That Wicked Wicked Wicked
In March of 1993, wired from jet lag and the rush of my first day in England, I stepped into a modest pub in Canterbury and experienced two things that would change my life from that day forward. The first was a glass of Guinness ale from the tap (my first) and the second was hearing American R&B music from the late 1960's performed with unironic passion and respect by a band of white British kids.
With all the requisite curiousity of a tourist, I watched the band set up, fully expecting to hear them play raucous English punk or stilted ska. When they blasted into "Mustang Sally" as their opening number, I nearly fell to my knees. Perhaps the most amazing aspect of the band's set was that every teenager in the joint knew every word to every R&B chestnut the band played and sang along loudly and joyfully. They went on for hours. I have never forgotten that night.
I had and still have not seen anyone under the age of 35 perform or sing those songs with anything approaching the vigor and love of those teenagers in Canterbury. For me, it was as if a group of complete strangers, people I had never seen before and would likely never see again, had opened their arms and welcomed me, and more importantly, my music, into their lives.
When I heard the news of Wilson Pickett's death yesterday of a heart attack, the first thing I thought of was that pub in Canterbury. Pickett's music has a rough, sweaty, raw charge to it, unlike many of the more polished R&B stars of his day. His vocal delivery reflects the personality of a man quick to fits of rage (Pickett, at various points in time, has been charged with assault, drunk driving, and shouting death threats to the mayor of Englewood, New Jersey) and that of a man who has lived through childhood abuse, but also the personality of a sexy, driven, uncompromising artist. Pickett, in his later years of recording, was justifiably proud of the fact that his vocal performances were always recorded just as he sang them in the studio, with no overdubs, digitization, or click tracks. In an age when the vocal tracks of pretty teenagers are routinely "fixed" in the studio, Pickett was one of the true "old-school" singers who gave as good as he got, and saw no point in delivering anything but an honest, hard-working performance.
Rock critic Dave Marsh, in his book The Heart of Rock & Soul, says of Pickett: "At his most basic [he] is the most emotionally direct of all soul singers, but direct is a mild description of a singer who, at his best, was pure fist-in-the-face. . . Pickett was the personification of the bad-ass street dude. If he came along today, he'd be a rapper--with a vengeance, which is how he always sang. What he lacked in subtlety, Pickett more than made up for in vocal power."
Among the essential R&B tracks he gave us are "In the Midnight Hour," "Land of 1000 Dances," "Mustang Sally," and "Funky Broadway." He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1991.
I like to think that somewhere in Canterbury tonight, some teenage band will demonstrate to an eager crowd what many of us in the United States have somehow neglected or forgotten: the music of Wilson Pickett represents some of the best of what this country has to offer.
I'm gonna wait 'til the stars come out
See them twinkle in your eyes
I'm gonna wait 'til the midnight hour
That's when my love begins to shine
I'm gonna take you, girl, and hold you
Do all the things I told you
In the midnight hour.
With all the requisite curiousity of a tourist, I watched the band set up, fully expecting to hear them play raucous English punk or stilted ska. When they blasted into "Mustang Sally" as their opening number, I nearly fell to my knees. Perhaps the most amazing aspect of the band's set was that every teenager in the joint knew every word to every R&B chestnut the band played and sang along loudly and joyfully. They went on for hours. I have never forgotten that night.
I had and still have not seen anyone under the age of 35 perform or sing those songs with anything approaching the vigor and love of those teenagers in Canterbury. For me, it was as if a group of complete strangers, people I had never seen before and would likely never see again, had opened their arms and welcomed me, and more importantly, my music, into their lives.
When I heard the news of Wilson Pickett's death yesterday of a heart attack, the first thing I thought of was that pub in Canterbury. Pickett's music has a rough, sweaty, raw charge to it, unlike many of the more polished R&B stars of his day. His vocal delivery reflects the personality of a man quick to fits of rage (Pickett, at various points in time, has been charged with assault, drunk driving, and shouting death threats to the mayor of Englewood, New Jersey) and that of a man who has lived through childhood abuse, but also the personality of a sexy, driven, uncompromising artist. Pickett, in his later years of recording, was justifiably proud of the fact that his vocal performances were always recorded just as he sang them in the studio, with no overdubs, digitization, or click tracks. In an age when the vocal tracks of pretty teenagers are routinely "fixed" in the studio, Pickett was one of the true "old-school" singers who gave as good as he got, and saw no point in delivering anything but an honest, hard-working performance.
Rock critic Dave Marsh, in his book The Heart of Rock & Soul, says of Pickett: "At his most basic [he] is the most emotionally direct of all soul singers, but direct is a mild description of a singer who, at his best, was pure fist-in-the-face. . . Pickett was the personification of the bad-ass street dude. If he came along today, he'd be a rapper--with a vengeance, which is how he always sang. What he lacked in subtlety, Pickett more than made up for in vocal power."
Among the essential R&B tracks he gave us are "In the Midnight Hour," "Land of 1000 Dances," "Mustang Sally," and "Funky Broadway." He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1991.
I like to think that somewhere in Canterbury tonight, some teenage band will demonstrate to an eager crowd what many of us in the United States have somehow neglected or forgotten: the music of Wilson Pickett represents some of the best of what this country has to offer.
I'm gonna wait 'til the stars come out
See them twinkle in your eyes
I'm gonna wait 'til the midnight hour
That's when my love begins to shine
I'm gonna take you, girl, and hold you
Do all the things I told you
In the midnight hour.
posted by Chazzbot at 12:16 PM
1 Comments:
And those horns in his music! Ah, man, those horns that signify his sound give me chills every time.
I suppose if he made the scene today, he would emerge as a rapper. Although in an interview he intimated that he liked very little contemporary music. It wasn't real to him. Whether or not his statement included or excluded rap, I don't know. But what I do know is I am glad he emerged when he did, and that he will be missed immensely. But at least we've got those songs. And those horns and that voice.
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