A Woman Like Me Page 9

  It didn’t take long to get used to that slow Tennessee trot that marked the rhythm of recording in Memphis. Musical arrangements were made up on the spot. Sessions started an hour or two or three behind schedule. No one was in a hurry and no one seemed uptight. Shelby Singleton had sprung for a big budget and that meant extra money for recreational purposes. These white boys liked popping the speed pills used by truck drivers. Weed was plentiful.

  Wayne Jackson, the trumpet player, and I took a liking to each other. He was a married man who didn’t act like one. I fell in love with Wayne, a good guy, a down-home hippie. The song he wrote that I recorded in Memphis says it all—“At the Mercy of a Man.” Soon he was camping out in my hotel room. Sometimes he’d get up early in the morning, run out to the airstrip, jump in the little plane he piloted, and buzz the hotel. A few hours later, he was back in my bed.

  I could deal with this new way of making music—hanging with the guys, staying stoned, getting to the studio when it felt right, recording with no preset plan, going with the flow. All the elements seemed right to catapult me to the next level. This was the heartland of southern soul, where whites and blacks were combining forces to create smashes for Wilson Pickett, Etta James, and Clarence Carter. I was in the thick of the Nashville/Memphis/Muscle Shoals/muddy-Mississippi hit-making territory. With my voice and the right song, there was no reason I couldn’t sing my way back into the big time.

  We were all convinced we’d found the right song—“He Made a Woman Outta Me,” a rough-and-tough anthem about a girl “born on a levee, a little bit south of Montgomery.” At sixteen, Joe Henry comes up the river and makes a woman of the girl. I related. It was an unapologetic, no-holds-barred story of a sweet deflowering. The horn punches were bright and clean, the lead vocal was convincing, and Lelan Rogers deemed it a hit.

  It reached number 25 on the R&B chart and looked like it would cross over to the pop side, when someone said they’d heard the song on white radio sung by someone else.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Bobbie Gentry.”

  Two years earlier, Gentry had a smash with “Ode to Billie Joe.” When I heard her version of “He Made a Woman Outta Me,” though, I knew I had outsung her. I knew I had a hit. But then radio stations started banning my version because of a semi-sexy line in the song. They took that line out of Gentry’s version so hers got played. She got the hit. I’m still mad. Years later, when I was asked to sing on a Bobbie Gentry tribute album, I said, “Hell, no.”

  Muthafucka.

  But Lelan was determined to get me over. He didn’t give up. He found a song he was certain would work—“Do Your Duty.” Not only was the do-it-to-me message raucous and right, the tune was by Ronnie Shannon, the man who wrote Aretha’s breakthrough “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You).”

  Unfortunately, “Do Your Duty” did nothing.

  “Well,” said Lelan, “if Wexler can make money getting Aretha to sing Willie Nelson’s ‘Night Life,’ I think you can sell the hell out of Joe South’s ‘Games People Play.’ What do you say?”

  What was I supposed to say? I said yes. I’d try anything. Besides, I liked the song. I don’t know why the record didn’t sell, but it didn’t. That didn’t stop Lelan, though. He wasn’t out of ideas.

  “Just signed Hank Ballard. You know Hank, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Sure, I know Hank. Mama and them danced to ‘Work with Me, Annie.’ He did the original ‘Twist.’”

  “Remember when him and the Midnighters had ‘Let’s Go, Let’s Go, Let’s Go’?”

  “I was a little girl, but I remember.”

  “Well, he wants to re-record it as a duet with you.”

  I was happy to work with Hank. In the studio, though, his memory started to fade. I had to both sing my part and whisper the lyrics in Hank’s ear. The same thing was true when we did “Hello Sunshine,” a song that both Wilson Pickett and Aretha had recorded.

  Lelan loved everything I did. He was going to put out a series of singles, including my version of “Take Another Little Piece of My Heart.” Moneyman Shelby Singleton had bought “Let Me Down Easy” from Calla and was going to group it with these recent recordings in what would be my first album.

  But then came my buzzard luck. Shelby and Lelan fell out of love. I never learned the details, but the details didn’t matter. Suddenly Lelan’s label went down the toilet along with all the songs I’d done in Memphis. The idea of a full-tilt R&B album never happened. In 1969 and 1970, these little singles came dribbling out of a faucet that soon went dry. Lelan disappeared, and another set of grandiose schemes, in which I would take my rightful place in the Golden Age of Soul, went for naught.

  But I was too foolish to fall into despair. I knew something good was gonna happen someday. And I’d be damned if that day wasn’t coming soon.

  Child of the Seventies

  That day came sooner rather than later. Local label man and Ahmet Ertegun’s running buddy Ollie McLaughlin never gave up on me. Ollie took me into the studio to cut Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.” Rudy Robinson wrote an arrangement that scared me to death—that’s how good it was.

  “Bettye,” said Ollie, in his slight English accent. “This is the one. This is the one that’s sending you over the top.”

  “Glad to hear that, Ollie, but all these singles are wearing me out. I want an album. I need an album.”

  This was, after all, the era when FM radio was playing whole albums. Aretha Franklin had nearly a dozen albums on Columbia and, in just four years, eight on Atlantic. I had none. The music-loving public was eating up albums. Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On was called the best album of all time. Some of my best friends in the business, the O’Jays, were putting out albums with Gamble and Huff in Philly. Where were my albums? How was it possible, with all the singles I had cut and all the promises made, that I didn’t have a single 33⅓ LP with my picture plastered on the cover?

  “It’ll come,” said Ollie. “I’m going to play this ‘Heart of Gold’ for Ahmet. When he hears it, he’ll let you make an album.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Ahmet loved the earlier stuff you did with me. I can promise you that he’s going to love this even more.”

  “If he does, it’ll be my third go-around with Atlantic. I feel like I’m on the Atlantic merry-go-round.”

  “But this time you’re gonna grab that brass ring.”

  “I want the gold ring,” I said.

  “‘Heart of Gold’ is the ticket, baby. You wait and see.”

  • • •

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  “You sitting down, Bettye?” asked Ollie over the phone.

  “Is the news that bad?” I asked.

  “It’s that good. Ahmet heard ‘Heart of Gold.’ He flipped the fuck out. He’s sending you to Muscle Shoals.”

  “With Wexler?”

  “Wexler’s in Florida. He doesn’t go to Muscle Shoals no more. The boy who’s tearing it up in Muscle Shoals is Brad Shapiro.”

  “The guy who just did ‘Don’t Knock My Love’ for Wilson Pickett?”

  “That’s right. Went number one. Shapiro’s hot as a firecracker.”

  “So you’re talking about an album, not just a bunch of singles?”

  “Shapiro’s talking about twelve songs, a whole concept, wall-to-wall hits. They’re using the same musicians, same arrangers, and same studio where they cut Pickett’s hits.”

  “I’m gonna repeat my question, Ollie, ’cause this time I want to make sure I’m not dreaming. I want to make sure the shit is clear. We’re talking an album, not just singles.”

  “Bettye, your first album, your debut Atlantic album, is not only as good as done, it’s as good as gold.”

  • • •

  In the winter of 1972, I flew to Muscle
Shoals and met Brad Shapiro.

  “You ready to sing?” he asked.

  “You ready with the songs?”

  “Here they are. Listen to them and see if you like ’em.”

  I loved them. Brad had written three originals—“Fortune Teller,” “Soul Tambourine,” and “Our Own Love Song.” Some of the other tunes had a country feel in the style of Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman.” There was also a poignant message song, “All the Black and White Children.”

  The one that really slew me, though, was Joe Simon’s “Your Time to Cry.” I put on a new title and sang it as “Your Turn to Cry.” I’m a harsh critic of my own stuff. I know when my voice is off and my performance lame. I don’t think every performance of mine is brilliant or every recording of mine a masterpiece. But I knew goddamn well that “Your Turn to Cry” was as good as anything out there. In every fiber of my being, I knew it was a hit.

  After the vocal was cut in Muscle Shoals, the horns added in Memphis, and the strings overdubbed in Miami, the album was ready to go.

  Back in Detroit, I played the pre-release tapes for my friends. Mama and Sister went crazy for it. Cousin Margaret broke out into a big smile and said, “The long wait is over, Betty Jo.” Even the critic of critics, Professor Jim Lewis, said, “Shapiro definitely brought out the best in you. This is first-rate. I’m proud of you.”

  I was proud of myself. Now it was just a question of waiting for the icing on the cake—the photography session for the cover, the packaging, and the promotional tour.

  Jerry Greenberg had taken over from the semi-retired Jerry Wexler and was running the day-to-day operations at Atlantic under Ahmet Ertegun. Because I knew Ollie had spoken to Ahmet and Ahmet told him the album was great, I was convinced it couldn’t miss. When the first single dropped, Clarence Paul said, “You’re calling it ‘Your Turn to Cry,’ but I’m saying it’s your turn to hit the charts.”

  There was talk of a big tour. Someone in the Atlantic PR department sent me tickets to fly all over the country to promote the single and follow-up album. When someone suggested calling it Child of the Seventies, I said, “Hell, yes.” The sixties had not been kind to me. The seventies were my decade.

  I was getting ready for the tour when the phone rang.

  “Bettye?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling from Atlantic.”

  “How’s the single selling?”

  “Fine.”

  “I got those tickets for the big promo tour. Your PR department has been great. I’m eager to get out and do my thing.”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  I didn’t like the tone of his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve decided not to go forth with the project. Please return the plane tickets.”

  There was nothing to do but crawl under the dining room table, assume the fetal position, and not move for two weeks. I was completely and absolutely devastated.

  Buzzard luck.

  Muthafucka.

  • • •

  I have to call it something more than the blues. The blues will come late at night or early in the morning, stay an hour or two, and be gone. The blues will darken your day or ruin your evening, but a stiff drink or a potent joint can usually chase the blues away. Depression is something else.

  Curled up under that dining room table, I didn’t wanna go anywhere. I didn’t wanna talk to anyone, didn’t wanna see anyone, didn’t wanna move. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Nothing Mama or Sister said mattered. I liked seeing Terrye. She was twelve years old and on the verge of becoming a beautiful teenager. But even the presence of my only child didn’t pull me from the depths of despair.

  They say hope is helpful, but expectations will get you in trouble. Hope means you think there’s a chance that things will come out right. An expectation means you damn well demand it. After all this time, I did expect to have an album out. Promises were made at Atlantic by everyone from the janitor to the president. My producer, who had fed the industry a slew of hits, told me that Child of the Seventies was the highlight of his career. “There are at least four singles on this record that can go top ten,” Brad Shapiro said. These were statements that wouldn’t stop whirling around my head as I hid from the world, not answering calls, not venturing out, not even wanting to look out the window.

  It took the Professor to break the depression.

  One day Jim Lewis just showed up. I didn’t even want to open the door.

  “Give me a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Go out and buy your own damn cup of coffee.”

  “Nice to know I’m welcome here.”

  “It’s not you, Jim. You know that. This time it’s not all that easy getting going again.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you understand, why are you over here bothering me?”

  “’Cause I got a gig for you.”

  “Phelps?”

  “Something better. A jingle.”

  “How much does it pay?”

  “Nothing right now.”

  “So that’s the good news? A job that pays nothing.”

  “It’s a talent contest. Schaefer Beer. If you sing their jingle and win, you get good money. Plays all over the country.”

  “So it’s amateur hour.”

  “No, Bettye LaVette, it isn’t amateur hour. Other professional singers are entering. The money is serious. And there are different versions. You do a funk version, another with a big band, a ballad version—you get the idea.”

  “I don’t like the idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a horse race. I have too many damn records out there for me to do something for free.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t need the money.”

  “You know goddamn well I need the money.”

  “Then swallow your pride, girl, and be grateful I’m bringing this to you.”

  “You get on my nerves, Jim Lewis, you really do.”

  • • •

  A week later I was in the studio singing the jingle. A few weeks after that I learned I had won the contest and Schaefer Beer was using my version coast to coast. “Schaefer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one.” These days that ad wouldn’t be politically correct. You’re only supposed to have one. Back in the seventies, you could have as many as you wanted—and the ads told you so. Maybe I won because that was my attitude. I sang with conviction. I was representing the true feelings of us “real” drinkers. Once again, Jim had come through.

  • • •

  The early seventies weren’t a tough time for just me. It was a tough time for my hometown too. Berry Gordy and his gang had picked up—lock, stock, and barrel—and moved the Motown office to L.A. In the sixties, Detroit was at the center of the musical universe. In the seventies, Detroit was flat-out abandoned. Of the Gordy family, only Esther, who had a great sense of civic responsibility, stayed around to represent the company. But that really meant nothing. Motown’s greatest resources—its stars, studios, marketing and promotional teams—were all in Hollywood.

  Baseball fans say that when the Dodgers left Brooklyn, Brooklyn was never the same. That was equally true of Motown and Detroit. Because of our capacity to design and manufacture cars, we were once the pride of America. With the advent of modern soul music, we revitalized that pride in an artistic context. When that context was removed, dreams were dashed. In short, Berry was saying, Fuck Detroit, the real gold’s in L.A. Even the artists most reluctant to leave—like Marvin Gaye—finally caved in and followed the boss.

  The last major thing Marvin recorded in Detroit was What’s Going On. If you listen to that record, it’s very Detroit in its description of a soldier coming back t
o America after being traumatized in Vietnam. When Marvin asks “What’s going on?” he’s asking what’s going on in Detroit, not Hollywood. And when he sings about “Inner City Blues,” those blues are coming out of the streets of Detroit, not L.A.

  The post-Motown era in Detroit wasn’t pretty. The big stars were gone. The big clubs were empty. The big money had vanished. As one who was left behind, I can’t be too sanctimonious, because if I had made it in New York, I would have stayed in New York. Every time I came home—and I came home dozens of times—it was because I had to. At the same time, I was just a solo singer. I hadn’t impacted my city the way Berry had. He’d created an empire. He was an economic force to be reckoned with, and when the force was no longer there, all of us felt the loss. Detroit got a permanent case of the blues.

  • • •

  This was the mood of the city when I was booked at Phelps on the same bill as the great Jackie Wilson. After “Higher and Higher,” Jackie Wilson began a descent that had him falling lower and lower. If you were a true Jackie Wilson fan, though, you’d always rank him on top. And I was among the truest of all Jackie fans. He was more than just the most flamboyant singer to ever come out of Detroit. The man was mega-sexy. It wasn’t that he was all that good-looking—Clarence Paul was far more handsome—but he was a pure expression of sexual energy. Something about his mouth made women melt. He had a smile, a swagger, a body language that spoke volumes. In the early days, even before he became a big star, he had a bevy of women. When he did become a star, the bevy turned into an army.

  When Mr. Phelps told me I was on the same bill as Jackie, I was excited. When I met him at the club, he kissed me, just as he kissed all his female fans. I immediately became one of his groupies. I was intent on having this man, if only for one night.

  The engagement was for a week. The first few nights were cool. He wasn’t the Jackie Wilson of five or six years earlier. Time had taken its toll. His dance moves had been modified and his voice had weakened. His hard times were showing. But he could still sing. He was also generous in complimenting my singing. By the end of the week, we were buddies, and after the Saturday night show, I took him home to my blue basement. Exhausted, he stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.