You see, all that pain...God had to give you all that pain so you would sing."

I swallowed hard and said nothing.

"U-hmm," Sylvester said, not looking at me.

The waiter brought fresh drinks, breaking the spell. Red and Sylvester launched into stories of what it took to make O.V. Wright Night a reality. It wasn't easy. It was frustrating and scary. The wheels of Memphis turned slowly. It took forever to secure the venue, the discount on the hotel, the musicians. Sometimes they got angry. Sometimes they got so mad, all they could do was laugh. Other times they laughed because they had taken on what seemed a monumental task. They knew there would be no return on investment. Red and Preston would be lucky to make their money back. But you could tell by their voices, their body language and the way they wove the tale, it was also fun and worthwhile. And spiritually fulfilling.

We all laughed with them, congratulating and thanking them for their efforts. The mood was light and friendly as we paid our tabs and discussed where to go and what to do from there. Beale Street was right around the corner, but it was a tourist trap. I had been there the night before and was not impressed. Red knew some good blues clubs, but none within walking distance. We agreed we'd all had a bit too much to drink to be piloting a car around Memphis. Red knew a good vocal band that was playing at the Blues City Cafe on Beale. A tourist trap, but a good band. Problem solved.

Without any preface, Sylvester turned to me and said, "I want you to meet Julius. I see you standing in front of that grand piano in his living room."

I didn't know who Julius was. Red cured my confusion, "Julius Bradley. He's composed for some great singers, including Al Green. Julius is the real thing."

"You need to sing for Julius," Sylvester said. "U-hmmm. I want you to meet Julius."

And meet him, I would.

To be continued...

.............

The Holy Land, Part Two: Royal Studio

It's been pointed out to me that I'm a lousy blogger. It seems to be a good blogger one has to post often or at regular intervals - preferably both. Perhaps a blog wasn't the best way to offer you this story. First, it orders the posts newest to latest, which sort of defeats the purpose of a chronicle. Second, blog readers tend to expect frequent and regular posting. The problem? I don't tend to write unless I know exactly what I want to say and until what I want to say is formed as well as possible in my mind. Then I start to write.

All that said, I will press forward with this blog because I need to write it. And because some people, despite my hit-and-miss performance, are still reading it.

More than six weeks after my return from Memphis, I'm still processing what I learned there. The people I met. The things I heard and saw and felt. I haven't posted since November because I couldn't. I wasn't ready. I wasn't able. I've been working on this entry for weeks.

My Visit To Royal Studio

It's quite possible and even probable that most of you have never heard of Royal Studio. It's possible and even probable that many of you have never heard of Hi Records or the Hi Rhythm section. It's even possible that you've never heard of legendary trumpeter, band leader, engineer and producer Willie Mitchell. It seems less possible that you've never heard of Al Green, who Mitchell signed to Hi in 1969, just a year before the record label's founder, Joe Cuoghi, passed away. Mr. Mitchell co-produced and engineered Al Green's records through his most successful years (1970-76.) As I mentioned, he also produced and/or engineered recordings for Solomon Burke, Ann Peebles, Otis Clay, The Mad Lads, Syl Johnson and of course, the immortal O.V. Wright.
It's an unassuming little building in a pretty bad neighborhood. The taxi driver didn't want to take me there. The conversation went something like this:

"1320 South Lauderdale, please."

"What?"

"1320 South Lauderdale. Royal Studio."

"You sure that's the address?"

"Yeah."

"What it's called again?"

"Royal Studio. It's a recording studio."

"I don't think there's recording studio out there."

"Yes, there is. It's Willie Mitchell's studio."

He turns around and faces me. "That's a bad neighborhood. You sure you got the right address?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"I don't think I should take you," he says. I don't say anything. We look at each other for a few seconds. I start to say I can find another cab when he says, "I 'spose I can always bring you back, right?"

"Right," I say. I'm not nervous. Maybe I should be. I don't know. But I'm not.

"Okay, let's see what's out there," he says. And off we go.

As we get further from downtown Memphis, the neighborhoods are more and more dismal. Bars on the windows. Grafitti everywhere. Men & women loitering and looking hopeless or mean or both. Poverty. Profound poverty. We pass right through The Projects and into increasingly ragged territory.

"I'm not sure you should be out here," the driver says. His eyes dart from the street to the rear-view mirror. Suddenly, the difference in the color of our skin is palpable in the closed taxi. I'm slightly ashamed and I don't know why.

"I'll be alright," I say.

"They call South Lauderdale 'Slaughterdale'", he says, watching me in the mirror.

"They also call it 'Willie Mitchell Boulevard, don't they?" I ask. I'm watching him back.

"I don't know 'bout that."

I don't press the issue. "I'll be okay," I say. I don't know why I want to reassure him, but I do. "I'm meeting a group of people for a tour of the studio. We came from all over the world for this."

"Who'd you say it was that recorded there?" he asks.

"O.V. Wright." I gave him the nutshell version of the whys, hows and whats of O.V. Wright Night.

"Wow, that's somethin', y'all doin' that. What'd he sing?"

"Blues. Soul. Gospel."

"Hmm," he says. "Never heard of him."

"Most people haven't," I say. "I only know of him because my dad loved his music."

"Your dad play?" He asks.

"'Til the day he died," I say. Silence fills the cab for several minutes. I'm looking out the window, sailing through the dire streets in a cocoon of relative luxury. I'm thinking about my own stretches of poverty, both as a child and an adult. I'm thinking about my dad, about the music I love, about my recently and frequently broken heart, about why I'm in Memphis.

"I had to come," I say out loud, not meaning to.

The driver's eyes go up to the rear-view again."Well, I gotta see this," he says, half smiling. "If there's a record studio on Lauderdale, I wanna see it," he says. I give him a half-smile in return and don't say anything.

Finally, we reach 1320.

"I'll be damned," he says and then apologizes.

His apology makes me laugh. He should spend an hour with the crowd of scurvies I hang out with. The language I hear--and sometimes use--could curl the anntennae on a cockroach. I hand him a wad of cash. There's already a group of people (mostly white, I can't help but notice) milling around on the sidewalk.

"How you gettin' back downtown?" he asks.

"I'll probably catch a ride with someone in the group."

"I'm supposed to get off for a while right now," he says. "But you ain't gonna get a cab out here." He scribbles his cell phone number on a card and turns around to pass it over the seat. "If you need a ride, call me. I'll come get you."

"Thanks," I say. I put out my hand. He takes it. We shake hands. He smiles at me. I smile back.

"Don't worry about me," I say.

"I ain't," he says.

I didn't know it yet, but the cab ride wouldn't be the last time I'd come face-to-face with race in Memphis.

I joined the group. Finally, I met Red Kelly and Preston Lauterbach in person. And I met Sylvester Sartor Jr. I introduced you to Red and Preston in the last post. So, who is Sylvester? The short answer is: The Man Who Makes Things Happen. The long answer includes all the things he makes happen, including getting Mr. Mitchell got his long-deserved Grammy. But that's an entirely different story. Sylvester and Mr. Mitchell's grandson, Boo, were our tour guides at Royal.

Before I tell you how it felt to be at Royal, let me show you something:

Sylvester (left, front) waxing poetic on Willie Mitchell's enormous legacy

Red's the guy in the blue jeans taking a picture (left)

Boo, showing us the equipment his grandfather used to record O.V.
(And everyone else)

A couple of close-ups

The organ that was used on Al Green's recordings
Al Green's Microphone
Number Nine
He still uses it
No one else is allowed to

Bare insulation everywhere
Someone actually tried to buy all of it
They believed it to be the secret behind Royal's warm sound

There's nothing fake or fancy about Royal. It's an unremarkable building in a mostly unremarkable location. Not much thought is given to aesthetics anywhere from the front office to the studio space. Mr. Mitchell's great grandchildren run in and out of the rooms, laughing and being shushed by their mother, Anna.

What's remarkable about Royal Studio is what I felt there.

I saw Willie Mitchell as soon as I walked in. It doesn't seem he's changed that much. Yes, he's older. Who isn't? But mostly, he still looks like every bit the Willie Mitchell whose pictures I remember. He greeted us and thanked us for coming. I found his thank you sort of humorous. We were all honored and privileged to be there. He explained he wouldn't be at the concert the next night. He had broken his foot the day after accepting his Grammy and it was giving him trouble.

Mr. Mitchell chatted with us for a while and then we were all formally introduced to Roosevelt Jamison. He wrote one of O.V.'s finest and biggest hits, "That's How Strong Our Love Is."

Roosevelt Jamison & Willie Mitchell

Once the meet and greet was over, we were shown out to the studio. The building is actually an old theater. Mr. Mitchell himself converted it. The studio is made up of small rooms and alcoves surrounding a large open space. One of those small rooms is the vocal booth. When I saw it, my heart caught in my throat. Boo was telling us the story of Al Green's microphone. I peered through the glass. I could picture O.V. Wright--all of them--standing there. Singing.

I trailed the group, listening to Boo and Sylvester, absorbing about half of what I heard. Boo explained how they recorded and mixed O.V. back in the day. People asked questions. Boo or Sylvester provided historical and technological knowledge. My head was spinning. I felt something. I don't know what. Maybe it was all that history. Maybe it was the spirits of the dead--and even the living--lingering in the corners.

It seems strange even to me, but I felt something in there. Something. And whatever it was, it was something more real than a thing you can touch.

The tour ended when a client showed up to record. We had to pass the vocal booth on our way out. There were a lot of people still lingering behind. I asked Red if he thought it would be okay if I went inside the booth. He looked around and told me it was okay, but be to quick about it.

I opened the door and went in. There it was. The spot. Red came in behind me. I stood in the spot. The microphone was right in front of me. Not Al Green's, but the one everyone else uses. Red took a picture with his camera and then with mine. I just stood there, looking at the mic. Looking at the studio beyond the glass. The top of my head was warm. I felt disconnected from my body.

In the vocal booth
What a face!
I thought people looked serene during an out-of-body experience

I stood in the booth, reeling, until Red said we had to go and let Boo get to work. I stumbled out the door and merged into the rest of the group on their way to the door. Everyone was talking excitedly about what they saw, the history, the great records that had been made and were still being made at Royal. It's a very rare occasion that I can't join a conversation about music. But I could barely think, let alone talk. I hung back from the group, looking at little things around the studio. Then I stopped and snapped this picture:

This is one of my favorites because it's sort of ghostly with the flash in place of my face and the Bleeding Heart t-shirt reflected back at me. And the mirror itself is in desperate need of a washing. It's everything Royal. It also mirrors how I was feeling. Like my head was missing and my heart was hanging out all over the place.

Outside in the rain, my senses returned slowly. I introduced myself again to Roosevelt. He gave me a laminated bookmark that his wife had made. It had his picture and his lyrics on it. He thanked me for coming. I thanked him for the same.

Finally, I remembered I'd need a ride. Red was full up. A group of musicians from Columbia, Missouri had a van-they were already taking a couple of extras back, but they might have room. I felt a tug on the sleeve of my leather jacket.

"You can ride with me," Sylvester said.
"Okay," I said.


To be continued...

........................

Memphis: A Trip to The Holy Land

It might seem strange to you that I call Memphis The Holy Land. Particularly if you've ever been there. Seems strange to me, too. When I arrived the most common piece of advice I received was: "watch your purse." Doesn't sound so Holy, does it? As it turns out, that was good advice. I watched my purse, I watched myself. I was careful and cautious, but I was also open and trusting with the right people. Which is why I learned a lot there.

One of the things I learned is that the Holy can be found in the so-called profane. And that I still believe in God. Probably the way I think of God is different than the way many people think of God, but I was touched in Memphis. Musically. Spiritually. Emotionally.

I went to Memphis alone. I thought I would be going there with my boyfriend, but regular readers of this blog know that Fate had another plan for me. I went to pay tribute to the great soul singer Overton Vertis (O.V.) Wright:

It all started when Preston Lauterbach went to O.V. Wright's grave to pay his respects on the anniversary of the little-known soul singer's death. Preston discovered that there was no headstone on the man's grave. Now, if you know Deep Soul, you know who O.V. was. If you think what you hear on R&B stations is soul music, chances are you don't. Even many devotees of Sam Cooke and Al Green and Johnnie Taylor don't know of O.V. Wright. He was (arguably of course) the best soul singer ever to draw a breath on this planet. I know one thing: I always turn to O.V.'s music when I need something to lift me up or make me feel better or help me cry it out or when I just want to hear something real. Something that makes me feel something. (Besides nauseous, which is how most modern music in any genre makes me feel. It's vanilla. Even country music has lost its soul. What they call R&B, Country, Rock - to me it's all just pop music. It all sounds the same. But I digress.)

Songs like "I Don't Know Why," "You're Gonna Make Me Cry," "That's The Way I Feel About 'Cha," "Your Good Thing Is About To End," "Today I Sing The Blues," "Since You Left These Arms Of Mine", "A Nickel and A Nail"--I could go on, but I'd end up listing the entire discography--those songs always make me feel just the way I want to feel at any given time. O.V.'s always raw, sometimes angry, sometimes anguished, sometimes downright tortured, sometimes achingly tender voice supported by the Hi Rhythm Section is, to me, the very epitome of deep soul.

Well, when some like-minded people from all over the world heard that Red Kelly and Preston Lauterbach were organizing an effort to purchase a headstone for O.V., we donated some money to the fund. I gave a few bucks and I figured that was the end of it. A National Treasure would get his headstone and I would have been a part of it. Cool. But no, the thing ballooned and soon my e-mail inbox became like one of those Ginsu Knife commercials - BUT, WAIT! There's More!

Preston and Red e-mailed that they had organized a dedication service for the headstone we all chipped in for. And then another e-mail announcing a memorial concert featuring Otis Clay backed up by none other than the Hi Rhythm Section.

Overheard in Memphis: "Otis Clay can sing the sh*t out of some O.V."

And then another e-mail: they had arranged a private, after hours tour of the Stax museum. And another announcing a reunion the Goldwax Records Rendevous, an informal lunch with two of the most important figures in Memphis Soul history, Roosevelt Jamison and Quinton Claunch Mr. Jamison wrote O.V.'s "That's How Strong My Love Is." Quinton Claunch was one of the founders of Goldwax Records, a label that was home to some of the best music ever recorded. And where were we to meet these legends of Memphis Soul? Where else? The legendary Rendevous, a Memphis institution that has been cooking up dry ribs in a downtown alley since 1948.

And finally, one more e-mail that announced (in my opinion) the crowning event of the entire weekend- an opportunity to visit Royal Studio where Al Green, Ann Peebles, O.V. Wright, Otis Clay, Solomon Burke and dozens of other soul artists recorded over the years. And Willie Mitchell himself would be there to meet us.

The first thought that went through my mind was, "Are you kidding me?!?" I was SO in. All the way IN.

This will be a multi-part entry because to be honest, I'm still processing all I saw and felt there. But, man, I will tell you this: I was treading on Holy ground in that studio.

To be continued...

Rehearsing the new band, onstage with heroes...

So, we're rehearsing the new band with, I must admit, limited success. The mix is just not happening. Musically and personally, it's just not happening. They ("they" being more seasoned musicians) tell me that that's the way of the game. We've decided to keep pressing forward, but meantime, these ears are open...don't be surprised if you see a new post with new band members - again.

The band (as-is) did an informal audition at Cork's Cigar Bar last Tuesday and they were very receptive. They asked me to fill out the "new band paperwork." So, I believe they're going to hire us some time next month. Sweet.

A few weeks ago, I had the incredibly terrifying honor of taking the stage between my favorite bass player in the world, Mookie Brill and one of the best blues guitarists around, Doug Deming. They stopped in at the blues jam I used to run and since I was freshly heartbroken, I was out looking for a place to sing it out.

Thought I'd share a few pics with you:

L-R: Doug Deming, Me & Mookie Brill

I sang my little heart out, but I was shaking!

Mookie, Me and Kid Gohman.
Or Andrew Gohman.
Or whatever they're calling him these days.

So, the story continues where it left off, but this time instead of crying my eyes out alone at home, I'm doing it onstage. I'm also writing two songs. I've written most of the lyrics and I can sort of hear the melodies in my head, but writing the melody is the hard part for me since I have no formal training in music.

I do, however, have extensive training in having the blues, so that's got to count for something...

See you in a couple of weeks,

LJ

A Lesson In The Blues

Sorry for the long span between posts. I actually posted an entry I had to take down because it started a sh*t storm. Anyway, I'm back and I've learned a few things since I've been away, which is why this entry is entitled "A Lesson In The Blues."

Here's the lesson: Don't try to be in a band with someone you're dating or try to date someone you're in a band with.

You'd think I might have learned from example, Fleetwood Mac (which used to be a killer blues band before they went pop) comes immediately to mind. Nevertheless, I didn't learn the lesson. Nor, apparently, did my boyfriend, who was the guitar player in the new band that I thought we were forming. Turns out I was on my own, I just didn't know it yet. About two weeks ago, my boyfriend quit the band. Two days later, he quit me. Yeah, that's the blues alright.

So, when the new band fell apart a good part of my life fell apart with it. But, as is my way, I cry and drink too much tequila for a while and then I pick myself up, dust myself off and continue. A few days ago, I hired a new guitar player. (Won't be hiring a new boyfriend any time soon, though. I'm still trying to duct tape my heart back together. Again.)

Here's the new line-up for the Loretta James Band:

Dan Pitchard - Bass & Vocals

Adam Reading - Drums

Michael Comer - Guitar & Vocals

There's no question it will be a very different band now, but as we work with Michael, I'm realizing that's not a bad thing. I like Michael's playing a lot. He brings this jazzy thing to the band. I think he knows about a million chords. And he knows where to play them. Which is FAR more important than just knowing them. He's also been deaf since childhood, so the fact that he plays the way he does and sings the way he does and learns everything by ear...simply remarkable!

Dan is the only schooled musician in the band (Berklee) so he acts as musical director. I front the band and handle booking and promotions. Adam and Michael lift all the heavy stuff. A reasonable arrangement, don't you think?

Dan, Michael and I are working on a jazzy/bluesy trio thing for the John's Pass Seafood Festival next weekend. Turns out I have a torch singer's voice. Who knew? We're doing all that standard stuff like Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered, Misty, Mack The Knife, All of Me...It's cool stuff and there's a market for it. Sweet deal.

So, the Loretta James Band is back in rehearsals. We're working up some new cover tunes. I'm writing a song, actually two songs. Dan has a few originals he wants to do. We figure we'll be ready in mid-December. I'll do my best to keep you posted.

LJ

I know, I know, "Where's the Video?"

Readers of this blog (a truly surprising number of people) are asking for video. It started with Wayne, who really is "the causin' of it all." He suggested I start this blog to chronicle what it's like to become a blues singer in one's forties. Then he started bugging me for video.

I do have video. I have quite a lot of video. Some of it is not all bad. And some of it is not at all good. Problem? The good stuff was taken with a digital video camera that creates huge files. Neither YouTube nor Blogger will accept these monstrosities. Worse, the only way to convert them is with a PC. As in a Windows PC. I'm a Mac girl! [Loretta stomps feet with bottom lip stuck out.] Okay, I confess, I do have a PC for the one or two things it does well - like keeping me in good with a client in Dallas, Texas who has a back-end system for which a Mac client does not exist. But ask me to do anything outside what I already know how to do on that confounded operating system and I get to feeling like a forty-pound sledge hammer is the only sane answer.

Thus, the videos lie on the hard drive of the Windows machine, unconverted, uncompressed, unused and unviewed. Perhaps help is on the horizon. I have a friend who swears he knows what and how to do what needs to be done so I can "broadcast myself." I'll keep you posted.

In lieu of video, I thought I'd post some pictures from my singing "birthday." Enjoy.

It was a very emotional day into night. It was exactly one year since that first night when--my heart shattered and literally aching inside my chest--I got up to sing at Ace's. It was over a year since my marriage imploded. I had spent a year on my own, coming into my own, discovering who I was when I was all alone. That day I felt it all--I mean all of it. The deep pain and the sorrow came rushing back as soon as I woke up. But by the time I made my coffee, the joy I felt for singing overshadowed the shadows. And when it was show time, I was happy. I was ready.

My old band, The Boss Men got together to help me celebrate. I didn't know it then, but the following Wednesday would be our last show together. A bittersweet end to a sometimes very bitter and sometimes very sweet union of musicians.

The Boss Men Reunited
Randy Ellison, Michael Murray, Kerri Collings, Steve Scott and Mike Ivey

And then my new band played. We grew weary of trying to think up a clever name (that we would inevitably come to hate but then would be stuck with) so we took the easy way out:

The Loretta James Band
Michael Murray, Step, Dan Pitchard

Michael "Guitar" Murray

Dan Pitchard
Gettin' funky on that six-string bass

Step
One of the greasiest drummers alive

Some of the people I started with came out to hang or to play or both. While my singing was pretty bad back then, I guess a lot of these people heard something because they kept encouraging me to continue even as they reached for their earplugs. (Kidding. Sort of.)

Steve Scott
He taught me how to--and how not to--run a blues jam

Kerri Collings
She is one BAD ASS drummer.
And she's fun to hang with -a cutting sense of humor on that Iowa girl!

Mike Murray w/ Kerri Collings

I felt my dad's presence all day long. Sort of like a warm spot over my left shoulder. Call it what you will, but I know he was there with me. It was the first time I would ever play my guitar and sing solo in public. I never once thought of chickening out. I was gonna play that song for him no matter how nervous I was. No matter how good or bad it was going to turn out, I was singing that song for my dad.

Singing Cheap Whiskey for Dad

Tim "TC" Chandler
Looking a bit like a proud "father" don't you think?

And then we started a good old-fashioned JAM!

Woody McDonell
My voice teacher and friend

Kid Gohman
AKA Andrew or Drew - he's always been one of my biggest supporters
Note: the mohawk has been replaced with a bluesier hairstyle - the pompadour

Sister Tanya
She's a pop singer and I'm a blues singer.
We didn't know anything about each other's music until we started hanging together. It's a cool trade.

Chain of Fools
with Tanya and Dewey (local air guitar hero), plus Kid, Joe, Dan and Woody

A favorite pic

Friends and blues lovers