Domenico R. Ferri
Dr. Erenberg
History 558
Color Walked Through That Door in 1968:
The Rise and Fall of Stax RecordsÕ Integrated Impulse
The word ÔintegrationÕ didnÕt even exist in our vocabulary and the segregation of black here and white there, however you want to define it in todayÕs terms, also didnÕt exist. It was just guys gettinÕ together. There was absolutely no color in that studio; color never walked through that door.
When renowned soul guitarist and sound engineer Steve Cropper made the above statement, he was referring to the consistently positive relationships he enjoyed with fellow members of Booker T and the MGÕs throughout much of their tenure as house band at Stax, the now legendary Memphis-based record label.[1] During the same interview, Cropper described in a similarly affectionate manner the generally positive dynamic that existed among black and white producers, managers, and musicians until the final three years of his stay with the organization.[2] CropperÕs testimony, and others like it, gives credence to the argument that Stax studio and the music it produced defied a segregated standard and epitomized the dream that soul music could unite black and white in a heavily segregated environment, during one of AmericaÕs most tumultuous decades.
CropperÕs Memphis experience certainly deviated from that of prominent civil rights activist Reverend Samuel Kyles. Kyles, who would later witness Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.Õs murder firsthand, arrived in Memphis in 1960 and immediately observed a city where Òthere was not one thing integrated. From the cradle to the grave, everything was segregated in Memphis.Ó In light of KylesÕ observation and the fact that all-white Memphis civic leaders preferred to shut down schools and pools rather than abide by a mandate to integrate them, CropperÕs characterization of the racial harmony at Stax becomes even more extraordinary.[3] As a rare biracial project, the Stax environment enabled musicians such as Cropper (white), Donald ÒDuckÓ Dunn (white), Booker Jones (black), and Al Jackson Jr. (black), and many others to meld their distinctive musical talents, uninhibited by those residual societal norms that discouraged interracial fraternization. As present-day listeners reflect on the legacy of Stax, it is likely that they regard the label as a renowned vendor of soul music that put out notable acts such as Otis Redding and Isaac Hayes. At the same time, it remains doubtful whether collective memory includes a critical acknowledgement of the Stax experiment as a significant example of black and white musical collaboration challenging a rigidly racialized culture.
By 1968, the signature Stax sound for which the MGÕs were largely responsible - an interplay of black blues and gospel with white country – was the engine driving an interregional musical sensation that became realized fully in the form of Otis ReddingÕs number one pop single ÒSitting at the Dock of the Bay.Ó While the single blazed the charts, it appeared as though the labelÕs success and momentum was well on its way to laying the groundwork for an enduring, integrated musical institution.[4] In that same year, citywide chaos followed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.Õs murder at the hands of a petty thief named James Earl Ray, who few believed acted alone. The catastrophe and its aftermath revealed that Memphis was not wholly prepared to accept the reality of total integration, let alone the promise of a biracial musical tradition that Stax represented.
Thus, the death of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. became the cataclysmic event that ultimately penetrated the confines of the Stax Theatre at 926 E McLemore Avenue, thereby diminishing the spirit of interracial collaboration that had made the company so unique since its inception. With regard to the devastating murder and the effect it had on Stax, Cropper later admitted that the utopian environment, where for over a decade he made music and engineered sound, had sustained a crippling blow. He concluded, ÒI can tell you that prior to that (the assassination), as far as I know, there was never ever any color that came through the doors, it didnÕt happen. And after that it was never the same.Ó[5]
Although Stax managed to remain active in the immediate wake of this tragedy, their community had already been reeling from the sudden death of Otis Redding, which occurred less than a year earlier in December of 1967. With the company minus their premier star and faced with concerns about the role of race in their organization, key figures including Albert Bell and singer songwriter Isaac Hayes led a movement towards the modification of StaxÕ sound and politic. Bell, the former SCLC pupil would later became part owner of the company, relied upon the songwriting skills of Hayes and David Porter to ensure the creation of a new image that sang of black pride and announced a legitimate political frustration that previously had been absent from Stax. Before the immutable force of the aforementioned events fundamentally altered Stax, the business endured for over a decade as a small, grassroots organization that documented a rare integrated musical impulse.
StaxÕ first phase of sound dovetailed rock and rollÕs growing popularity in Memphis, which, by the 1950s became the nearest industrial center for poor, rural, white, and black southerners. In turn, MemphisÕ burgeoning musical culture reflected the voice of newly arrived rural migrants. Throughout the 1950s, the blues scene at downtown Beale Street displayed fresh black talent to young, hip, and an ever-increasing number of interested Memphians, many of whom were white. Of the growing and risquŽ cultural experience, an unknown white Memphian announced, ÒIt got as far as the other side of the river, to the cruddy clubs where we went and hung out with black guys, playinÕ music, feelinÕyoung and tough and hotterÕn shit.Ó[6]
As blues and country music spawned rock ÔnÕ roll, new acts soon developed and, in doing so, continued to open new lines of racial interaction and communication in the urban South. Elvis and the sound of Sun Studio, in a sense, helped to inject a derivative spirit of blackness into mainstream commercial music and, of course, extended the music beyond the dive bars and into peoples homes and automobiles. At the same time, Sam PhillipsÕ approach to studio work was not necessarily integrationist; the fact that he recorded white and black musicians separately was a clear indication that biracial collaboration in the music industry remained objectionable in even the most progressive quarters.[7] In contrast to Phillips and Sun Studios, Stax founder James Stewart unexpectedly facilitated and, later deliberately supported, black and white musicians making music together on a regular basis. In this sense, StewartÕs and his sister Estelle AxtonÕs forward mindedness was the crucial first step toward mobilizing a record label capable of putting forth an inimitable integrated sound. [8]
StaxÕ Cinderella story, for the most part, begins with Stewart who was born in 1930 on a farm in Middleton, Tennessee. After graduating high school in 1948, he moved to Memphis in an effort to find Òbetter jobs, better opportunity, and a better way of life.Ó[9] After spending two years in the army, Stewart attended Memphis State University where he took courses in Law. After graduation, he took a job at First Tennessee Bank. All the while, Stewart preserved a love for music that compelled him to hone his fiddle skills whenever he wasnÕt working. He eventually became proficient enough to play regularly with a country band at the local EagleÕs Nest Club where Elvis Presley, Bill Black, and Scotty Moore sometimes appeared. At the EagleÕs Nest, Stewart observed Òthe excitement that hit the stage when Presley performed.Ó It wasnÕt long before ElvisÕ gravitas convinced Stewart that rock ÔnÕ roll was a Òform of freedom and expression that transcended the music of the big band era and even country.Ó[10]
Of course, Stewart wasnÕt always a lover of rock ÔnÕ roll, let alone a black music aficionado. In reflecting on his youth he declared, ÒI had scarcely seen a black man till I was grown. I had no desire to start something like Stax Records; I had no dream of anything like that. I just wanted music. Just anything to be involved with music – one way or the other.Ó[11] Despite StewartÕs initial naivetŽ, his love for music and determination to remain involved in its creation positioned him favorably in a key historical moment. Fueled by a genuine love for all music, he discovered the ability to ignore racial norms and simply Òlet them play.Ó In an even broader sense, StewartÕs mission evolved into a clear illustration that real and meaningful relationships could cut across thickly drawn lines of color.
Carrying his financial and legal expertise and love for new music into a serious business venture, Stewart opened a record store inside a dingy north-side Memphis garage that eventually became known as the Satellite Record Store in 1957. A year later, Stewart and his Sister Estelle Axton, who provided the financial assistance needed to keep the fledgling business alive, moved the operation to Brunswick, Tennessee, just outside of Memphis. In less than a year, the two moved yet again into the abandoned Capitol Theatre at 926 East McLemore Avenue in Memphis. Here, Satellite managed to stay afloat by serving up the latest trends in popular music to the growing number of black and white Memphians who had recently caught rock and roll fever.[12]
In Memphis circa 1958, Stewart undoubtedly benefited from the manner in which home and car radios perpetuated a rock ÔnÕ roll epidemic among southern audiences. WHBQ deejay Dewey Phillips wielded additional responsibility for flooding the airwaves with racially charged sounds, further enticing curious white Memphian youth. Phillips pushed some of the hippest records available at the time. Steve Cropper stated, ÒDuck and I kinda grew up on Dewey PhillipsÕ ÔRed, Hot, and BlueÕ show. He played a lot of R&B records. We were highly influenced by that.Ó[13]
Riding the wave of an invigorated popular music industry and situated in the midst of numerous talented country and blues players, the Satellite shop soon became a hip meeting place for the very same session musicians, songwriters, and vocalists that would later work for Stax Records. Among those who would drop by to sample the vinyl was keyboardist Booker T Jones who in 1961 said, ÒI think there would have been no Stax records without the Satellite Record Shop.Ó Future MGÕs bassist Donald ÒDuckÓ Dunn also frequented the hot spot, primarily because he was unable to get rhythm and blues records from the music vendors in his mostly white neighborhood. At the counter of the Satellite store where Dunn got his fix sat none other than Steve Cropper himself working the register.
All the while, Estelle Axton demonstrated her astounding ability to seek out rhythm and blues music that had the potential for mass appeal. In bringing in up and coming records, she simultaneously attracted the neighborhoodÕs growing number of black youth including aspiring artists like Booker T. Jones. As Stax evolved, the store served as an indispensable resource when Stax players needed to hear the material of other musicians. For example, Booker T and the MGÕs interpretive rendition of Abbey Road entitled McLemore Ave. along with Otis ReddingÕs celebrated rendition of the Rolling StonesÕ ÒSatisfactionÓ were each made possible by the shopÕs collection.Ó[14]
After its first full year of operation, the Satellite record shop gained steadily in popularity and stabilized its financial situation. With a cash base and a multitude of talented players ripe for the picking, the company expanded its operation to include a recording studio and record distribution division. After initially offering a large number of country records in addition to rock ÔnÕ roll, the company switched to selling rhythm and blues music exclusively.[15] StewartÕs choice to commit to this burgeoning market was linked to a trend established by larger record companies like Atlantic that had transformed Òrace recordsÓ into rhythm and blues during the late fifties. In a sense, a ready-made national audience, particularly in a South poised to purchase ÒrealÓ black music awaited what Stewart and Axton would record and distribute.
As early as 1958, Jerry Wexler, AtlanticÕs head of distribution, made the choice to sell R&B records featuring black musicians. He said, ÒIt was very much in our interest to bring the music of black artists to the general public, to mainstream America, because we were a small, struggling company and we wanted to expand our market. And it did have a residual effect of helping to break down the barriers of discrimination.Ó Atlantic founder and chief executive, Ahmet Ertegun, declared that Òwe wanted to make funky, soulful records for the southern market and the extension of the southern market in all the big cities where a large population of people who had migrated from the South. That market demanded soul.Ó Stewart undoubtedly experienced a similar awakening that was on the one hand profit-driven and on the other hand a matter of taste.[16]
During the summer of 1959, Satellite began recording artists with the intention of following the Atlantic model, which was already profiting from the sounds of an evolving R&B style pioneered by Ray Charles. At this time, the younger labelÕs premier roster consisted of Carla and Rufus Thomas, the Mar-Keys, the Veltones, Barbara Stephens, the Canes, and William Bell, all of whom would join the ranks of musicians Wexler could bring to his new target southern audience. In Carla Thomas, a local Hamilton High School student trained in voice and opera, Wexler saw the potential for the first Satellite hit song. WexlerÕs feeling about Thomas grew even stronger after a Memphis record press operator told him that a significant number of her single, ÒCause I Love YouÓ was being pressed for massive sales. Capitalizing on this information, Wexler promptly paid Stewart and Axton a thousand dollars for the master copy of the song along with a small royalty on all sales. ÒCause I Love YouÓ also featured for the first time Booker T. Jones on the baritone saxophone.
JonesÕ long time affiliation with Stax began on an average school day at nearby Booker T. Washington High School in 1960. As he sat in an eleventh grade classroom, friend David Porter summoned him into the hallway to make him a fateful offer. Earlier that day Porter had received word from Rufus and Carla Thomas that they needed a baritone sax player for a soon to be hit, ÒCause I Love You.Ó Porter then managed to remove Jones and a saxophone from the school and transported both essential ingredients to the Stax studio. This particular recording session was the first of many for Jones, who would go on to spend the remainder of his high school days Òrushing to get papers down so he could head on over to Stax to record.Ó[17] Shortly after recording ÒCause I Love You,Ó Jones gradually convinced Stax management to use him as a keys player instead of a saxophonist. As he stated, ÒI convinced them to try me out on piano, and eventually organ.Ó[18]
With help of JonesÕ lead baritone sax line, ÒCause I Love YouÓ had put Stax on the map. At the same time, the songÕs moderate success did not quite fulfill Wexler and his informantÕs sale projections. Luckily, the single did generate the revenue that Jim and Estelle needed to record ÒGee Whiz,Ó which became the first Thomas single to hit the charts in both the R&B and Pop categories, signaling a cross-over success. In March of 1961, the tune peaked at number thirteen on the pop charts and established Carla as a national star. That same year, Memphis begrudgingly desegregated some of its schools, but still enforced segregation codes for movie theatres. As irony would have it, Carla, despite her nation-wide success, faced arrest for the mere act of going to see a film.[19]
Wexler, unfettered by such racist sentiment, later purchased the rights to the father and daughter singing duo for the next five years. This move marked the beginning of a long-standing relationship between Stax and Atlantic. It was also at this time that Stewart and Axton faced a lawsuit from a record company in California already called ÒSatellite.Ó The Satellite moniker was transformed promptly into ÒStax,Ó which was an amalgamation of the ownersÕ surnames, Stewart and Axton. As a result, the California company subsequently withdrew its complaint. [20]
As Stax Records settled into its new name, Rufus Thomas became a permanent fixture at the young company. ThomasÕ association with MemphisÕ music industry provided Bell and Axton with an indispensable expertise. He possessed a feel for the South in a way that Stewart did not. The son of a sharecropper from Cayce, Mississippi, Thomas moved to Memphis with his family at an early age. After gravitating toward musical pursuits in high school, he eventually became the main deejay at WDIA, one of the first radio stations in the US to feature an all-black staff and Òprogramming geared toward blacks.Ó[21] In addition to being a radio sensation, he recorded an Òanswer recordÓ to Big Mama Thornton's hit ÒHound Dog,Ó which he entitled ÒBear Cat,Ó and was released on Sun Records in 1953.
When Thomas visited the Stax facility unannounced, he brought with him an open-mindedness that was in step with the burgeoning integrated environment. Of those early days he said, ÒAt that time I thought nothing about white folks. I thought white folks were all the same. I was willing to work with them so long as they could support the music.Ó[22] Thomas continually offered vital assistance to Stewart and Axton as not only a songwriter and mentor for his daughter Carla, but also as an innovative musician involved in the production of numerous hits.[23]
By 1962, Rufus remained at Stax while daughter Carla Thomas continued to enjoy success at the register and on the airwaves; however, as her popularity waned during the next year, Stax began to struggle financially. Fortunately, a unique studio sound was beginning to ripen around a loosely affiliated group that would become Booker T and the MGÕs. This assemblage of musicians included trumpeter Wayne Jackson, baritone player Andrew Love, keyboardist Booker T. Jones, guitarist Steve Cropper, and bassist Lewis Steinberg.[24]
The chief creative force in the MGÕs was, of course, Booker T. Jones who began his musical career as a teenager by playing upright bass with blues legends Bowlegs Miller and Willie Mitchell at the local Flamingo Club. He soon switched to the organ after hearing Jack Mc DuffÕs combo organ one night at the club. Mc Duff played the lead with is left hand and played the bass lines with his right hand and on the pedals. Booker was so impressed by what could be achieved on the keys that he decided to take piano lessons. He said, ÒNo one was playing organ much then. I was able to get attention and get a job by playing it.Ó [25] Ultimately, Jones made a world-renowned name for himself by mastering the Hammond B-3 organ; it became his sound of choice for live and studio performances.
Working with Jones on a number of studio sessions was local Memphian Steve Cropper, who was steadily becoming Stewart and AxtonÕs preferred guitarist. In the late fifties, Cropper worked as the clerk for the Satellite Record Store and, in his spare time, increased his musical proficiency by receiving intense instruction from the widely respected black jazz guitarist Lynn Vernon. As his skills improved, Cropper, along with close friends Charlie Freeman and Donald Dunn formed the Royal Spades. According to Dunn, Òthe Spades played anything from Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard to Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley stuff. We were a white band trying to play rhythm and blues music, kinda the first in Memphis to do that. We used to play for, like, five dollars and a few free beers. It was just a joy to play.Ó[26] The Royal Spades later morphed into the Mar-Keys for whom Cropper co-wrote and recorded ÒLast Night.Ó In the early summer of 1961, the record shot into the Top 5 on both the pop and R & B charts.
In the wake of ÒLast NightÕsÓ success, Stewart proclaimed that ÒCropper was my right-hand man, he would come to the studio and sit there and take care of business; he was disciplined and responsible. Steve was the key.Ó[27] In terms of CropperÕs function at Stax, he offered far more to Axton than slick guitar lines. Cropper became adept at mixing and recording in the studio and, as a result, he participated in the production or performance of every record issued by Stax from the fall of 1960 to the close of 1971. Stewart was so reliant upon Cropper that he gave him the keys to the Stax studio, considering him the label's Òde facto A&R man and engineer.Ó[28]
While Cropper was a continuous resident of the MGÕs and Stax from nearly the beginning, Mar-keysÕ bassist Donald ÒDuckÓ Dunn would take up residency in the studio only after the original bassist, Lewis Steinberg, the well-known black and Jewish bass player, left Stax in order to pursue other musical opportunities. Despite a late arrival to the Stax studio, Dunn first entered the picture as CropperÕs neighborhood pal and band mate. As a Memphis native who helped look after his four brothers and two sisters while his father operated a cab, Dunn was a self-made virtuoso whose bass lines complimented nearly every Stax hit ever produced.[29]
Before Dunn settled into his steady role, Steinberg served as the Stax studio bassist from 1960 to 1964. During this period Dunn toured with the Mar-keys who received a wider range of venues by maintaining an all-white line-up. The fact that a large percentage of potential shows throughout the South were reserved for white acts was, in a sense, the kind of obstacle, among others, that slowly redirected both Dunn and Cropper to the Stax studio, where they could focus on writing hits with whomever they chose.[30] Once Dunn had finished touring with the Mar-keys, he seized an opportunity to replace Lewis Steinberg, who was more interested in playing out and, in 1964, Dunn assumed permanently the duties of Stax session bassist.[31]
Completing the Stax house band was drummer Al Jackson Jr. who had played with Jones at the Flamingo Room in Memphis on several occasions. After witnessing firsthand JacksonÕs technical command of jazz drumming in the Willie Mitchell Band, Jones invited Jackson to Stax for a recording session. [32] Jackson remained at Stax from that point forward. According to Jones, Jackson was as indispensable to Stax as famed bassist James Jamerson was to Motown. The MGÕs signature sound was in large part attributed to how ÒAl brought the groove and didnÕt stop until we got the groove on whatever song whether it was ÒCanÕt Turn Me LooseÓ or ÒGreen OnionsÓ or ÒKnock On WoodÓ or ÒTry a Little Tenderness.Ó That groove was inside of him and us; it was the combination.Ó[33]
With two white members and two black members, Stewart facilitated a musical project that did not exist anywhere else in Memphis. Although he was not necessarily fixated on the fact that he was sponsoring an integrated band at that time, he did observe that he and sister Axton Ònever saw color, only talent.Ó Beyond Axton and StewartÕs ability to see beyond color, Stax historian Robert Bowman emphasizes that there were additional, ÒaccidentalÓ circumstances the lead to operationÕs becoming integrated. The primary force to which he refers is the neighborhood surrounding 926 E. McLemore Ave, which was quickly becoming a ghetto and, as a result, the majority of talented musicians who entered the fold were black.[34] Jim Stewart, on the other hand, maintained that Stax, regardless of the process by which it became integrated, was ultimately an enterprise that fostered Òblack and white individuals making music for themselves.Ó[35] A few years later, Stewart further acknowledged the implications of the project by stating Òwe were sitting in the middle of a segregated city, a highly segregated city and we were in another world when we walked into the studio.Ó[36]
If Stewart, Axton, or anyone at Stax had misgivings about reaching across the color line, the explosion of commercial success about to be experienced by Booker T. Jones, Lewis Steinberg, Al Jackson, and Steve Cropper eclipsed these concerns quickly. On a summer morning in 1962 - before the MGÕs had even decided upon a name for their outfit - the musicians arrived at Stax studios to serve as the back-up band for a white rock and roll singer by the name of Billy Lee Riley, whom Stewart believed could deliver a chart-topping hit. As they awaited RileyÕs arrival, the MGÕs began working out playfully a blues progression. Since Riley never appeared that day and because Jim Stewart liked what he heard coming from the band, Stewart decided to tape the session. The result of this impromptu recording was the single ÒBehave Yourself.Ó[37]
For the flip side of the record, the band began rehashing a riff that Jones had developed a few weeks earlier. As the rest of the band played along, Cropper realized that something remarkable had taken place. He exclaimed ÒShit, this is the best damn instrumental IÕve heard in I donÕt know when. I knew we had a winner there.Ó Because Stewart had recorded ÒBehave YourselfÓ and ÒGreen OnionsÓ intending fully to distribute it, the MGÕs had to decide upon a name for their project on the spot. Jones claimed that bands name became ÒBooker T and the MGÕs because ÒAl Jackson said ÔBooker T and theÉÕ and he looked out the window and saw a little MG car and said ÔBooker T and the MGÕs. It was all just a little bit more than a joke.Ó[38]
Shortly after the newly christened MGÕs recorded the track, it would go on to become an instrumental anthem for both black and white America, peaking at Number one on the Billboard's Rhythm and Blues chart in 1962 and Number Three on the Pop chart. [39] This dual success fully illustrated that the MGÕs sound transcended the lines that divided American tastes into race-distinct categories. With this crossover success, the MGÕs reinvigorated Stax by generating some much-needed income; they also expanded Stax connections in the industry. While ÒGreen OnionsÓ was distributed locally through Stax/Volt, Atlantic Records boosted its national circulation to over 750,000 copies. Jerry Wexler, the Atlantic co-owner who helped to orchestrate national distribution, returned to the Stax studio in 1963 and sang the praises of the MGÕs saying:
Their rhythm was the heart of the matter, the chief reason Memphis mattered. The even racial composition of Booker T and the MGÕs became a metaphor in my mind for their extraordinary harmony, in and out of the studio. Booker T Jones, the keyboardist, and drummer Al Jackson were black; guitarist Steve Cropper and bassist Donald ÒDuckÓ Dunn were white; and DuckÕs predecessor was Jewish (and African American). The results were anything but gray. The boys played in red clay soil, and I was walking into fertile territory. The funkiness of the music – bare-boned, yet razor sharp – knocked my dick in the dirt. [40]
In a similar vein, WexlerÕs right-hand man and head sound engineer, Phillip Dowd, said that the MGÕs Òwere the most beautiful people in the world. They didnÕt belong in the South. I mean, they couldnÕt work in Memphis or Little Rock Arkansas because two members were black and two members were white. It was like; they were in a cocoon, because the band was integrated in a segregated community. They could work in New York, they could work in Los Angeles, but they couldnÕt work in their own home town.Ó[41]
DowdÕs characterization of the race issue and the degree to which it impinged on the MGÕs national success is, in many respects accurate. At the same time, two additional factors accounted for why the MGÕs were unable to capitalize fully on their commercial success. First, Booker T. Jones was an undergraduate at Indiana University while Green Onions made its way up the Billboard charts. Even if Jones desired to take the MGÕs on a national tour, his schedule did not allow for it. Moreover, Jones was determined to complete his college education. The second reason why the MGÕs rarely toured is that Stax needed the group to remain in the studio because they were the unparalleled rhythm section that no other outfit could copy adequately. To Wexler and Atlantic, their sound was worth more in the studio than on the road.[42]
The very same issue that arguably curtailed the MGÕs growth was ironically the virtue that set them apart from other acts. In highlighting the magic that resulted from the bandÕs integrated make-up, Isaac Hayes, who was just getting started as standby session man in 1963, observed that the MGÕs were a special force in American music. ÒThey were an integrated band -- half white, half black. There was a "cotton curtain" back in the Sixties,Ó he declared. Bands were all segregated in Memphis. But the MG's were like a family. That integration was a sign of things to come. Their sound was one of a kind.Ó[43]
As Hayes and Dowd suggested, the MGÕs sound was a distinguished occurrence and a desirable force of racial collusion in American popular music, just not on tour in the South. Based on the bandÕs resume, however, there can be little doubt that the MGÕs transcendence of bigotry figured heavily into their unique sound and sustained sales success. At the same time, there was something about their style that caught the attention of mass audiences. There was a certain rhythmic quality that suggested blackness and, yet, a song structure that was very much akin to a country jam; it was a dialectic between to opposing cultural forces eventually synthesized into a natural conclusion. In essence, the magic was the musicÕs ability to exist perfectly as a sonic coalescence of two cultures at odds; it was a long overdue compromise between black and white America.
Although the biracial ÒGreen OnionsÓ represented the apex of the MGÕs commercial success as a featured act, they continued to crank out hits from the Stax studio. Throughout the 1960s, the MG's recorded ÒHip Hug-Her,Ó ÒGroovinÕ,Ó ÒSoul-Limbo,Ó ÒHang 'em High,Ó and ÒTime Is Tight,Ó all of which were top 40 entries on the Billboard R&B and Pop Charts between 1967 and 1969. On the whole, the sonic product of this racially mixed outfit served simultaneously as the foundation for the sound that garnered several more Billboard hits as the backing band for Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, Albert King, Johnnie Taylor, Eddie Floyd, The Staple Singers, and Wilson Pickett.
Because Stax provided Atlantic with such a wealth of sensational and commercially viable material from 1960 to early 1968, Wexler regarded the operation as Òone of the best associations or arrangements we ever made.Ó[44] Atlantic certainly maintained a strong position in the music industry before it was bought out by Warner Brothers in 1967; its catalogue extended far beyond StaxÕ offerings and maintained key sales in the Jazz and rock ÔnÕ roll markets. At the same time, one can argue that WexlerÕs claim was the result of not only Booker T and the MGÕs success, but also the incomparable singing of Otis Redding.
Redding got his informal start in the music business by working for Macon guitarist Johnny JenkinsÕ local band, the Pinetoppers. The band later recorded with the Georgia-based Confederate Label in 1960. Jenkins came to Memphis to record in October 1962, and it was during this appointment that Redding received an opportunity to show the people at Stax his astounding musical aptitude. At the end of JenkinsÕ session, he belted out ÒThese Arms of Mine,Ó a ballad Redding wrote on his own. Having astonished the people at Stax on the spot, Redding soon became the darling or Ònatural born prince,Ó as Wexler used to call him, of the Stax roster.
Redding eventually used Booker T. and the MGÕs as his backing band and, in doing so, involved himself with the arrangements of his songs, whistling those parts that would later become horn sections.[45] His solo career began picking up speed in 1966, when ÒMr. Pitiful,Ó ÒI've Been Loving You Too Long,Ó ÒI Can't Turn You Loose,Ó a cover of the Rolling StonesÕ ÒSatisfaction,Ó and "RespectÓ became big sellers. ReddingÕs chief audience during his early rise to fame tended to be black Americans, as his showings on the pop charts remained relatively low. He was nonetheless tremendously respected by many white groups, particularly the Rolling Stones, who covered ReddingÕs ÒThat's How Strong My Love IsÓ and "Pain in My Heart.Ó[46]
With Redding on hand, studio experiences became legendary events. In the throws of passion, Redding often ripped off his shirt and furiously directed players to follow his lead. Duck Dunn described the experience saying, ÒIt was never a routine session with Otis. YouÕd go along six weeks, say, eight hours a day, and all youÕd ever see was Jim (Stewart) with a hand on his chin, and then Otis would come in, and, boy, heÕd just bring everybody up. ÔCause you knew something was gonna be different. When Otis was there, it was just a revitalization of the whole thing. You wanted to play with Otis. He brought out the best in you. If there was a best, he brought it out. That was his secret.Ó Indeed, ReddingÕs energy and determination, along with an uncanny ability to write compelling, tender and sexy songs, was what enabled him to garner three top 10 soul hits in 1965 alone.[47]
Although ReddingÕs early success was impressive in its own right, it was not quite enough to single-handedly resuscitate the label, which barely stayed afloat from 1965-66. In an effort to stimulate national sales, Stewart began forging a relationship with former Martin Luther King Jr. pupil, Albert Bell, who had recently given up civil rights activity and turned to the music industry. Bell became a useful A&R contact for Stax by using his popular deejay status in Washington D.C. to peddle the popular gritty soul music of Stax to a new demographic. He stated, "To me, as a jock, knowing the power of the music, it became an asset. I went on the air with some Otis Redding and William Bell, and I started having fun in Washington, D.C., because nobody else would play the music in Washington and in Baltimore and all those areas. The music that was dominant was the doo-wop music and the early Motown music. So there I was with all of the great Stax music that they had at that time, playing that and getting a lot of attention in Washington, D.C., and pretty soon I became top jock there.Ó[48]
Stewart continued to rely on Bell whose promotions of Stax music did help record sales somewhat, but not enough to bring Stax out of debt. Stewart, who knew that BellÕs compelling radio endorsements could not fully restore the company's financial stability, realized that BellÕs expertise, was something of a rare treasure. As a result, Stewart called Bell and asked him to become the chief promotion person on a full-time basis. Bell described StewartÕs somewhat desperate proposition declaring, ÒJim called me and said, ÔMan, I wish you'd consider coming to Memphis and taking over as the promotion person at Stax records. We really have a problem. We aren't selling records. Atlantic isn't getting product played for us. I'm $90,000 in the hole and about to go under. But I believe that if you came here and worked for the company, the disk jockeys around the country that respect you would play this product if you were involved here.ÕÓ[49]
After accepting the offer and relocating to Memphis, Bell helped push Stax artists like Sam & Dave, Crawfordsville, Arkansas native Johnnie Taylor, Otis Redding, and the Staples Singers nationwide and beyond. He declared, ÒPretty soon, we got to the point where instead of selling 300,000 singles, we're selling a million singles, and instead of selling 30,000 albums, we're selling a half-million and a million albums.Ó[50] Such success was the ideal goal for Bell who had shifted his view of black empowerment from one of civil rights activism to black capitalism. In the midst of the economic success he helped to establish for Stax, he discovered the added bonus of a harmoniously integrated environment. He stated, ÒTo sit in that office with this white man, sharing the same telephone, sharing the same thoughts and being treated like an equal human being was a breath of fresh air for me.Ó[51]
BellÕs presence as a former disciple of Dr. King also provided Stewart with a key political advantage in that Bell could help Òto salve the festering black anger that was lapping at the door like waves from an advancing hurricane.Ó[52] By 1966, racial tension in Memphis was beginning to escalate as news of a sustained national protest movement inspired frustrated Memphians to act out. Stewart was aware of the growing dissension and, as a result, felt BellÕs presence could deflect any misplaced anger. As a result, Stax circumnavigated racial upheaval for the next two years. Beyond racial tensions, BellÕs primary duty was to promote StaxÕ music to a wider range market places.
In this regard, Booker T. Jones took note of BellÕs skills and their importance for StaxÕ future. In a recent interview, Jones stated, ÒWe werenÕt a professional company before Al. We were operating, but we didnÕt have big business going on. We had big music going on, but we didnÕt know how to do it. Jim didnÕt know how to do it. Jim was a banker. Al Bell wore a beard; he was announcing blackness, which wasnÕt done very much then.Ó As Bell assumed more responsibilities at Stax he even began to dabble in production and engineering, most notably of one of Redding's biggest hits, which was a duet with fellow Stax star Carla Thomas, "Tramp," in 1967.[53]
Nineteen sixty-seven was certainly a bittersweet year at Stax. At the yearÕs height, Redding, backed by the MGÕs, performed with rising stars Sam & Dave on a European tour. Upon arrival in England, the Beatles, along with countless crazed fans, enthusiastically received the Stax crew as they exited the plane. This intensely positive reception served as evidence that Stax had achieved international fame. Rising Stax star, Sam Moore, observed that Òthe European people went crazy, they just went crazy.Ó Al Bell, likewise astounded by the experience, said, ÒTo be treated by the bellhops or attendants at the hotels in London, like stars, we hadnÕt felt that or experienced that before.Ó[54]
The Stax/Volt European Revue Tour instilled new confidence for all who participated in it. Cropper contended, ÒIt changed everybodyÕs perceptions of themselves. It gave us a new insight into what the world really thought of us, cause we didnÕt think, probably, outside the block we lived on.Ó[55] Moreover, the MG's caught a glimpse of a social environment in which racial tensions were not as pronounced they were back in Memphis. This eye-opening international experience signaled to both Redding and the MGÕs that their careers legitimized in a way obscured by financial instability and lingering racism in America.
Yet, the seemingly unending cycle of limited domestic growth and notoriety seemed to be dispelled completely when the Stax caravan returned from Europe, and were promptly asked to perform at the Monterey Pop Festival. At this venue, Stax players learned that outside of Memphis an American audience of some 50,000 proto-hippies was poised to receive with open arms their exceptional brand of Soul. Likewise, MontereyÕs rousing reception suggested that Redding was gaining in popularity among white listeners. On ReddingÕs response, horn player Wayne Jackson declared, ÒThe world was beginning to view Stax as Otis Redding.Ó[56] Indeed, Redding, at only 26 years old, was at the peak of his ability.
Taking the next step toward enhancing his career, Redding set out in December of that same year with his new backing band, the Bar-Kays, on a midwestern tour. The journey was to start in Madison, Wisconsin on December 10, 1967. Unfortunately, before the first performance, ReddingÕs newly purchased private airplane lost control and plunged into the frigid waters of Lake Monona, just outside of Madison. The crash killed Redding and six others, including four members of the Bar-Kays.[57]
While everyone at Stax plummeted into a state of deep sorrow, ReddingÕs music continued to throb with a life of its own. In early 1968, ÒSittin' On the Dock of the Bay,Ó rose to the number one slot on the pop charts, signaling that Redding had definitively struck a major chord among white Americans. In terms of the songÕs content, it served as an intense personal statement that revealed more about the manÕs inner-world than any previous work. The song also featured CropperÕs compelling guitar leads, along with a grandiose horn section. As an indication of the strong friendship that existed between Cropper and Redding, Cropper spent nearly a year in the studio working with several of ReddingÕs unfinished recordings. With the help of Duck Dunn, Cropper remixed several tracks for a double album entitled History of Otis Redding and later issued more previously unreleased tracks with The Immortal Otis Redding.[58]
The death of Otis Redding certainly caused Stax personnel to turn their attention inward with a feeling of solemnity and woe. It was also clear that much of what went on at Stax studio had continuously existed in an insular realm, almost completely shielded from the surmounting racial tensions that existed in Memphis throughout the sixties. However, the unanimity in isolation that enabled Stax players to develop a distinctive sound, irrespective of MemphisÕ larger race-related turmoil, came to a crashing halt in 1968.
Martin Luther King Jr. arrived in Memphis in early February of that year and was determined to address the substandard work place conditions, abusive white supervisors, poor education, and low wages that locked most black workers into poverty. The need for KingÕs assistance intensified when two sanitation workers were mangled in the back of a faulty truck, igniting a public employee strike that brought to a boil long-simmering issues of racial injustice. King took note of the accident and decided to aim the first phase of organized protest at ameliorating the dire situation of over 1,300 disenfranchised sanitation workers. Rushing into action, he proceeded to rally local civil rights activists, including the Reverend Samuel Kyles, and direct a sixty-eight day march against a defiant Mayor Henry Loeb and the all-white city council that refused to make working conditions any safer, let alone raise the wages of black workers.[59]
Ultimately, KingÕs lengthy and frustrating crusade, in which Isaac Hayes and a few other Stax employees participated, met its demise on April 4, 1968 at the Lorraine Hotel when a white man by the name of James Earl Ray fired a shot from a nearby flophouse window and hit Dr. King in the head. Dr. KingÕs colleague Rev. Kyles watched in horror as the unthinkable unfolded:
I was there when that bullet was fired. I was standing on the balcony. I mean, I spent the last hour of his life on earth. ÔBout 6:45 we stepped on that balconyÉthe shot rang out. I look back and saw he had been knocked from the railing back onto the balcony. I rushed to his side; there was a gaping hole in the right side of his face and blood was everywhere, just bleeding profusely. I ran in the room to call an ambulance; you couldnÕt use the phone without the operator. When the operator heard the shot, she left the switchboard. IÕm beating on the wall saying answer the phone! Answer the phone! Answer the phone! She went in the courtyard looked up and saw Martin on the floor and she had a heart attack on the spot. She died about four days later. I ran back outside. The police where coming and I hollered to them: call an ambulance on your police radio! Dr. King has been shot.[60]
Ironically, Stax artists spent a great deal of leisure time at the Lorraine during the summer. Isaac Hayes said that the Lorraine was the site where he and many other Stax employees spent time by the pool eating fried chicken and ice cream to stave off the summer swelter. Al bell called it their Òsecond oasis.Ó The fact that Dr. KingÕs assassination took place in an establishment near and dear to the Stax community made the already shocking news hit that much closer to home.
White horn player Don Nix along with Duck Dunn stood in front of the Stax studio when the news first hit Memphis. Nix said, ÒThere was a lot of activity. People were moving around in the streets.Ó [61] Evidentially, Dunn and Nix did not fear for their own safety during this calamitous moment. Because they maintained a strong rapport with nearly every black business owner in the vicinity, they never imagined that anyone in the neighborhood, white or black, would want to hurt them. Nix remembered that later in the evening, ÒDuck Dunn and I started to go out to our cars when Isaac Hayes came out and said, ÔNo, I'll drive you out,Õ because it was doubtful we would have made it.Ó As he encountered the seriousness in Hayes expression, Dunn Òcould see smoke on the horizon.Ó[62]
Over the course of the next five days, the smoke became fire. Much of MemphisÕ distressed black community engaged in riots, prompting the mayor to initiate dawn to dusk curfews and the assistance of the National Guard in armored vehicles. A report of the international chiefs of police summarized the damage: three civilian deaths, forty-seven severe injuries, property damage at around $900,000, 275 stores looted, and several major fires confined to ghetto areas. Like fire, violence had begun in quick bursts and Òended in a sputter.Ó[63]
In the midst of the pandemonium, Jim Stewart and Estelle Axton took precautions to protect the most valuable items housed in the studio: the master tapes. Axton said, ÒWhen we heard that Dr. King was assassinated, it was a shock. The only thing we could think of at that particular time was to be safe. We didnÕt know whether the building would be burned, somebody would break in, or what would happen because there were riots all over the city. So, Jim and two or three others loaded up the master tapes we had in the back because that was a lot of investment. They put them in the trunk o the car and we closed our business. We were very fortunate. We were protected.Ó[64] Although several of the white-owned businesses near College St. and McLemore Ave. went up in flames, the Stax building remained intact. StaxÕ respectable status in the neighborhood provided shelter from the firestorm.
While the Stax building escaped a tempest of civilian rage, Stax employees did not wholly evade the vengeance of the Memphis police. The day after Dr. KingÕs assassination, Dunn returned to the Stax building to retrieve his bass. Upon arrival, he encountered Hayes. Dunn recounted the rest of the experience: Òall of a sudden these cop cars pull up, cops jump out and pull out their guns. They thought these black guys were doing something to hurt us because we were white. Pulling them shotguns on Isaac. You want to see someone feel like an idiot? Well, it was our fault because we werenÕt supposed to be down there – they had helicopters and shit flying around, this was an area that was off limits, but this was where we lived and worked, we were trying to act like everything was normal. And the next day, having to go down there and face that shit- I mean, the cops jumped in because we were white. It makes you feel like shit.Ó[65]
Dunn and HayesÕ alienating experience serves, in many respects, as a key illustration of how racial tensions that erupted outside the studio complicated relationships and fomented suspicions among black and white Stax employees. Jones, who had always been close friends with Steve Cropper, began to resent the fact that Cropper had acquired a percentage of the company in 1968. At the same time, Duck Dunn and Al Jackson did not speak for months until Dunn approached him and learned that Al bell had fed Jackson misinformation about Dunn, saying that Dunn Ò was really going behind their backs, calling them niggers and all that shit.Ó Dunn expounded on those tenuous years saying, Òthere was always somebody in there brainwashing you, telling you, ÔHeÕs an asshole. HeÕs a good guy.Õ But you never knew who was the asshole and who the good guy was, thatÕs what I could never figure out. And when it really got back to it, the whole thing seemed to work back to old A.B. (Al Bell).[66]
Bell, who made race a major issue at Stax, decided it was time for the organization to move into a political direction indicative of a greater sense of black pride rather than integrated harmony. In laying out the terms of StaxÕ next phase he declared, ÒWe would have the wherewithal in this capitalistic society to perpetuate our culture, our history, educate our children, et cetera. Dr. KingÕs death reinforced that thinking in me and I set out from that point forward to make sure that as an African-American that whatever it was I was doing in this music business that I was going to aid in the development of that economic base. I felt that the music of African-Americans was about the only music that America could claim as its own. It was our natural resourceÉand it was with this natural resource that we would be able to build our economic base.Ó[67]
As Bell promulgated his new agenda, he immediately confronted Jim and Estelle over what he considered unfulfilled obligations. At a meeting during a picnic on BellÕs boat, he, along with all the key black employees including Bell, Porter, Hayes, Jones, Deanie Parker, and Al Jackson, told Stewart and Axton that if Bell was not brought on board as a partner they would Òforce JimÕs hand if it needed to be forced.Ó[68] Stewart, who had recently agreed to sell Stax to Gulf & Western, made sure that Bell became a partner when Stax entered its new phase of ownership. According to a young engineer at Stax who was privy to this turn events, ÒJim had no choice because of what was happening racially. That company never could have survived if Jim had not taken in Al bell. If he had made another white man his partnerÉit just wouldnÕt have happened with King and all. We were having to carry guns in there. It was crazy. Jim made a smart move as far as a business, how to survive.Ó[69] With Bell at the helm and StaxÕ new affiliation with Gulf & Western, the label advertised that it was in solidarity with the growing intensity of the black pride movement. [70] In 1969, the Stax newsletter, Stax Fax, reprinted the SNCCÕs Black Manifesto, declared its support for the NAACPÕs Julian Bond and Coretta King, offered features on Dr. King, and editorials that discussed how to counteract pejorative racial stereotypes.[71]
Despite the success of several 1969 releases, including HayesÕ triple platinum Hot Buttered Soul, tensions at Stax lingered. Instigated by the meddling of Al Bell, David Porter and Isaac Hayes experienced a serious falling out and would never write music together again. Porter pursued his own solo career elsewhere as Hayes became BellÕs right hand man in most matters. At this time, even the reticent Stewart voiced his dissatisfaction saying, ÒI didnÕt like what was happening. Looking at it from a purely business standpoint, why give up a successful combination? I never could understand it. I always had somewhat of the ideology that we were family. It was nothing but naiveness on my partÓ[72]
In 1969, Booker T. Jones, after just recording the hit record Soul Limbo with Steve Cropper, did not like the way things were going at Stax. When he learned of the Porter, Hayes, and Bell controversy, he considered it the last straw. That same year, Jones left Stax for California with his new white bride Pricilla Coolidge, and his mother and father. Jones was reluctant to leave Memphis and in an attempt to bring Al Jackson, Steve Cropper, and Duck Dunn with him, he extended a new label deal on A&M that he had received earlier that year. Cropper, Dunn, and Jackson were tempted because they too harbored resentment toward Al Bell after he denied them opportunity to play on Paul SimonÕs soon to be hit, ÒBridge over Troubled Waters.Ó Ultimately Cropper did not leave because he believed he would eventually become a partner at Stax.[73] Dunn and Jackson, being company loyalists, also could not envision a life in California. As Jones made his way West, the MGÕs heyday came to a quiet close.
Although Jones, Jackson, Cropper and Dunn did reunite at later dates and remained friends, Stax and the MGÕs first phase of success, albeit impermanent, illustrates that integrated communities, immersed in shared economic conditions, created art that flourished in the national marketplace and gained nation-wide acceptance. Beyond the numbers, Booker T. Jones has suggested that the Stax experience was a Òconfirmation that peopleÕs hearts can change, it was a confirmation of a lot of things people were trying to get going in the sixties and had no success with, it was affirmation that people could really care about each other and cooperate. It was crazy.Ó[74] As they embarked on this groundbreaking journey, the MGÕs became the architects of the Òearthy, simple, and funkyÓ Memphis sound that thrust Rufus and Carla Thomas, Albert King, Wilson Pickett, and the venerable Otis Redding into the spotlight of the American culture industry.[75]
In the end, the integrated dynamic at Stax did not survive in the wake Dr. KingÕs murder. The labelÕs unique brand of black and white artistic collaboration, formerly existing beneath MemphisÕ race radar, received intensified scrutiny after 1968. With regard to the far-reaching effect of the murder, Booker T. Jones said, ÒIf Dr. king had not been shot, Stax would still be operating today.Ó[76] Moreover, Stax morphed into a company that had to support Black Nationalism as the race issue took up permanent residence inside the Stax building. With a new cause to champion, Stax catered to increasingly fed-up black audience as the Civil Rights MovementÕs dream of integration and doctrine of nonviolence gave way to more drastic measures.
In even broader terms, the historical record has only begun to expose the degree to which the incomparable soul music idiom, considered by many to be an all-black form of music, grew out of urban and rural, black and white, southern musical tastes, traditions, trials, and talents, all of which gradually coalesced throughout the fifties and sixties. Within this context, the artistic and commercial success of the ÒMemphis soundÓ was too a result of the uncommon interracial cooperation to which Cropper referred at the beginning of this work. In essence, the rise of Stax emerges as an historical monument to what could have been the next stage in AmericaÕs cultural evolution, while its decline reflects the larger social forces that disrupted not only a longstanding racial status quo, but also the advancement of integrated American music.
[1] Stax was
recently reactivated by Concord Records in 2006, but was officially bankrupt in
1975.