From The Washington Post
"I don't know anybody that can sing a song like Aretha Franklin," Ray Charles once said. "Nobody. Period." But it took her 10 albums to finally reach a wide national audience. In I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You: Aretha Franklin, Respect, and the Making of a Soul Music Masterpiece (St. Martin's Griffin, $14.95), music journalist Matt Dobkin describes how that 10th, groundbreaking 1967 album -- which included such iconic songs as "Respect" and "I Never Loved a Man" -- was made. "A brash Jew from the Bronx, a lock-jaw old-money heir, and a southern country boy from Alabama -- these were the figures who ... helped a young girl in her twenties from Detroit, a mother since her teens who hadn't completed high school, become the embodiment of black womanhood." These music professionals -- Franklin's producer at Atlantic Records, the Columbia executive who first "discovered" her and the owner of a tiny studio in Muscle Shoals, Ala. -- helped her move from being "smothered ... under a phalanx of lush strings" to showing "the world that forty-one minutes ... of church-influenced soul music could be [a] lasting work of passion and craftsmanship." But Franklin led the way. One member of the "killer house band of fiercely funky white guys" remembers how she took control: "She kinda looks around, like, Nobody's watchin' me. I thought she thought for just a second, Is this not my session? And with all the talent she had, she just hit this unknown chord. Kind of kawunka-kawunka-kawung! Like a bell ringing. And every musician in the room stopped what they were doing, went to their guitars and started tunin' up. They knew someone had come who was gonna cut somethin' heavy on that day." Flash forward 34 years to journalist Touré's profile of Alicia Keys -- "Neo-Soul's newest princess" -- whose career didn't really take off until she "took the weight of writing and producing on herself." The profile appears in Never Drank the Kool-Aid (Picador, $15), a collection of Touré's profiles and essays. A longtime chronicler of the hip-hop world, Touré (yes, that's his full name) says he never drank the Kool-Aid: "I never bought into the philosophy of the rappers, singers, and celebrities I wrote about. I wasn't there to help extend their brands and the story they were selling. I was there to try to understand who they were beyond the image they want us to think they were." After all, he continues, "journalism is about truth-telling, but when you bring those instincts to the world of Black entertainment you step into a community that's not interested in or prepared for honesty. They don't want to hear the truth about their emperors' wardrobe." Nevertheless, in profiles of Biggie Smalls, Eminem, 50 Cent and many others, Touré tries to bring it home. But it gets complicated. When Tupac Shakur was shot (not, sadly, for the last time) while he was on trial for sexual assault, rumors went around that the police had set it up. Touré wrote an article for the Village Voice -- included here -- suggesting that it was just as likely that Shakur had set himself up: "In theory, and it was just a theory, it seemed plausible: Pac rolled away from the shooting physically unscathed, his reputation for bravery and boldness and badassness maximized. This gave us indisputable proof that he was indeed a modern phoenix, able to survive a rain of bullets." But the rapper told another journalist that when he read the piece, he cried. "I took him at his word and deconstructed his body and his life like they themselves were part of an art show," writes Touré. "But art doesn't cry if it gets a bad review." But sometimes the artist's life is the art. Or the art is what the artist wants his life to be. The subject of Joshua Gamson's The Fabulous Sylvester: The Legend, the Music, the Seventies in San Francisco (Picador, $15) knew he was destined to be famous from his early childhood in South Central Los Angeles. "He seemed to have made a decision very early on that he would be heard. 'If you said no,' his mother said, 'he was determined to let it be yes.'" As a teenager, Sylvester James, Jr., known as Dooni growing up and just Sylvester later on, found his way to the Disquotays, partying drag queens that "were a cross between a street gang and a sorority." And "in a world where 'ridiculous' was the highest of compliments, Miss Dooni was the most ridiculous of them all." He, or she, did become famous, her exuberant style coinciding perfectly with the 1970s. Disco, Sylvester said once, was about how "everyone can be strange and live out their fantasies on the dance floor ... . I've always lived out my fantasies of being whatever I wanted to be." Sylvester had a short life -- dying of AIDS in 1988 -- but it was a fabulous one. -- Rachel Hartigan Shea
Copyright 2006, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.
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Among the greatest singing voices ever recorded, Aretha Franklin's is so distinctive that the fact that the album that made her a star was her tenth is just dumbfounding. She essayed jazz singing for seven years under the sympathetic auspices of John Hammond, rediscoverer of Bessie Smith, discoverer of Billie Holiday, and organizer of the seminal Carnegie Hall "From Spirituals to Swing" concerts, but despite a fine first album, she had no hits. Then Atlantic Records' Jerry Wexler signed her, married her to the fine rhythm section--all twentysomething self-described rednecks--at Fame recording studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, and
ba-whommm! Dobkin gets seemingly every living soul responsible for Franklin's epoch-making album (save Aretha herself) to impart his or her perspective on its making. This involves much more than a track-by-track account of the recording sessions. Dobkin exuberantly, but never quite gushingly, relates Franklin's earlier life, other involvements, and the civil rights impact, for women as well as blacks, of the album's biggest hit, "Respect." A standout in the current crowd of classic-album histories.
Ray OlsonCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved