Five years ago, when he
was still working the lounges, second billed to such as Mongo
Santamaria, Flip Wilson had an album out that had this skit about
Christopher Columbus. Columbus is telling Queen Isabella about his
wanting to journey off to a new land, "to discover America."
"
America?!" the queen exclaims, in a high, throaty black voice. "You goin' to
America? You gonna find Ray Charles?"
* * *
Ray Charles is one of the great ones, a genius, as he's been called
for some 13 years, or, as Sinatra put it, "the only genius in the
business." He is the major influence on dozens of blues, jazz, R&B,
pop, and rock & roll musicians. Joe Cocker idolized him, from
faraway England, to the point of imitation. So did Billy Preston, who
would show up at Ray's doorstep in L.A. to audition. Aretha Franklin
called him "the Right Reverend," and Georgia legislator Julian Bond
picked up the beat, in a poem called "The Bishop of Atlanta: Ray
Charles," finishing:
Throbbing from the gutter
On Saturday night
Silver offering only
The Right Reverend's back in town
Don't it make you feel all right?
Ray Charles' 26 years in the business are represented by some 40
albums. He got his first gold record with "What'd I Say" for Atlantic
Records in the summer of 1959, seven years after he'd joined that label.
Charles then switched to ABC and began a streak with "Georgia on My
Mind," "Ruby," and "Hit the Road Jack." He topped them all with a
country & western album that gave him a three-million-selling
single, "I Can't Stop Loving You," along with criticism from fans who
didn't want to hear the Genius kicking shit. Others, like Gladys Knight,
listened: "Ray Charles," She said, "hipped a lot of the black
people to country & western bands . . . we was kind of listening
before, but he made it even more down-to-earth where you could dig it."
And Quincy Jones, long-time friend and arranger with Charles,
appreciated his pioneer sense of eclecticism: "Ray Charles was
responsible," he said, "for us opening our ears to all kinds of music."
Born September 23rd, 1930, in Albany, Georgia, Ray first jumped onto a
piano bench, for fun, at age five in Greensville, Florida, where his
parents had moved into what he remembered as a "shotgun house" – "If you
stood on the porch and shot a gun you'd go right through it". Over the
next two years, he lost his sight (he had been stricken with glaucoma,
doctors determined years later); his parents, Bailey and Araetha, were
laborers who couldn't afford medical help. "When I wroke up in the
mornings," Charles recalled, "I'd have to pry my eyes open." Blinded, he
learned to work to help out, washing clothes, scrubbing floors, even
chopping wood, until he went to blind school in Orlando, Florida. He
studied music there – he'd begun to pick out tunes on a neighbor's piano
by age seven – and by 15 was writing arrangements for big bands he
heard in his imagination. Then his mother died, following his father by
five years, and Charles left school to go to work, playing in combos
around Georgia and Florida. He was "crawling," he said, until he split
to Seattle and got a record contract from Swingtime, a small label. He
cut "Confession Blues," then had his first success, "Baby, Let Me Hold
Your Hand," done in the style of one of his main influences – or, as
Johnny Otis put it, "It was a wonderful thing, but he definitely was
aping Charles Brown." Ray would soon develop his own fusion of blues,
jazz and gospel, touring with Lowell Fulson, then forming a backup group
for Ruth Brown in New York. He returned to Seattle and formed the Maxim
Trio, worked at the Rocking Chair club and on local TV, and found
himself signed to Atlantic Records when Swingtime sold his contract.
First sessions were done with studio musicians (and, one time, with a
pickup band including a Mexican-dominated horn section at a radio studio
in New Orleans). At Atlantic, Ray began to write arrangements and
compose his own great songs, blended gospel with a rocking R&B
sound, formed a septet, cut "I Got a Woman," and moved into the first of
Many heights.
And all the time, he was on junk. He'd been using heroin since 1948,
when he was 18, and he'd been busted before, around 1956, but it had all
been kept hushed. Then, in 1965, Charles was arrested in Boston,
reportedly in possession of a planeload of heroin, and entered a
hospital in Lynwood, California. According to published stories, he
spent three months undergoing medical and psychiatric help, followed by a
year off. He saw a Viennese psychoanalyst regularly.
Charles has his own version of his involvement with drugs, but over
the years, he has refused to discuss it. When Playboy asked him, in
1970, how he started, he begged off the question. Asked if he might not
be an influence to stop potential drug-users, he replied: "Bullshit.
Everybody's aware that cigarettes probably cause cancer, but how many
people do you think would give them up just because Ray Charles stopped
smoking?" And, he continued, "I'm fed up with talking about that aspect
of my life. Jesus Christ couldn't get me to say another word on the
subject to anybody." Downbeat, in fact, must have had the devil on
retainer; an article on Charles in the jazz publication took the form of
an apologetic memo to future interviewers of Ray Charles, warning them
not to ask him about narcotics. Instead, they were advised, accentuate
the positive! Write about him knowing how to produce his own records! In
his own studios! For his own label! How he plays chess and repairs
radios and TVs! How he could even fly his own plane if he had to! How he
helps fight Sickle Cell Anemia! How he's gotten all these Grammies and
awards! Let the good times roll!
But when you call him the epitome of the American Dream, as Whitney
Balliett did in the New Yorker, that's pretty positive. And yet, you've
got to know that there were some nightmares along the way.
In two short sessions with Ray Charles, in a dressing room in San
Francisco and in his recording studio in Los Angeles, I found him an
articulate man, sometimes volatile in defense of his pride, deep-steeped
to the point of repetition in telling what to him was the truth, and
seemingly inclined to halve that "truth" sometimes, in discussing the
beatdown aspects of his life. Example: He says, in the interview, he has
maintained sales figures between 300,000 and 800,000 per album through
the years. Fact, from ABC, which distributes his Tangerine Records: His
best record in recent years, M
essage from the People, sold 250,000.
Volcanic Action of My Soul, released in 1971, sold about 200,000. And the three albums before
Volcanic "did even less." His most recent pop chart single, said the ABC executive, was "Don't Change on Me," in June, 1970.
Example: The sudden shift from Atlantic to ABC. Charles says it was
for a big money deal, and that he gave Atlantic a chance to match the
offer. Sources at Atlantic insist that Charles had people around him who
got him to sign the ABC deal before Atlantic even learned about it.
So when we got the conversation around to dope, to his 19-year
addiction to heroin, it was a surprise to hear Ray plunge into his
hooking and kicking, and it was no surprise that the stories sometimes
seemed, in at least two definitions of that word, fantastic. Example:
Ray says he took that year off the road, after his bust in '65, to make
the courts happy (he continued to produce records, including "Crying
Time" and "Let's Go Get Stoned"). He'd kicked even before the bust, he
hinted in our talk. But Ron Granger, who was director of Tangerine for
three years and knew Charles from long ago, told us: "He took that year
off to kick it. It took a year."
But the man is clean, a nonstop worker, a perfectionist/taskmaster
devoted to his music. He moves around his office building with ease,
with no cane, still missing a stairstep now and then as he moves between
control room and main studio, instructing musicians, running the
console, re-doing his vocals. He is a gentleman as I toss in questions
over an 11-hour mixing session. Sometimes, ego challenged, there's
volcanic action, as he stands up, all dressed in black, and shouts a
reply, punctuating it with a "
Hel-lo!" before he sits again. In
his hotel room, with milk in the refrigerator and coffee and toast on
the table, he writhes on the couch, sits forward pensively, falls almost
onto his knee to find another restful position. He's just returned from
a visit to President Nixon at the White House, where he accepted praise
for his work as honorary chairman of the sickle cell foundation. ("It
was a gas!" he would tell reporters; to me, he said he might even vote
for Nixon, given his record of hiring Negroes and given McGovern's
strange changes.)
We accentuated the positive for a bit, talked about how he plays
chess with a specially carved set, how he admired Bobby Fischer for
insisting on championship playing conditions, how he "saw" baseball
games by going to the stadium with a transistor at his ear, how he chose
the songs for the new album,
Through the Eyes of Love. We began by asking him to recall himself as a five year-old, when his eyes began to run, to hurt.
* * *
It didn't happen like one day I could see 100 miles and the next day I
couldn't see an inch. It was, each day for two years my sight was less
and less. My mother was always real with me, and bein' poor, you got to
pretty much be honest with your children. We couldn't afford no
specialists. I was lucky I could get a doctor – that's a specialist.
When you were losing your sight, did you try to take in as much as possible, to remember things?
I
guess I was too small to really care that much. I knew there were
things I liked to watch. I used to love to look at the sun. That's a bad
thing for my eyes, but I liked that. I used to love to look at the moon
at night. I would go out in the back yard and stare at it. It just
fascinated the hell out of me. And another thing that fascinated me that
would scare most people is lightnin'. When I was a kid, I thought that
was pretty. Anything like brightness, any kind of lights. I probably
would've been a fire bug or somethin'.
And there were colors. I was crazy about red. Always thought it was a
beautiful color. I remember the basic colors. I don't know nothin'
about chartreuse and all – I don't know what the
hell that is.
But I know the black, green, yellow, brown and stuff like that. And
naturally I remember my mother, who was pretty. God, she was pretty. She
was a little woman. She must have been about 4'11", I guess, and when I
was 12 or 13, I was taller and bigger than my mother, and she had this
long pretty black hair, used to come way down her back. Pretty
good-lookin' chick, man [
laughter].
A lot of people have asked you to define soul. I'd like to get a definition of beauty.
If
you're talkin' about physical beauty, I would have to say that to me
beauty is probably about the same thing that it means to most people.
You look at them and the structure of their face, the way their skin is,
and say like, a woman, the contour of her body, you know what I mean?
The same way as I would walk out and feel the car. Put my hands on the
lines of a car, and I'd know whether I'd like it or not from the way the
designs of the lines are. As I said, I was fortunate enough to see
until I was about seven, and I remember the things that I heard people
calling beautiful.
How about beauty in music?
I guess you could call
me a sentimentalist, man, really. I like Chopin or Sibelius. People who
write softness, you know, and although Beethoven to me was quite heavy,
he wrote some really touching songs, and I think that
Moonlight Sonata
– in spite of the fact that it wound up being very popular – it's
somethin' about that, man, you could just feel the pain that this man
was goin' through. Somethin' had to be happenin' in that man. You know,
he was very, very lonesome when he wrote that. Anyway, I thought that
with the exception of just two or three compositions, he was a little
bit heavy for me. Just like from a technical point of view, I think
Bach, if you really want to learn technique, that was the cat, 'cause he
had all them fugues and things, your hands doin' all kinda different
things. Personally, outside of technique, I didn't care for Bach, but I
must say, in order for you to make your hands be able to do different
things from each other, he was the greatest in the world for that.
Did you try to catch up with high school or college after you left school?
No.
When I left school, I had to get out and really tough it, as you know,
because my mother passed away when I was 15. I didn't have no brothers
or sisters. But my mama always taught me, "Look, you got to learn how to
get along by yourself," and she's always tellin' me, "Son, one of these
days I'm gonna be dead, and you're gonna need to know how to survive,
because even your best friends, although they may want to do things for
you; after all, they will have their own lives." So at that point I
started tryin' to help myself. So what do I do to help myself? The thing
I can do best, or figure I can do best, anyway. And that is sing or
play the piano or both.
What else did they teach you in school that could have been applied to a career?
Well,
I don't know where I would have used it, but I can probably type as
fast as any secretary. Well, not any, I can type about 60-65 words a
minute, somethin' like that when I wanna. Then I can make all kinds of
things with my hands. I can make chairs and brooms and mops and rugs and
pocketbooks and belts and all kinds of things like that. So guess if I
had to, I would go and buy me some leather. I love to work with my
hands, and I'm sure that's what I would do had I not played music, you
see, because it's the kind of a thing that you can use plenty of
imagination in it, you know what I mean? And so I know how to do various
kinds of stitchin' Mexican stitchin' and regular stitchin' overlappin'
it and stuff. So I guess I would have – although it would have been a
very meek livin', I suppose. You can't turn out a lot by hand.
Music was a meek living for a long time, too.
Yeah,
it was really crawlin'. I became very ill a couple times' I suffered
from malnutrition, you know. I was really messed up because I wasn't
eatin' nothin', and I wouldn't beg. I refused to beg. I'd say hell, I'd
starve first. I mean, this is just embedded in me as a child. You don't
beg. You go and try to offer your services or somethin', but if you ask
somebody for somethin' and they don't give it to you, you don't beg them
for it. Two things you don't do, you don't beg and you don't steal. And
I don't do neither right now. That's right.
Did you get to the point where you actually did steal?
No. No. Those are the two things I would not do, and I don't do it now.
What kind of music education did you have in Florida?
They
taught you how to read the music, and I had to play Chopin, Beethoven,
you know, the normal thing. Just music lessons. Not really theory. I
don't know what that
is. It's just, they taught me how to read
music, and naturally how to use correct fingerin', and once you've
learned that you go from the exercises into little compositions into
things like Chopin. That's the way it went, although I was tryin' to
play boogie-woogie, man, 'cause I could always just about play anything I
heard. My ear was always pretty good, but I did have a few music
teachers, and so I do know music quite well, if you don't mind my saying
so. I was never taught to write music, but when I was 12 years old I
was writing arrangements for a big band. Hell, if you can read music,
you can write it, and I think certainly what helped me is that I'm a
piano player, so I know chords. Naturally, I can hear chords, and I
could always play just about anything I could hear. It was just a
question of learning how to put it down on paper. I just studied how to
write for horns on my own. Like, understanding that the saxophone is in
different keys, and also, when I was goin' to school I took up clarinet.
See, I was a great fan of Artie Shaw. I used to think, "Man, ooh, he
had the prettiest sound," and he had so much feelin' in his playin'. I
always felt that, still feel it today. I mean, it's amazing, I don't
know why he stopped playin', but I always thought he was one of the best
clarinet players around, bar none. So I took up clarinet as well as
piano, but piano was the first thing I took up.
Where were you hearing this boogiewoogie?
We
lived next door for some years to a little general store, that's what it
was, 'cause this is a country town, remember, Greensville, Florida, and
it had a little store there where the kids could come in and buy soda
pop and candy and the people could buy kerosene for their lamps, you
know. And they had a jukebox in there. And the guy who owned it also had
a piano. Wylie Pittman is the guy, even when I was three and four years
old, if I was out in the yard playin', and if he started playin' that
piano, I would stop playin' and run in there and jump on the stool.
Normally, you figure a kid run in there like that and jump on the stool
and start bangin' on the piano, the guy would throw him off. "Say, get
away from here, don't you see me". . . but he didn't do that. I always
loved that man for that. I was about five years old, and on my birthday
he had some people there. He said, "RC" – This is what they called me
then – "look, I want you to get up on the stool, and I want you to play
for these people." Now, let's face it. I was five years old. They know
damn well I wasn't playin'. I'm Just bangin' on the keys, you
understand. But that was encouragement that got me like that, and I
think that the man felt that any time a child is willin' to stop
playin', you know, out in the yard and havin' fun, to come in and hear
somebody play the piano, evidently this child has music in his bones,
you know. And he didn't discourage me, which he could have, you know
what I mean? Maybe I wouldn't have been a musician at all, because I
didn't have a musical family, now remember that.
You were also able to hear 'The Grand Ole Opry' when you were a kid?
Yep,
yeah, I always – every Saturday night, I never did miss it. I don't
know why I liked the music. I really thought that it was somethin' about
country music, even as a youngster – I couldn't figure out what it was
then, but I know what it is now. But then I don't know why I liked it
and I used to just love to hear Minnie Pearl, because I thought she was
so funny.
How old were you then?
Oh, I guess I was about
seven, eight, and I remember Roy Acuff and Gene Austin. Although I was
bred in and around the blues, I always did have interest in other music,
and I felt the closest music, really, to the blues – they'd make them
steel guitars cry and whine, and it really attracted me. I don't know
what it is. Gospel and the blues are really, if you break it down,
almost the same thing. It's just a question of whether you're talkin'
about a woman or God. I come out of the Baptist church, and naturally
whatever happened to me in that church is gonna spill over. So I think
the blues and gospel music is quite synonymous to each other.
Big Bill Broonzy once said that "Ray Charles has got the
blues he's cryin' sanctified. He's mixin' the blues with the spirituals.
. . . He should be singin' in a church."
I personally feel
that it was not a question of mixing gospel with the blues. It was a
question of singin' the only way I knew how to sing. This was not a
thing where I was tryin' to take the church music and make the blues out
of it or vice versa. All I was tryin' to do was sing the only way I
knew how, period. I was raised in the church. I went to the Sunday
school. I went to the morning service, and that's where they had the
young people doin' their performin', and I went to night service, and I
went to all the revival meetings. My parents said, "You
will go to
church."
I mean they ain't no if about that. So singin' in the church and
hearin' this good singin' in the church and also hearin' the blues, I
guess this was the only way I
could sing, outside of loving Nat
Cole so well, and I tried to imitate him very much. When I was starting
out, I loved the man so much until I really – that's why I can
understand a lot of other artists who come up and try to imitate me. You
know, when you love somebody so much and you feel what they're doin' is
close to what you feel, some of that rubs off on you – so I did that.
But, say, Joe Cocker is a white man, and British; you were emulating a fellow black.
That's
right, but man, look, I want you to – please, if you can ever put this
into words, 'cause I can't say it, but if you can ever find a way to say
this – I wish to hell that people could do one thing. We don't have to
lose our identity. Nobody does, because they happen to do a certain
thing. I feel that you've got great basketball players – white and black
ones. You got great musicians – white and black ones. I've heard where a
person says, "Well, damn, you know one thing, man, I didn't realize
that guy was white until" . . . or, "I didn't realize that this person
was black until . . . " You understand what I'm sayin? I'm not the kind
of a guy that wants to generalize and say that you can't do this if
you're black or you can't do that if you're white. I think that if a man
has had the kicking around and the abuse and the scorn, I think that if
he has talent, he can put that some way or another so that the people
can hear him. I remember one time a guy asked me, hey, man, do you think
a white cat could ever sing the blues? Which is a legitimate question.
It didn't hurt my feelings. I feel that
anybody, if you ever
have the blues bad enough, with the background that dictates to the
horror and the sufferin' of the blues, I don't give a damn if he's
green,
purple – he can give it to ya.
It was said that Joe Cocker, or his people, were picking out
more of the contemporary rock and roll material that was popular with a
large segment of the young audience. . . .
When you say he
has a bigger whatever-it-was with the "young audience"– what young
audience? All right now. Come on, now. I guaran
tee you [
shouting]
you got far more people who know . . . you're talkin' about the overall
white audience. Let's call a spade a spade or whatever. . . .
Young, white audience. . . .
Well, I don't care
what you call it, I don't care whether it's two years old, five, I don't
care what you call it – the fact – you can never get away from it, man,
it's just no way to get away from this. I am not saying it out of
bitterness. I'm just telling you the
truth of the matter, and I'm
old
enough. Hell, I'm 42 years old. I never joke with Ray about realism,
and the fact of the matter is here's Joe Cocker, here's a guy – listen,
I'll tell you something' – I guess about 10, well, it's back there more
than that – maybe 13-14 years ago, they had ads in the paper where they
were tryin' to find anybody to sing like me. You
think about that for a minute. You see?
I guarantee Joe Cocker ain't
never appealed more to the
young people who raised me up. He appeals to the young white because
he's white. Shit, man. That ain't a mad statement, that's just the
truth. [
Laughter.] You don't
fool around with the truth.
When you get a guy who come up and say, like an Elvis Presley, let's
face it, man, you had more people goin' out shakin' their behinds and
stuff like that. You know where Elvis got that from – he used to be down
on Beale Street in Memphis. That's where he saw the black people doin'
that. Ain't no way they'd let anybody like us get on TV and do that, but
he could 'cause he's white. Now, see, I don't like to bring the racial
thing in this, but unfortunately, the way we are set up, the whole thing
is man, I guarantee you, Nat "King" Cole go down there in Alabama and
sing these love songs and they'd beat him up. You understand what I
mean? Why? Not because he's doin' a bad job, but because the young white
girls run up and say, "Oh, Nat!" and they say, "No, we can't
have that." Come on, man, shit, that's where it is.
I don't have time to be bitter. What I have time for is to try to see
what I can do to help the guy that's comin' up and maybe he can make it
better if I can help him. You see? I done seen all this, man. I know
all about the places where I couldn't drink outta the fountain. I know
all about the places I couldn't go to the bathroom when I had to pee –
somethin' that's natural for every human bein'. You understand me? And
if I do it on the highway and the cop see me, he gonna put me in jail
for it and maybe beat my head, too. Depend on where I am. See, I know
all about that, but I don't want to let that get into what I'm doin'. I
figure that, OK, I'm in this business because I love music. So I can't
afford to let bitterness get into me, but if when you ask me what's
really happenin', if you get people and sit them down and say, hey, man,
let's cut all the fat outta this.
Get down to the real thing. What is it? This is the real thing I'm
tellin' you now. That's without bitterness and I ain't mad. I can afford
to tell you that for one reason; you see, thank the Lord, I'm fairly
cool about it. My kids ain't gonna starve unless they bomb the country
or somethin' with nuclear weapons or somethin'. Man, I'm pretty
straight, and I can tell you all about both ends of it. I know how it is
when you have to use a piece of like cardboard to put your shoes on
when you don't have a slipper spoon, and I know how it is to live in a
$200,000 house.
What keeps me from being bitter about this – the reason that this happens is because people who are in power tend to
lean
toward themselves. It's the same as a guy who is in a house. He has his
own house, he's got his own, whatever it is, his own family. Well,
let's face it, he may
love you, but if it's somethin' comin'
up, he's gonna tend to lean towards – if he can get his own kids in
there, he tends to go that way, you understand? I think this is
basically what happens in the structure of our society. It's a
capitalistic country, and it's a white society, and they control. They
got the money. They got the airplanes, the bombs, every goddamn thing.
You name it, they got it. So therefore, naturally you have, what is it? –
15-20 percent black, you got 80-85 percent white. Fine. So, as a result
of that, if you're not careful, you can become very bitter, because
you'll say, well, why in the world – here I am, and here's a guy who'll
spend millions of dollars to find a white cat just to imitate me, and
he'll do far better than me. Well, the only thing that I can say that
sort of helps me a little bit, that keeps me goin' – I say two things.
First of all, in order for that guy to copy me, he gotta wait 'til I do
it first. Now [
laughter], the second thing I feel, well, if
this is the case, if you take this guy over me and he's just an
imitation of me, then that says to me that I must be pretty damn good.
Because I don't know nobody that you wanna copy that ain't worth a damn.
All right, hello. [
Laughter.]
That says it?
That say it all, man. I mean,
that's your salvation, 'cause if you don't think like that, you'll be
bitter. You really would be bitter.
Other critics have said that when Aretha moved from Columbia
to Atlantic, she enjoyed immense success, while you moved to ABC and in
the mid-Sixties, you were on kind of a downhill critical slide with
records.
Yeah?
Now, how did you feel about that?
Oh, I don't
know. I guess that's probably some cat who didn't see my financial
sheet. I don't really worry about that, you know. Fortunately for me,
throughout my career – now it's true, I haven't had a million seller
every time I put out a record, but what has happened with me has been a
very simple thing. I've had those 400,000, 700,000, 300,000, 800,000,
and that's been constantly goin' on all through my career. I'll tell you
what my answer is: When I can walk into an airport and you get little
kids sayin', [
whispering] "Mama that's Ray Charles," I'm
raisin' them. That's where I'm at, man. As long as the people keep doin'
that, as long as I can walk anywhere and as I'm walkin' all I can hear
is [
whispering] "That's Ray Charles!" I don't figure I need to worry too much.
Now, you say this is in the mid-Sixties, right? I just wanna ask you a
dumb question. Tell me, what was wrong with "Crying Time"? That was in
the mid-Sixties. "Let's Go Get Stoned." I didn't find nothin' wrong with
these songs. I mean, they seemed to sell all right.
First of all, I don't tell myself what some people say: "Well, Ray,
the genius" I never called myself a genius. I'm not the one to do that,
brother. I think that's up to the people to decide, and if they give me
the impression, well, Ray, you been out here a long time now, but we
want to turn you out to pasture now, you know, that would be all right
with me, because hell, I figure whatever I ain't got in 27 years, I
don't deserve to have it. Because I've had every opportunity to do what I
need.
There was also criticism that you were coasting on your name, your past success.
Well, let me tell you somethin', honey, I never coast.
Never.
I want to say this to you so if you can dramatize or use any kind of
exclamation points – I never coast on nothin'. Before I coast, I quit.
Because remember one thing, man. I owe somethin' to Ray first. It's to
me. I ain't ever gonna lie to Ray. I can't bull me.
We were talking about when you started out. You played what
was called "cocktail music," playing piano and singing songs like "If I
Give You My Love." But were you always looking to form your own big
band?
Well, when I was doing what you're talkin' about right
now, my only thing, my goal was, "Wow, if I could only just get to make
records, too." That's why, in 1948, when they had the union ban on
musicians so they weren't allowed to record, I recorded anyway – first
of all I didn't know about the ban, and of course, later I had to pay a
fine for it – I didn't care. I was only about 17 or somethin' like that.
I was workin' in Seattle, then, and a fellow came up from Los Angeles,
Jack Lauderdale, and he had a little record company [Swingtime], and I
was workin' at the Rockin' Chair. He came and one night he was in there
and heard me playing and he said to me, "Listen, I have a record
company. I would like to record you." Man, I was so glad, I didn't ask
him how much money I was gonna get. I didn't care. I would have done it
for nothin'. So he said, "Look, I'm gonna take you down to Los Angeles."
And wow, Los Angeles, you know. Ooh, yeah, yeah. And I'm gonna be
recorded, man. You know,
wow, my own voice on a record. [
Laughter.]
I went down there and we made a song called "Confession Blues." That
was my first record. Sold pretty good. Then, about a year later, because
1949 we made a song called "Baby Let Me Hold Your Hand." Now that
really was a big hit. "Confession Blues" sold mediocre – it sold well
enough to suit me, because I was hearing it where I went. But when I was
out on the road workin' with Lowell Fulson, he had a big record called
"Every Day I Have the Blues." We were on the same label. I had "Baby Let
Me Hold Your Hand," and he was singin' "Every Day I Have the Blues,"
and we were packin' 'em in. This is really where I started touring the
country.
By this time you were away from Maxim Trio.
I had
left Seattle – and, see, once I went to California, I liked the weather
and the way it felt – there was somethin' about the way Los Angeles
felt to me, and I wanted to come back there and live. I've always been
the kind of a guy, strangely enough, if I like somethin', I try to take
hold of it. I've always been that way, and I guess, as I say, it goes
back to my mother again, you know. I think that – you know, my mother,
she was not a well-educated woman. I think she went to about the fifth
grade or somethin' like that in school, but she had, I think this woman
had more – I don't know what kind of sense you would call it. We used to
call it horse sense, common sense, mother wit, you know. She had, I
think, as much of that as God could possibly stick in anybody's brain.
She taught me everything that I feel, like she always said, "If you feel
somethin', if you like somethin', try to take hold of it, get ahold of
it." I've always lived that way.
When you left Florida, why did you choose to go to the other corner of the country?
It
was just – New York I was frightful of, 'cause I just couldn't imagine
myself goin' to New York or Chicago or even Los Angeles. They sounded so
big, man. I guess I always felt that I was pretty good, but I wasn't
sure of myself to want to jump out into a big city like New York. I was
too scared for that. So what I wanted to do was pick a town that was far
away from Florida, but not huge, and Seattle really was about as far
away as I could get. All across the US, and of course, it wasn't a huge
town, half a million people or somethin' like that.
How long did you stay with Swingtime?
I was there until Atlantic bought the contract. I think it was '51 or so. About three or four years.
That was Ahmet and Herb Abramson and Miriam, I think, at that time. I
don't know how that was done. I met with the people at Atlantic, and
they said, "Well, I'm under contract to somebody." They said, "Well,
look, we'll buy the contract." So I said, "
Fine, buy it." And that's it. finished.
Why did you leave Atlantic? Jerry Wexler told me it was a "shock" to him.
Well,
you know the people at Atlantic – Jerry, Ahmet, Nesuhi . . . I love all
the people over there. It was the kind of thing where ABC came up with a
contract. And I think they were trying to lure somebody there, and I
hate to say this, because it makes me sound like I'm blowin' my own
horn, but you know, I was with Atlantic and we had this big hit "What'd I
Say" and a couple other things, so they came up with a contract and I
let Jerry and them know about it. The contract was so unreal. I mean,
the thing was that, well, if ABC was really seriously gonna do it,
Atlantic just couldn't match it, based on the original contract I had
with them. But I let them know, because, you know – and that's why today
I have to tell you, Ben, that Jerry and I are the best of friends,
because I didn't do anything sneaky, in the dark, or nothin' like that.
They knew the whole bit, and my thing was, look, I'm not asking you to
better
ABC's deal, I'm just saying if you can match it, I'll stay with you.
And it was the kind of thing where they said, "Look, Ray, it's
awfully
heavy for us." But you gotta understand from ABC's point of view, they
didn't think that the contract was gonna work out that well either,
because, remember now, I had been with Atlantic a long time, and most
artists, let's face it, they get cold after about four or five years,
you know, with
any company. And so, the thought is, for
Christ's sake, it might be the situation where, well, you know, ABC is
searching, they are hunting for an artist that is hot, and Atlantic is
feeling, well, groovy, our hearts go out to this guy, but still, they're
based upon what our situation is now. It would be rather difficult for
us to meet a contract similar to this, so they said, "Look, Ray, we wish
you the best."
You gotta understand the position of each party, and of course, ABC
at the time was offering me the kind of a contract that, believe me, in
those days, in 1959, was unheard of. Now, as a result of that, I tell
you, I don't even think that they
figured that I would do as
well, because, like I say, I've been out there for a while. So what they
were basically after was the name and to stimulate
other names.
To sign with ABC.
Right. And so I was like a
pawn, but as it turned out we were so lucky, because right after I went
with ABC, we came up with "Georgia," and then the country-western stuff,
see? But I did a country-western song with Atlantic before I went to
ABC, but the other side of it sold, the song "I Believe to My Soul."
Well, on the back of that was a song called "Keep Movin' On."
Hank Snow.
That's right. There's where I first
get the idea. But it just turn out that once I changed contracts, I
followed that idea. Now, with ABC we had people saying, "Hey, man, gee
whiz, Ray, you got all these fans, you can't do no country-western
things. Your fans – you gonna lose all your fans." Well, I said, "For
Christ sake, I'll do it anyway." Not to be – don't misunderstand me – I
didn't want to be a Charlie Pride, now. I'm not saying there's anything
wrong with that. I'm just saying that was not my intent. I didn't want
to be a
country-western singer. I just wanted to take
country-western songs. When I sing "I Can't Stop Loving You," I'm not
singin' it country-western. I'm singin' it like me. But I think the
words to country songs are very earthy like the blues, see, very down.
They're not as dressed up, and the people are very honest and say,
"Look, I miss you, darling', so I went out and I got drunk in this bar."
That's the way you say it. Wherein Tin Pan Alley will say, "Oh, I
missed you darling, so I went to this restaurant and I sat down and I
had dinner for one." That's cleaned up now, you see? But country songs
and the blues is like it is.
I did two albums of country-western, you gotta remember I did
Volume I,
and hell, if you get an album to sell well over a million, you almost
gotta do – that's almost forcing you to do one more. But that's all I
did with country-western was two albums.
Atlantic gave you musical independence and built a reputation
for R&B and jazz. ABC, on the other hand, wasn't known for a sound.
Did you have a feeling of trepidation about moving from one to the
other?
No, 'cause my thing was that it was a record company,
and I thought I could sell records for ABC as well as I could sell
records for Atlantic or anybody else. Plus, after all, you gotta
understand, man, I had been workin' a long time, strugglin' a mighty
long time with nothin', and this was a helluva chance for me to really
better myself, if I really had any kind of luck, I really was gonna wind
up bein' all right. I made an awful lot of money fast, real fast. I
mean, almost too fast. Because I could have had a terrific tax problem –
fortunately I didn't – 'cause soon as we got over there, we started
havin' some fantastic success right away, and I made a tremendous amount
of money quick, and, now, of course, like I told you, I guess I have a
little conceit about me. I feel I can do almost anything if I wanna, so I
felt, sure, I sold records for Atlantic records. I sold records for
Swingtime, and I felt if I did that, sure, I could sell records for ABC,
and since this company is gonna guarantee me so much money and along
with producin', wow, why fight it, baby?
What was the production deal?
I was producin'
myself, you see? In other words, it was a contract within a contract. I
got paid the regular top artist scale as an artist, but also the
producin' end of it was where the extra money came from. That was where,
out of every dime I got seven and a half cents, and that's pretty damn
good, man. That's besides the artist contract, you know. You see a cat
gonna give you seven and a half cents out of every dime profit, now I
don't know . . . [
laughter] unbelievable contract, so it's
pretty hard to ask a company to pay a cat five percent royalties,
whatever it is, and then also give him seven and a half cents out of
every dime profit, as a producer of my own records. And so you know the
records were successful, you can imagine the amount of money I made so
fast, quick. Sorry about that, man. I didn't mean to do it. [
Laughter.] What can I tell you?
After Swingtime, when you began searching around for your own
voice, did you find it naturally or did you get help from Ahmet or
Jerry?
I gotta tell you the truth, man, about Ahmet and
Nesuhi and Herb Abramson and Jerry when he came in, these people never
at any time told me what to sing or how to sing it. OK? I have to be
honest with you. I think if they had told me that, I woulda told them
where to take the contract. I figured that whatever I'm doin', I'm gonna
do it to the best of my ability. Now you have a right to say you don't
want it, but you can't tell me how to do it. I won't allow that. I guess
I've always been very firm about that. I didn't have that with
Atlantic. I didn't have it with ABC.
All I did, and Jerry can tell you – he never put any pressure on me. I
would call him up and say, "Hey, Jerry, I'm ready to record." That's
how we did "I Got a Woman." I was on the road, workin' every day. I
called him up in New York and said, hey, I'm ready to record. So he
said, where are you, where are you gonna be? I said I'd be in Atlanta in
a few days. He flew down to Atlanta, Georgia. That's where we made "I
Got a Woman." Little studio. Just a little bit – I think it was WGST or
somethin'. Little bitty, and they weren't equipped for recording. But we
went in there and we struggled and we managed it. That's the way we did
it. I mean, I didn't have no pressure on me about doing anything, and I
didn't have no pressure on me at ABC neither.
The gospel, call-and-responses in your songs – "Drown in My
Own Tears," "What'd I Say," and "Hit the Road Jack" – I'd say, were
tremendous influences on Motown's sound. How did that develop?
Well,
I don't know how anything . . . I just hear things in my head. That's
the simplest answer I can give you, man. What I hear is what comes out,
and I'm very instantaneous, I guess. I feel somethin', I get an idea how
I want to do it, and I just do it. I don't have no special ways about
it. Anything I do, good or bad, it's very, very natural. That's it. So,
that's why I can't do anything twice the same way. I sing "Georgia"
every night, just about, not because I want it to be different or I'm
trying to make it different, it's just that when I'm bein' natural, it
just comes out, because I don't always hear the same thing. I don't hear
the same thing every time I sing a song. So, I guess it is a good
thing, because the song never gets dull to me.
Sometimes you cry onstage.
That's true, that's
true. I'm not embarrassed about that. It's just that some nights, man, I
guess my mood, you know. And I don't know what happens in my soul, but I
can be singin' a song, and for some reason it'll get to me, you know.
I'll feel sorry, feel sad. It'll just hurt me or somethin', I don't
know. So I cry. Can't hep it.
Do you listen to a lot of today's artists? Marvin Gaye, Sly Stone. . . .
Oh,
yeah, well, I like these people's music. I like Marvin Gaye. I like
some of the things that Sly's done. I like, you know I'm a great fan of
Aretha. I like Stevie Wonder. I like Sinatra. I like Ella Fitzgerald. I
like many people, just like I like many varieties of music. On the other
hand, say, like here's a guy like – many times, I may go and get out my
old Art Tatum records, 'cause I still think that he's the greatest
piano player ever lived, bar none. I'm speakin' about playin' jazz
music, as we call it. I've never heard nobody before or since this man
that could do to a piano what he could do. I've seen some people come
fairly close. I mean, a fellow by the name of Peter Nero and Oscar
Peterson. Oscar Peterson plays hard like Art Tatum. He's probably about
the closest, I guess. The man really was, I don't think he had any
competition.
How about Aretha? Do you find that she's been consistent in her music the past five years?
I
think so. I think basically Aretha in a great sense is very much like
myself. She's right outta the church and she can't help what she sounds
like. No more than I can help what I sound like. We both, really, were
very devoted to the church, and this is just us. I think there may be
some records come out that you may not necessarily care for, but it's
still Aretha, and just like the records that come out of me that you
might not care for, it's still me.
Has Aretha ever told you why she would record songs you had done before?
No, I don't – we never talk about things like that, man. When I see Aretha, we just talk about everything in the
world.
When we see each other, if they have a piano, we play, sing to each
other and have a ball. The only thing that we've actually talked about
doing is maybe one day, if we get lucky, we might get to do some
concerts together or maybe record an album together. I mean a full
album, instead – because that was an accident in San Francisco. It
wasn't even supposed to happen. I just happened to be up in Frisco. I
didn't go up there to do this. I was just up there on some other
business, and somebody said, "Hey, man, Aretha's playing at Fillmore
West," and I said, "Oh, yeah? Well, say, let's go over and catch her."
And somebody told her I was there. Now I have her record of "Spirit in
the Dark," you know, but I swear to you, I never bothered to try to
learn it, because Aretha was singin' it, and I figured after she got
through with it, that was the end of it [
laughter]. So,
actually, she said come up and do somethin'. I said I don't know what to
do. She said, "Well, we'll do 'spirit in the Dark.' " I said, "Well, I
don't know 'Spirit in the Dark.' " If you listen to the record, you can
tell I don't know it. The only thing I can say in the whole record is,
"Do you feel it?" [
Laughter.] That's all I could think of was do you feel it. And it just turned out that the silly record sold over a million records.
Where did you first meet Quincy Jones?
In
Seattle. Quincy was wantin' to learn how to write, and he used to come
over to my apartment and get me up early in the mornin', you know, and
I'd show him how to voice and put the chord structure for a band
together. He'll be the first cat to tell you, man, that in comin' up –
he
feels, I don't, but he feels he owes an awful lot to me for that. You
know, I'm not a teacher, but if I find somebody who really wants to
learn, and if they have the basic idea of what they want to learn, I
will help them do it. I can't start a kid off from scratch, 'cause I
don't have that kind of patience.
Why don't you write any more?
I just don't have the time . . . I'm sorry, but. . .
Did you used to have to find time to write?
Well, I
had,
I didn't have to find. I had a lot of time, because I wasn't workin',
and I didn't have the obligations then. Shit, I was starvin'. So what
happens with a thing like that is you got plenty of time, so you utilize
it. As Jerry can tell you, they used to send me many, many dubs, and
I'd play all of them, and if I didn't like anything, I'd say, "OK, well,
I know I gotta do a session," so I'd sit down and write one. It's just
that I was lucky at it. That's why. . . .
More than that.
[
Laughter.] No, it's the truth.
Were there times back then when songs would just come to you anyway, whether you were looking for them or not?
Well, you know, you might hear somebody say something that would give you an idea.
And that doesn't happen anymore?
Well, it not so
much doesn't happen, like I said, I don't have time to really – it's a
question of how your life is, man, really. There are other things – I
think it's a thing of a man spreadin' himself out too thin. Now, I love
writing. But I am not a writer. I think it's fair for you to understand
that. I am not a true writer. I wrote because maybe I heard an idea or
somebody said something or I needed some material and I couldn't find
none that suited me, so I sat down and wrote my own. It took weeks.
There are songs you've done – "Yesterday," "Take Me Home
Country Roads" or "Look What They've Done to My Song Ma" – that people
might be surprised to hear you sing. Where did you find these songs?
"Look
What They Done" was a big record, and I heard it on the radio. "Country
Roads" I heard on the radio, and I liked them – I liked the songs, not
necessarily the way they were done.
Would that also be the case with "Yesterday"?
Right, exactly.
You could hear yourself singing it in your style immediately?
Yeah,
right away. When I heard "Yesterday," I could hear myself singin' it
the way the record came out. That's the way I judge a song. It's not
always a question of whether a song is good or bad, it's a question of
whether or not it's somethin' that I can handle, whether I can feel it
in my own way. The song may be a marvelous song, like, say, for
instance, "Stardust." I love that song, but I'll never record it,
because I just can't hear myself into it. And I love the song, now.
Now, I take any song – if
you wrote a song right now, you don't have to be a good pianist or good guitarist; as long as you can somehow give me the idea
. . . sometimes I get songs from people, and they try to sing them the way they
think
I would sing them. Bad mistake. Really bad. The main thing is that –
just give me the song period. Because in the end, I'm going to do it the
way I hear it. So it's better for the guy – just like the guys who for
instance wrote a lot of songs that I do – years ago. But – take
"Georgia." That wasn't written for me. The thing is write the song, and
then if I like it, I'll find out what I want to do to it.
So it's the lyrics that you watch for that strike you in music.
First of all, I guess I lean toward the lyrics. I
guess.
If I had to be pinned down – I guess it would be like 51-49, there's
not no big gap between the lyrics and the music. But if somebody said,
Ray, you can't be even. You gotta pick one. I would probably go with the
lyrics, because, you know, in lyrics, you can say the whole thing in
two sentences. For instance, I'll just give you an example. I think that
just the thought, I can't stop loving you – boom. I mean, that's said a
lot for people. It's like Aretha singin' "What you want, baby? I got
it." I mean, she can say doo doo too too – anything after that. Every
woman in the world, whether she admits it or not,
knows that
she wants to say this to her man – What you want, baby. I got it. You
understand me? That's – you see, it's little things like that that
affect people. "What'd I Say" was – had a good rhythm pattern to it, but
if you want to take any lyrics outta that, you know – during those
days, it's like a guy says, "See the girl with the
red dress."
People can be synonymous with that, you know. "See the girl with the
diamond ring. She knows how to shake that thing." It wasn't the diamond
ring that got 'em.
Writing your songs, you were in the mainstream of blues and
jazz, but in picking music, I find you doing kind of a schmaltzy song
like "Breathless," comparing a person to a bird or an angel. You've
always done Broadway showtunes along with blues, jazz, and country, so
you've never allowed yourself to get categorized.
I heard
somebody one time say that all black people got rhythm. Bullshit. Ain't
no such thing as that. You cannot generalize with people. You can say if
you want that maybe the bulk of the people go a certain way. You
understand?
How would you explain the current success of black artists and music on the pop charts?
I'll
tell you, I'm probably the worst person in the world to comment on
that. Now, if you ask about my music, that's a different situation. But I
think the kids that are coming up in the pop field, they are saying,
"Look, we want to know about great artists, because it's a part of our
culture." So they want to know about the people who play the blues, who
play the gospel music, the real music that we have – which is not a
putdown for your classical music, you know – it's just to say that our
roots in music . . . America really only has, as far as I know, jazz.
And whether jazz – where you're gonna find, really, the roots of jazz,
you're gonna find it among the black people – the blues and the gospel
music and everything else.
Was Tangerine Records part of the ABC deal? That you would have your own company?
Yeah,
you could say that. First, when I started out with ABC as an artist, I
also was a producer there, and when it was time for renewing my
contract, I said, "Well, look, you'll have to come up with somethin'
more to my liking." You know, it's not always a question of money, it's a
question of the things that I want done, and so this was integrated in
the contract.
Has Tangerine generally done well?
We lost quite a
bit of money in the beginning of it, and so naturally, when you open up
shop, you lose money, you stay in the red for quite a while, and here
lately we're not makin' a lot of money. We have gotten out of the red.
So that is progress.
How many artists are there in the personal management firm? At one time, you were doing Billy Preston.
We're
just not managing anymore. I tried that, and I found in tryin' to
manage cats, man, I can't stay with the hassling of it. So I just
decided what I'd do, if anything, is get an artist, and I just sign him
up and have him to record, and that's about it. Just let him do his own
managing, get his own manager or whatever. It's too much of headache,
and entertainers, I must say, we tend to be very difficult, and I just
feel that it's a little more than I can handle.
Are you a really difficult person to work with?
Well,
that depends on how you look at it. I would say no, and then there are
people who would say yes. You have to ask someone who works for me. I'm
not a difficult person, I don't think, but I do insist that since we are
pros, we oughtta act like it. I don't like to play. I love to have fun
in my work, but if it's somethin' wrong, let's clean that up and get
that right. Let's not play about that, 'cause it ain't funny when it's
wrong. It's funny and beautiful and lovable and everything when it's
right, you know what I mean. And I'll go along with you.
What is the "fine" system with the band?
We always gonna have that, man. I don't
mean
to have it, but unfortunately, you can't just fire a man all the time.
My fine system works this way: I may fine a guy once. Never over twice.
After that he's fired, period. Because I figure, if I gotta be finin'
you, then we don't need each other. I don't need the fine money; I don't
even want it. What I do, I take the fine and maybe later in the year
give a party or somethin' for the musicians. So they really get it back.
It's not finin', it's a dock in pay. The union says that I can't fine
a person, but I can dock them. For the man who's not getting the money,
it's the same thing. $25 is $25 or $50 is $50.
Do you plan any further extension of Ray Charles Enterprises into other media? Say, buying a radio station?
No.
I'll tell you, I have thought of lookin' around, and I haven't really
proceeded, but I've sort of left a couple of small hints around. I'm not
so much tryin' to make more money. I figure I pretty much got enough
money to last me the rest of my life.
Leonard Feather once called you "a nervous, restless millionaire."
Well,
I guess if you were talkin' about my, you know, with the assets and so
forth – I guess if you wanted to you could call me a millionaire. I
wouldn't say that. I figure I got everything it takes me to live. I got a
home that's paid for, hell, and my kids are straight for the rest of
their life. I got a little studio here and I can do my work in. Well,
you know, I got a car, a couple of airplanes. What the hell more you
want? Shit, you can sleep in but one bed at a time. And according to the
law, you ain't supposed to have but one woman at a time or at least
under the same conditions. [
Laughter.] So I got everything I need.
Have you heard much about the new black movies?
No, not really. I haven't really delved into it.
Some people have charged that movies like 'Super Fly'
romanticize those things in the black culture that are romanticized by,
say 'Godfather' or by cowboy movies.
Well, see, you gotta
remember that you have the same thing going on in every culture. People
may do it a little different, but see, as I read the Bible, I find
things in there – all I gotta do is read the Bible and I read the news
today. So people kill in every culture. People rape in every culture.
People steal in every culture.
I would have to say that I think if I was gonna make a movie of that
kind, I would do it in a different way and still say the same thing. I
don't think it's so much of what you're saying, it's the way it was
being said to make it seem like it's quite glamorous, and I don't think I
would have went that far. You see, you should also show in that movie,
yeah, you can go out and be a joke dealer, too, but you gotta remember
you're gonna wind up killin' a few of your brothers, too, dealin' in
that kinda stuff, and you're gonna wind up sendin' quite a few people to
jail, and you're gonna wind up breakin' a lotta people's hearts, too,
when you're doin' that. 'Cause believe me, man, there's nothin' worse
than seein' a 12-year-old kid hooked. I mean, you know when you got
coke, you got some heroin around. C'mon now.
Did your own involvement in drugs almost knock you out in music?
No. No. No. Nope. I can't say that.
Heights in music were reached during that stage?
Exactly.
So I mean, obviously, I couldn't say that, could I? You know, like I
say, I ain't never gonna lie to you. It didn't knock me out or wasn't
about to knock me out. My thing was that when my kids started growin' up
– I remember one day my oldest son, he was one of the baseball players,
they were havin' a little reception Thursday night and they were giving
out these little trophies, and I was supposed to go, and what happened,
I had a recordin' session that night. I was doing the sound track for
The Cincinnati Kid,
and I did the singin' on that, as you remember, but what I did, I went
by there with him to this banquet, and I had to leave before the thing
was over, and he cried. And that hurt me. I started thinkin', here's a
child. It means so much to him for his father to be at this banquet. And
I started thinkin' that suppose that somethin' happened, I get put in
jail and somebody comes along and says, "Oh, your daddy's a jailbird."
Remember now, he's gettin' up there in age, now. He's a little man, you
know, and he gonna cry about that, I figure the next thing he'll do is
haul up and knock hell out of 'em, and now he's gonna be in trouble all
over me, when you break it down. That was my decision then. I said,
look, I mean, that ain't it for me. And I said, OK, I've had enough –
it's a risky business, it's a dangerous business, anybody knockin' on
your door, you gotta double-check to see who it is.
When was this?
This was like in '64 or '5 or somethin', give or take, I don't know, back in there, anyhow.
That all came to a head right around '65.
That's right. Right then.
Are you still suspect today?
Not that I know of. I
think everybody knows that I'm deadly serious about that. I am sure,
though, that maybe for the first four or five years, I was probably
watched very closely. I have seen no evidence of this, don't
misunderstand me.
See, I do a lot of travelin', you know, and I don't know what's in a
hotel, they may have microphones, all kinda things, you know. And see,
I'm always by myself, so I don't know what may be in a place, but I do
know this, that I figure it doesn't matter as long as what I said is a
fact and I meant it, and from that day to this one, I just felt that it
was a bad scene, and really it just was a bad scene. I got involved in
it – my situation is, I was young. I was about maybe 17, 18 years old or
somethin' like that, and it always, you know, like, it was a thing
where I wanted to be among the big fellas, like cats in the band, and
these guys would always go and leave the kid "till we come back," you
know. And I wanted to be a part, so I begged and pleaded until somebody
said, "OK, man, goddamn it, come on all right." And they took me, and
there I was, so they were doin' it and I wanted to belong, you know. I
mean, this is really how it started, and once it started, there it was,
you know. But I never got so involved in it to the point where I was out
of my mind or didn't know what the hell I was doin', you know. Like, I
heard of people havin' habits of $60 a day or $100 a day. I never had
nothin' like that.
How much did you take per day?
Oh, I probably spent about $20. Never got above that.
And you started right with the hardest stuff.
No,
I – before I led you put me into that bag, I wanna tell you somethin'. I
disagree sorely with people who say that people who smoke pot leads
them to usin' heroin. That's bullshit. That's crummy. That's just
somebody don't know what they're talkin' about. 'Cause I know far too
many people who have never done nothin' but tried to find some good
reefer to smoke.
I remember the Man askin' me one time, he said, "Look, if you tell us
who the guy was that sold you the stuff and maybe we'll make it easy
for you." I said, "Well, I guess you won't make it easy for me, because
I'm not gonna tell you nothin'. The man didn't make me buy nothin'. I
bought it 'cause I wanted to, and that's not protecting anybody." I
searched 'em out to buy it. So they wasn't solicitin' me. I was
solicitin' them, seducin' them to sell it to me. It's just that I feel
if the officials are going to blackmail me, then that don't make them no
better than the people who are out there sellin' it.
What did you learn through the Viennese psychoanalyst?
Who?
The psychoanalyst that you were supposed to have seen for a couple of years?
What
did we talk about? Nothin'. Like, and he's not a psychoanalyst. I mean,
what he was was a psychiatrist. He had no influence, say, as far as my
doing or not doing anything. As a matter of fact, we didn't even get
into – I told him one thing. I went there and said, "First of all we're
gonna get one thing straight. You don't have to convince me not to do
anything. I've already made up my mind, I ain't gonna do it, and it's
finished. Fine. That's it." And so, when we saw each other we just
talked in general about just what ever popped up, and hell, I think I
probably talked to him more about his practice, what the hell he was
doin' than about myself.
Was that year off hard for you?
I'm basically a
lazy person. It's never hard for me to relax. But I do enjoy doin'
things. The work I'm doin' is not work to me. It's fun. See, it's like a
hobby that I'm gettin' paid for, and truly is part of my relaxation.
This is really it for me.
Then why did you take a year off?
Well, I felt
that I should do it just because I wanted to. Now, it was necessary, of
course. I hired a psychiatrist so that when we went into court, I
thought it might be beneficial. You tell as judge somethin' like a cat
been usin' somethin' for 15 years, and he all of a sudden the man say he
ain't gonna do it no more, and the cat gonna say, "Sure, come on now,
let's get down to the facts." But if a psychiatrist says it, for some
reason, at least the judge will kinda lean towards believin' the cat. So
that was the whole purpose of the whole thing. Because, let's face it,
man, if a guy doesn't want to stop doin' somethin', the judge, the
psychiatrist, the jailer, ain't nobody gonna – the people stay in jail
five years and come out on the street one day right back at it. So
obviously jailin' ain't the answer to it, right? And it's a made-up mind
of what you want to do with yourself. It's just like people who's
smokin', and I felt about that as I think I would feel – let's say the
doctor told you, hey, man, you smoke one more cigarette, you be dead in
six months. Now if you can make yourself stop under those conditions,
you can also make yourself stop if you see somethin' happenin' to your
children or somethin' happenin' to your life or whatever. You just tell
yourself, look, OK, that's a bad scene. I'm gonna quit. Just stop, you
know. And once your mind is made up, that's it. That's all it is, man. I
know I'm oversimplifying it, but I swear to you, this is the truth. I
believe – I'll tell you somethin', now, I had the psychiatrist, and the
man had a legal right to what you call trim me down a little less each
day until I got down to nothin'. I didn't do that. OK? Now, that's
somethin'. The doctor didn't believe this himself, that I have never in
all my years, I've never seen nothin' like this in my life. They even
tested me, may. They thought somebody must be slippin' me somethin'.
Then, so they cut my visitation off, just to make sure, and I still was
the same way, so they said, no, it can't be that. And then, another
thing surprised him. Not only was I not doing anything, but they try to
say do you want anything to help you sleep? You want any sleepin' pills?
I said well, I ain't been takin' sleepin' pills. I don't figure I need
to take 'em now. So and that was kind of a shocker. Because the hospital
didn't believe it, the doctor didn't believe it. And man, they sent me
in–they tested me two or three times, the usual testin' that they do on
you. They sent me up here to I think it's MacLaine's Hospital in Boston,
because this was ordered by the court. Like, they called me up one day
and I'm workin' like hell, you know? Doin' my concerts, and they called
me up one day and said, "Hey, we want you to go to MacLaine's Hospital
and check in tomorrow." Now that meant one thing. If I was doin' it,
they ain't no way in the world I could get it outta my system in a day.
So they sent me up there. Not only did they send me there, but what they
did, they waited until the weather got kinda cool. Now they know if you
usin' any kinda drugs, you can't stand that cold. You just can't take
it. So, man, they cut off the heat on me. Made me mad as hell. I went up
and told the nurse I'm gonna sue the goddamn hospital if I catch cold. I
know what y'all been doin'. I want some heat put back in my room. I
mean, I'm not stupid. But, I'm literally freezin'. So you put the heat
back in there. I'll be damned if I – once I leave here, I got to go back
to work, and I refuse to have pneumonia behind some bull. I guess the
woman must have said they can't be nothin' wrong with this man, after
all the testin' we done and everything else, and all he can do is get
mad, you know. So after a while they got to believe me, but it took an
awful lot of doin', because it was unusual, quite unusual.
This came after your stay at St. Francis Hospital in Lynwood, California?
Yeah,
well, this was somethin' ordered by the court. This was part of my
thing. They didn't tell me I couldn't work or nothin', they just said,
look, any day we might call you, you know, and say this to you. What
they did, they watched my schedule and knew I was workin', so they knew
of a day when I wasn't workin'. They knew my schedule better than me,
and all of a sudden they just bam – you just got to go, man. So they did
test me a couple of times just to make sure. I didn't have a wind-down
program. I just stopped, period. You hear about people who bite the
sheets and eat up the pillow, and I didn't do none of that. So that
worried people. They took all my clothes. They searched them. And they
came in my room one day, they looked under the mattress, shit. I said "I
don't know what the hell you all lookin' for, but they ain't any way in
the world I can get anything. Nobody's comin' here, and I don't know
where I could find it." And you know they watched me like a hawk.
You were once asked about the messages in your songs; or,
rather, the lack of messages. Only last year, in fact, did you devote an
album, 'Message from the People,' to anything but love songs. Was there
a particular moment that you thought was right for such an album?
No,
it was a matter of getting material I could handle. Believe it or not,
it is very difficult to make an album like that, unless you're just
tryin' to throw somethin' together. Remember I got to first feel the
music, do somethin' with the song. And that's why in that album you have
a song like "America." I wasn't tryin' to just say the country is all
bad, because it ain't all bad. I love this country, man. And I wouldn't
live in no place else. You understand. My family was born here. My
great-grandparents were born here. I think I got as much roots in this
country as anybody else. So I think when somethin's wrong, it's up to me
to try to change it. I was sayin' that America is a beautiful country.
It's just some of our policies that people don't dig. That's what "Hey
Mister" is all about. How can you live in the richest country in the
world – I can see havin' po' people, don't misunderstand me, you always
gonna have the po'. But ain't no need to have no
hungry people,
because if you got a million dollars, and I ain't got say $30,000, I'm
po' compared to you. But the difference is that in a country with so
much, where we pay people not to
grow food, ain't no reason for us to have hungry people.
When did you see Nixon?
Yesterday.
How did that happen?
He had heard about – somehow
he found out about my work with sickle cell, you know, and that's what
it is. Of course, his daughter is very interested in sickle cell, also .
. . what's her name, Julie? Yeah. That's her name. Eisenhower? Yeah.
Her. And evidently, somebody told her or he heard it some kinda way, you
know. Anyway, we went over there yesterday mornin'. We were supposed to
be there like 15 minutes, and we talked for 30 minutes.
Did you go into his office?
Right in the office. I
was quite honored. I mean, after all, he is the President of the United
States. It's just–my thing is that I know that somebody – many times
when you're workin' hard and you run into all kinds of difficult
situations and irritations and things like that, and sometimes, you
know, you feel that maybe nobody out there hears you, if you know what I
mean. It's nice to know once in a while that somebody did.
Who did the talking?
I think it was, believe it or not, 50-50. The conversation never lagged.
Did you feel inside that you wanted to say several things that you've been saying onstage; "Hey Mister"?
Uh, no, because first place, I got the assurance before I went there – because the one thing I did
not
want – now, see, the way they explained it to me was that the President
wanted to speak to me about sickle cell. Now, well, first it came off
like this, well, the President would like to see you at the White House,
you know. Well, the first thing come into my mind, well, you know,
like, I'm not – first of all I'm not, I may not necessarily be a
McGovernite, but on the other hand, I'm certainly not a Republican,
either. So, therefore, I had no interest in politics whatsoever. But
they said. "No, the President really wants to congratu – to thank you
for your work in sickle cell, and that's really all he wants." Sure
enough, we didn't get into politics. If I like a person who is a
politician I will contribute to the cause, because they do have to have
money. I'm not gonna go out and stomp for this person or that, but I do
the same thing as I was doing for Martin Luther. I would go out and do
concerts and help raise money, because as I told him, I'm never goin' to
get in none of your picket lines. I'm not about to go an' march with
you, you understand. And if I can help it, I ain't goin' to jail, you
see? And that is not because I didn't want what they wanted. I figured,
as I told him, everybody in this movement ought to have a function. They
oughtta do what they can do best to support it. Well, I figure what I
can do best is help raise money to buy the food for these people that
are marchin', to help pay the attorneys' fees, because you got to have
money to hire good lawyers to fight this. And you ain't gonna get the
money marchin'.
Or if you're in jail.
Right, plus I can't see how to at least duck if somebody throw somethin'.
You said onstage that "I Gotta Do Wrong" is "the story of my life," that "I gotta do wrong before they notice me."
Well,
I kind of think that what I meant was is that it seems that out of all
the pleading that a people can do, all the crying out and all the
conversations, you know, we've had than for years and years and years,
and nothin' really happened. They said, well, those people are happy,
and they're smiling and dancing, and so they must be cool. And nobody
paid them the mind, until the people began to do wrong things. And, of
course, what I was really saying is not that this was anything to be
proud about. I was saying that it's something to be ashamed of, that you
got to do wrong before a country as rich as we are – we're the richest
country in the world. We got more money and we got more of everything. I
don't care what any other country's got for the most part, we got that,
and the chances are, nine times out of ten, we got more of it on top of
it. And it's a shame that in order for our leaders to really pay us
some attention, we gotta go and burn this down, and we gotta go and
break into this, and we gotta go and picket this, and we gotta go and
stand on this lawn – that's pitiful.
On the other hand, you take the Indian. What has he got? We found him
here when we got here. But I guarantee you – well, hopefully this
doesn't happen. This may be bad for me to say this, because I don't
wanna start anything, but you know, the chances are the Indian's never
gonna get a damn thing until he go out and scalp a few people, you
understand, and do a little wrong. And then, he'll have the same
questions we used to have. "Well, what's wrong with him? I can't
understand. What's he asking for? What does he want?" Everybody knows
what is needed or what is desired, what it is to help a man lead a
decent life. Everybody who's in power – the leaders know this, but
they're not – unfortunately, it doesn't seem like they want to do
anything unless they're
forced to it, unless they are made to feel
shame
about it. And when I sing this song – I gotta do wrong before people
notice me – I'm not braggin' about that. I'm saying that that's a pity.
It is, it's sad, man. So when the Indian goes out and he kills off or
scalps a couple of people, and they go and burn down a couple of
buildings, or whatever it is that's necessary, and when our officials
begin to notice, then
he'll get a little more, too. I feel bad
to have to say that. Now he's gotta go and destroy somethin'. Get out
the National Guard and the federal troops and everything else, you know,
to quiet the people down. There's a man, I understand, who was asking
for something that we wanted to throw away. This was Alcatraz or
somethin'. We said we don't want the place out there no more, and the
man said, "OK, this belongs to us anyway, let us have it." We wouldn't
even give him that, somethin' we don't want, we wouldn't give it to 'im.
That's sick.
Sick! I'm gonna get mad now.