The day after I published my review of Brilliant Corners, I popped over to the main house to ask my parents for some feedback. After a spirited discussion over a bottle of wine, my father posed the expected question . . . which in turn led to a surprising revelation.

“What’s up next, Sunshine?”

“Ray Charles. I was going to review The Atlantic Years because of its historical importance, but outside of the three songs that earned him the title ‘Father of Soul,’ there’s not much there there. And I was pissed off that the compilers didn’t include “Mess Around,” his first R&B hit.”

“The three songs were . . . ? ”

“‘I Got A Woman,’ ‘Hallelujah I Love Her So’ and of course, ‘What’d I Say,’ which we already covered in the Dad’s 45 series.”

“One of my most treasured memories.”

“I was also disappointed that his voice hadn’t matured yet. There are too many songs that reflect his early schtick to try to become the next Nat King Cole and on a couple of songs he sounds like Steve Urkel from Family Matters. I decided to go with the Anthology compilation because it covers the era when he had the greatest impact on the music scene and includes live performances of those three essential songs from The Atlantic Years. That way I can honor the man who broke multiple genre barriers and the ‘Father of Soul’ at the same time.”

“So, what’s the starting point?”

“1960. ‘Georgia on My Mind’.”

“Ah! One of your grandmother’s all-time favorites. Oh, how she loved Ray Charles.”

“What? Granny was a Ray Charles fan? Come on!”

“It’s true. She played Modern Sounds of Country and Western Music until she wore out the disc.”

“I can’t believe it. I don’t remember ever hearing Ray when we hung out at their place—her faves were Perry Como and Andy Williams. The Beatles were about as close as she ever came to soul and R&B.”

“You didn’t hear him because it was my mother’s little secret. Your grandfather couldn’t stand the guy, so she hid her stash of Ray Charles records somewhere and pulled them out whenever he left the house. She always wanted to see Ray live and she finally got the chance when he played at the Circle Star Theatre in the early 70s with B.B. King as the guest star.”

“What did her husband have to say about that?”

“He never found out. She told him she was going to play bridge with her girlfriends.”

“Granny lied? My devout Catholic grandmother lied? That’s even more unbelievable than Granny digging Ray Charles.”

“That’s why they invented the confessional, Sunshine.”

*****

That night I spent a fair amount of time pondering the connection between my grandmother and Ray Charles. This was a woman who attended mass on a daily basis and embraced the Catholic belief that fucking is for procreation only. I couldn’t imagine her digging songs like “What’d I Say” (banned by several radio stations due to its sexual contact) or “Night Time Is the Right Time.” Though I was well aware that Ray recorded plenty of asexual ballads, I thought that his sinful songs would have made him persona non grata for Granny.

Then again, Granny thoroughly modeled the “judge that ye not be judged’ tenet that today’s Christians–at least those making the headlines in the USA–seem to have forgotten. When my Aunt Pug told her that she had an abortion after a date rape in her early twenties, Granny just said, “That must have been a very difficult decision for you” and gave her a hug. Still, I don’t know how she would have reacted to Ray’s belief that if a woman whose arms passed his touch test was ready to get down and dirty, it was time for him to follow suit:

Never did have any bad feelings about sex. Never felt it was a sin of any kind. It gave me a buzz, and it felt awfully nice. Man, that was enough for me.

Ritz, David; Charles, Ray. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story (Function). Kindle Edition

When you add to Ray’s list of perceived sins his complete dismissal of “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery,” one would naturally assume that Granny would have avoided any aural contact with the guy.

Though I wasn’t sure it would do any good given the vast difference between the stiff rituals of a Catholic mass and the singing, dancing, shouting, hand-clapping experience of black churches, I made my way through the period in Ray’s autobiography when he began to perform what we now call “soul” hoping for a hint or two. Bingo!

. . . if any description of me comes close, it’s the tag “rhythm-and-blues.” I’ve fooled around in the same way that blacks have been doing for years—playing the blues to different rhythms. That style requires pure heart singing. Later on they’d call it soul music. But the names don’t matter. It’s the same mixture of gospel and blues with maybe a sweet melody thrown in for good measure. It’s the sort of music where you can’t fake the feeling.

Ritz, David; Charles, Ray. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story (Function). Kindle Edition.

What Granny heard in Ray Charles was a combination of spirituality and authenticity that mirrored her sacred values. It certainly didn’t hurt that many of the songs Ray chose to record were sad songs about lost love, separation and the challenges faced by the lonely and the oppressed, for she grew up in Depression-era Ireland when emigration and poverty were commonplace. Ray’s “pure heart singing” must have touched her soul and provided her with some measure of catharsis.

While it will hardly surprise you that I completely embrace Ray’s views on sex, you may be surprised that I relate to him on a spiritual level as well. Yes, atheists can be spiritual, too; for an atheist, the spiritual experience often involves the connection to other human beings, whether experienced through direct contact or through the works of an artist who captures aspects of the human condition. Whether Ray is playing a specific role or interpreting a song through the lens of personal experience, I feel his essential spirituality as well as his compassion for the lonely, broke and sad. Once developed, his vocal abilities allowed him to express a wide range of emotions, from hopeful to hopelessness, from disappointment to euphoria. His authenticity as a singer was bred at a very early age, as noted in his autobiography: “I could sing before I even knew where a note on the piano was. I had been around my voice before any other instrument, and more and more I began to realize that my singing was more me than anything else.”

The Anthology covers his years with ABC-Paramount, including the music released on his Tangerine label under ABC’s auspices. Ray had already begun the transition from songwriter to interpreter in his last couple of years with Atlantic and had good reasons for doing so. In the autobio, he labeled himself as “a half-ass composer” and gave more details on why he made the shift:

. . . . by 1961 I was writing fewer original songs and arrangements. I had always written out of necessity. I understand writing and I liked it, but it wasn’t like playing or singing. Those are things that I don’t have to gird myself up for. I just do them naturally. Writing’s another matter. It requires discipline, putting yourself in the right frame of mind. As long as I had to, I wrote. But when the need passed, I stopped. By this time, I had people bringing me arrangements and songs and had built up a large book for my band. There was no longer any pressure for me to generate my own material. Once in a while I’d hear something in the middle of the night and call a cat from the band to write it down for me. I still compose at least one arrangement a year for my big band—just to make sure I can still do it. But I got to be in the right mood. In contrast, I’m always in the mood to sing.

Most importantly, Ray loved most forms of music and thought the whole genre fetish was nonsense: “I have a hard time defining schools of music, and I’ve never been one to even try. I’ve been arguing against labels my whole life—I hate it when they’re slapped on me—but finally they become so popular that even I have to use them.” (ibid) His insistence on recording well-crafted compositions without consideration of genre would turn the music world upside down and make Ray Charles one of the true giants in popular music history.

*****

Following my usual pattern when it comes to compilations, I will ignore the track listing and present the songs in chronological order.

Ray Expands His Audience

After finally breaking into the pop charts with “What’d I Say Parts 1 and 2” in 1959. Ray left Atlantic for ABC-Paramount and the deal of a lifetime. During his first few years with ABC, he managed to solidify his growing popularity while simultaneously expanding his repertoire—not an easy feat, but the man’s love of music carried the day.

“Georgia On My Mind” (1960) (Hoagy Carmichael/Stuart Gorrell): I found it interesting that none of the people who contributed to the composition hailed from Georgia. The idea for the song came from saxophonist Frankie Trumbauer of Carbondale, Illinois, who suggested to Hoagy that he should write a song about the state of Georgia and gave him the opening line, “Georgia, Georgia.” Hoagy composed the melody but this native of Bloomington, Indiana outsourced the job of writing the lyrics to fellow Hoosier Stuart Gorrell who did indeed write about Georgia . . . Hoagy Carmichael’s sister Georgia. Gorrell would become a banker (not in Georgia) and never wrote another lyric in his life.

As for Ray Charles, yes, the man was born in Albany, Georgia but only lived there for a few months before his mother decided to move the family to Greenville, Florida. Ray emphatically denied any connection to the state or the sister: “I’ve never known a lady named Georgia . . . and I wasn’t dreaming of the state when I recorded the song, even though I was born there. It was just a beautiful, romantic melody, and I still sing it most nights when I’m performing.” (ibid)

He sings it beautifully, approaching the song with reflective restraint while still managing to express plenty of heart and soul. The two moments that give me the chills also reveal his innate talent for expressing mood and emotion. When he sings the couplet “Comes as sweet and clear/As moonlight through the pines,” I love how he tones it down in the second line as if he is recalling a beautiful scene from his early childhood before he went blind (yes, there are pine trees in Northern Florida). The second chilling moment comes when he abandons restraint in the last verse, combining grit with falsetto in his delivery of “Whoa, whoa,” expressing utter loneliness and an aching desire for reconnection. The ending is sheer perfection as the strings and chorus simmer down for a moment and Ray wraps things up with a little blues riff on the piano.

Ray had begun experimenting with orchestral and choral arrangements during his final years with Atlantic; here he employed Ralph Burns to arrange the strings and an ever-changing choral group known as The Ray Charles Singers to handle the call-and-response. The expansion of his sound had no impact on his popularity with R&B fans, as “Georgia On My Mind” made it to #3 on the R&B charts and did even better on the pop charts, giving Ray his first #1. Even the music industry validated Ray’s genre-mixing approach to music, honoring him with two Grammies for “Georgia On My Mind,” one for Best Vocal Performance Single Record or Track, Male, and Best Performance by a Pop Single Artist. His general M.O. going forward was to use the Raelettes for the R&B numbers and pair the traditional choral groups with string arrangements, often mixing the two approaches on the same album to display his remarkable versatility.

“One Mint Julep” (1961) (Rudolph Toombs): Though comparatively rare today, instrumentals frequently topped the charts from the Roaring 20s up until the early 80s. Narrowing the field to the early 60s, Percy Faith’s “Theme from A Summer Place” was the year’s best-selling single in 1960 and Acker Bilk’s “Stranger on the Shore” did the same in 1962, edging out “I Can’t Stop Loving You” by some guy named Ray Charles. Faith and Bilk capitalized on one of the most common features of a successful instrumental: a memorable melody that encouraged humming or whistling. Some top ten instrumentals managed to combine a memorable tune with a danceable beat, like the Champs’ “Tequila.”

Ray’s take on “One Mint Julep” has more in common with “Tequila,” right down to the stop-time vocalizations. While “Tequila” was considered more of a rock ‘n’ roll tune, “One Mint Julep” combines Big Band jazz and R&B in an exceptional arrangement created by Quincy Jones. Ray switches from piano to Hammond organ, alternating between fills and melodic improvisations, and may or may not have contributed to the unison vocalizations. The song appeared on the album Genius + Soul = Jazz, which featured several musicians who had spent time with the Count Basie Orchestra, including Clark Terry, Al Grey and Freddie Green. In addition to giving Ray jazz cred, the song and the album were quite successful, both landing in the top ten of the respective charts.

The result is a kinda-sexy song . . . but that qualification will make more sense if you consider the original version by the Clovers, which was flat-out nasty. The Clovers’ R&B hit featured a full set of lyrics . . . very naughty lyrics about a guy who gets horny as hell after drinking one mint julep and eventually decides to become a teetotaler: “I’m through with flirtin’ and drinkin’ whiskey/I got six extra children from a-gettin’ frisky.” As Ray would wind up fathering twelve children with ten different women, I’d say that his choice to avoid the lyrical version in the days before the Sexual Revolution probably saved his career.

“Hit the Road Jack” (1961) (Percy Mayfield): I would rate “Hit the Road Jack” as one of the coolest songs ever written, but you might dispute that claim if you only listened to Percy Mayfield’s ninety-second demo.

Percy had a string of six R&B hits in the early ’50s when misfortune struck. On his way back to his hotel after a performance in Vegas, he was involved in a horrible car crash. Pronounced dead at the scene, he shocked the EMTs by coming back to life and spent two years in recovery. Because his face was disfigured he had to give up performing, making only a few appearances after the accident. Instead of giving up music entirely, he devoted himself to songwriting. Percy had sent his demo to an executive at Specialty Records and somehow it landed in Ray’s hands, probably because Ray had recorded one of Percy’s songs with Atlantic (“Two Years of Torture”) and considered him a close friend. When Ray heard Percy’s primitive demo, he arranged to have him signed to ABC-Paramount as a songwriter and occasional recording artist. Here’s the demo version that tickled Ray’s fancy:

Hmm . . . primitive, but I sense good bones. The basics are there—the call-and-response between the layabout and his pissed-off wife, the snappy rhythm—but the song needs more oomph and a woman possessed with plenty of sass.

Ray conceived a minimal small-band arrangement that placed the dialogue at the center of the song. During the vocal back-and-forth, all you hear is Milt Turner playing a simple beat on the snare, Edgar Willis plucking a declining figure on the stand-up bass, an occasional quick shot from the horns or Ray’s piano to fill the gaps, and a brief reprise of the declining figure on the horns to indicate transition or closure. This nearly bare stage leaves it up to the vocalists to carry the song, and boy, do they ever! Ray tries everything in response to the Raelettes’ unshakable insistence that he hit the road—you-can’t-be-serious (“What you say?”), attack (“You’re the meanest old woman I’ve ever seen”), poor-me resignation (“I guess if you say so, I’ll have to pack my bags and go”), and eventually total shock in the form of a falsetto scream (“What’d you SAY?”). When he attempts to argue that a lucky break will surely come his way, Margie Hendrix steps to the fore to cut that bullshit off in its tracks and blasts him to smithereens with a voice that mimics an angry, growling trumpet (or Bengal tiger): “Don’t care if you do ’cause it’s understood/You ain’t got no money, you just ain’t no good.” I love the execution in the fade—the slow decline in volume feels like the Raelettes are gradually pushing Ray out the door while he babbles in disbelief and desperate self-victimization (“I didn’t understand you . . . You can’t mean that . . . What you tryin’ to do to me . . . Oh, don’t treat me like that”). SHUT UP AND HIT THE FUCKING ROAD, JACK!

Given the tragicomic storyline, the engaging rhythms and the superb performances by all involved, there was no way in hell “Hit the Road Jack” would fall short of making it to #1 on both the pop and R&B charts, and Ray took home another Grammy for Best Rhythm and Blues Recording. The phrase became part of the American vernacular, sung at baseball games when the opposing pitcher takes that long walk from the mound to the dugout after getting shelled, and at hockey matches when a stick-wielding asshole earns some time in the penalty box.

In closing, I would like to make a slight alteration to the peroration in Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech: “So even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day millions of Americans will surround the White House and sing ‘Hit the Road Jack’ at the tops of their lungs and continue to do so until the occupant slips out through the back door and into permanent exile.”

“Unchain My Heart” (1961) (Teddy Powell/Robert Sharp Jr.): This ass-shaking R&B number was credited to Ray Charles and His Orchestra, an entity similar to the Ray Charles Singers in that you never know who the hell is in the group at any given time. I find that problematic because I like to give credit where credit is due and I haven’t been able to identify the drummer who added a touch of Latin rhythms to “Unchain My Heart” (what Ray called “swinganova,” in a nod to the early 60’s bossanova fetish). It could be Bruno Carr because I know he toured with Ray in 1961 or it could be Milt Turner, who was part of his kinda-regular band, but when it comes to musicians, who the fuck knows where they were at any given moment?

Well, at least I can identify the saxophone soloist as David Newman because “Fathead” played with Ray for over twenty years, flipping between alto and tenor sax. According to the bandleader, “he practically became part of my own sound—that’s how close we were.” The sounds Fathead coaxed from his saxophones were invariably big-toned and bluesy; his alto solo on “Unchain My Heart” reflects those qualities while adding a smoothness that mirrors Ray’s somewhat understated vocal—appropriate for a guy begging for his freedom from the dick tease who dangles hope before his eyes but never delivers the goods.

Intermission

If you watched the film Ray, you probably remember that ABC honcho Sam Clark was flabbergasted when Ray told him he wanted to do an album filled with Country-and-Western tunes, apparently worried that Ray would alienate his R&B fan base. Some of Ray’s band members also expressed concerns about playing “honky music.” Given his upbringing, Ray had a hard time understanding what all the fuss was about:

You also have to understand that the South was full of country-and-western sounds—hillbilly music, we called it—and I can’t recall a single Saturday night in those years when I didn’t listen to the Grand Ole Opry on the radio. I loved Grandpa Jones and those other characters. I could hear what they were doing and appreciate the feeling behind it. Jimmie Rodgers, Roy Acuff, Hank Snow, Hank Williams, and later Eddy Arnold—these were singers I listened to all the time. I wasn’t fanatical about their music, but I certainly dug it and paid it some mind.

Ritz, David; Charles, Ray. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story (Function). Kindle Edition.

The African-American love affair with country music began long before Ray hit the scene. A fair number of those Mississippi Delta blues guys dug Jimmie Rodgers, and according to the Blues Hall of Fame, “His reworkings of the blues not only helped popularize the music with white audiences but were also performed by many singers from the African American community that produced the blues that inspired Rodgers in the first place.”

What really worried the suits was the idea of a black dude doing Southern white music when segregation was the norm and the Freedom Riders were causing all kinds of trouble with their “uppity” behavior. Such concerns never troubled the artist: “I was only interested in two things: being true to myself and being true to the music. I wasn’t trying to be the first black country singer. I only wanted to take country songs and sing them my way, not the country way. I wasn’t aware of any bold act on my part or any big breakthrough.” (ibid)

When everyone tells you that you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life, the odds are often in your favor. The response to Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music was nothing short of astonishing, as described by Daniel Cooper in his liner notes for Ray Charles-The Complete Country & Western Recordings, 1959-1986: “Record dealers began describing the album as ‘equal in sales action to some of the early Presley disks’ and, after moving 400,000 copies of the single [“I Can’t Stop Loving You”], influential Atlanta record distributor Gwen Kestler told Billboard magazine that ‘the record is so hot in her district that people who don’t even own record players are buying it.'”  Within a few months, more white folk began lining up for tickets to Ray’s concerts, country music became enormously popular, and (according to Cooper) Nashville music publishers became “the hottest source of music material in the record business these days.” Ceding to public demands, Ray crafted a second volume later that year (1962), which also topped the charts. The explosion of interest in country music resulted in an insatiable interest in all things country, which may in part explain the success of the “hick-comedies” on CBS (The Beverly Hillbillies, Petticoat Junction, Green Acres, etc.).

It should be noted that the increase in C&W record sales largely involved one specific sub-genre: the Nashville Sound. This was a development in the late 50s designed to increase the appeal of country music by replacing fiddles and steel guitars with lush string arrangements and background vocals. Though Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music offered a variety of styles, the three biggest hits were all stellar examples of the Nashville Sound. I have to confess that I’m not particularly enamored with the approach and have a strong preference for honky-tonk and the later “outlaw” artists. When I listen to some of the Nashville-influenced numbers I try my best to shut out the sappy background singers and the strings (if they’re too Mantovani) and focus my attention on Ray’s vocals, which are consistently top-notch. My favorite songs on both albums are the Big Band and small combo tracks sans background singers.

The compilation only contains two of the big hits from the original album and one song from the second volume, so I decided to cheat and add the third big hit to my analysis.

The Songs from Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music

“I Can’t Stop Loving You” (1962) (Don Gibson): “To show you how naïve I was about the sales potential of this material, I put ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’ as the fifth song on the B side.” (ibid). I share Ray’s naïvete, for when the song opens with The Randy Van Horne Singers my first impulse is to leap across the room and free the needle from the wax. After recovering from the trauma, I try starting the song after the singers have temporarily vacated the premises, but then Ray’s opening line (“It’s useless to say”) makes no sense. Damn!

Eventually I settle down and honor my promise to listen to every song at least three times. Early in the first go-round, I realize that the string arrangement is quite tasteful and free of sap. After the final go-round, I conclude that Ray’s vocal is one of the greatest performances on record, featuring superb phrasing and a range of emotions from forlorn defeat to existential pain—more than enough to overcome the soulless background vocals. The whole thing comes together for me towards the end when Ray delivers the sotto voce line, “Sing the song, children,” reminding me of soul’s gospel origins and encouraging me to give the singers a pass.

Wanting to understand why I found the singers so annoying—and why Ray hired this particular ensemble—I researched the rather scant history of the Randy Van Horne Singers and found that their main claim to fame was performing the theme songs for Hanna-Barbera cartoons, most notably The Flintstones, The Jetsons and Top Cat.

Boomers in the audience should immediately recognize the connection. All three of those cartoons were aired on ABC—you know, as in ABC-Paramount. Oh, the webs that are weaved in entertainment-hawking conglomerates.

“Born to Lose” (1962) (Ted Daffan aka Freddie Brown): A few years ago I had teased my father in one of my reviews, calling him out as the worst gambler in history—the man with the “take my money” poker face—and promised to sing “Born to Lose” at his funeral. After listening to the song more than three times, I don’t think I could make it through the line “Born to lose, and now I’m losing you,” so I’ve put the kibosh on that idea. Hmm. Maybe with a few changes to the lyrics, “I’m a Loser” might work . . . nah, I’d have to change it from the first-person singular and deliver in it the past tense but “He Was a Loser” probably wouldn’t land too well with the mourners. . .  fuck it . . . I’ll do the eulogy.

“Born to Lose” was the B-side attached to “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” piggybacking on that song’s success to reach #41 on the pop charts and #13 on the adult contemporary equivalent. Not bad, but its chart performance doesn’t come close to the original by Ted Daffan’s Texans, which navigated its way through the Musicians’ Strike back in 1943 and spent eighty-five weeks on the “hillbilly chart.” Though Ray delivers his vocals with the right amount of feeling and ironic gracefulness, the strings are a bit over-the-top and the decision to give The Randy Van Horne Singers a full verse towards the end of the song ruins the performance for me. From an arrangement standpoint, I’ll take Ted’s version over Ray’s with its lap-steel guitar (played by Mr. Daffan), accordion, piano and bass, with vocals by Lean Seago and NO FUCKING BACKGROUND SINGERS.

Ray actually chose two Ted Daffan songs out of the two-hundred-and-fifty tunes collected by producer Sid Feller for Ray’s consideration. The second was “Worried Mind,” my favorite track on the album. Except for the ridiculous ta-DA! intro with orchestra and chorus and the expected corny close from those superfluous entities, the arrangement is largely Ray on the piano with light acoustic guitar and mild bass. The highlight is Ray’s piano solo, a marvelous display of melodic improvisation filled with stride and blues licks. I love how he caresses the piano, treating the lady with deep respect.

“You Don’t Know Me” (1962) (Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold): This is the song omitted by the compilers for reasons unknown. As Ray supervised the remixes, he may have agreed with the compilers that three songs from Modern Sounds in Country Music Vol. 1 were one too many. Stuff and nonsense!

Choosing to record this particular song was a pretty ballsy call on the part of Mr. Charles, as the Eddy Arnold original is damned close to perfection. Maybe he felt time was on his side, as Eddy’s version came out in 1955, making for a decent breathing space. Eddy’s version has several advantages over Ray’s take—an arrangement featuring light guitar, piano, and choral support in the form of relatively faint, wordless background vocals–and no strings. Eddy’s thoughtful phrasing and delivery evoke feelings of regret and understated resentment that the woman in question never bothered to get to know him. I’m a sucker for a great baritone and Eddy was one of the best.

Though I find the background singers a distraction—especially when they become front-ground singers and take over the narrative—I can’t fault Ray’s decidedly soulful and more dramatic approach to the song. You can hear the hurt in his voice loud and clear, and the feeling intensifies as the song progresses, in large part due to rising key changes that force Ray to give it his all.

“You Are My Sunshine” (1962) (Jimmy Davis/Charles Mitchell): This is the only track from Modern Sounds in Country Music Vol. 2 that made the compilation cut, which makes me very happy. The follow-up rode the wave of Ray-mania to the top of the charts but the song selection pales in comparison and the “new thing” energy of the first volume is somewhat muted. The good news is that the album is split into two distinct halves, with the Big Band and Raelettes on side one and the Nashville Sound on side two, allowing those who are allergic to saccharine strings and choruses to avoid side two in its entirety. Replacing the Van Horne ensemble with the Jack Halloran Singers made no difference whatsoever; a dog with exceptional hearing abilities might be able to tell the difference, but it sounds like the same old sap to me.

Side one is far superior if only for Ray’s complete rebuild of “You Are My Sunshine.” I’ve always found that song incredibly boring; its sole virtue lies in the fact that even the tone-deaf can sing it and get away with it. In a stunning burst of creativity, Ray changed the melody, the rhythm, the chord pattern, the key and the dull instrumentation that usually accompanies the song, creating a jazz-blues-soul extravaganza loaded with heat. Ray and the Raelettes knock it out of the part with vocals that breathe fire.

After I announced that Ray was up next, one of my readers (Bart) did me a solid by sending me a link to the Substack Ethan Teaches You Music, where Ethan Hein presents a full compare-and-contrast between the original and the Ray Charles version via video podcast. The man knows his stuff, identifying the scale as “F minor pentatonic scale plus the major third,” and demonstrating the sonic differences between the three-chord major scale original and Ray’s blues-oriented two-chord take. He also makes the provocative argument that there is no such thing as a blues scale, giving me something else to ponder in the wonderful world of music. Hein also delves into the topic of “the racial politics of country music,” so if you have fifteen minutes to spare, I highly recommend his presentation.

Hits and Misses

“Don’t Set Me Free” (1963) (Agnes Vivian Jones and Freddy James): After a year dominated by country classics, Ray’s first release in 1963 combined Big Band, soul, gospel and swinganova in what is essentially a duet with Margie Hendrix. The results don’t exactly light my fire, largely due to the quick tempo that gives the piece a jumpy feel. Margie clearly outperforms Ray in the vocal department, delivering her responses with intense passion while Ray’s vocal is unusually bereft of real feeling. The song did make it into the top 20, but my guess is that its modest success was the result of lingering Ray-mania.

His follow-up single, “The Brightest Smile in Town,” featuring a super-loud Big Band arrangement set to morose lyrics, went pffft after reaching #92. The suits at ABC panicked and decided to take Ray back to the country, releasing his version of Hank Williams’ “Take These Chains From My Heart” (from Volume 2) as a single. The gambit worked from a commercial standpoint, returning Ray to the top ten, but his next release, the sleepy “No Letter Today” failed to chart. After competently covering the Connie Francis b-side “No One” and Clyde McPhatter’s “Without Love (There Is Nothing)”—both of which stalled below the top twenty—it was obvious Ray needed to shake things up a bit. All the singles he had released up to this point in 1963 involved problematic relationships of one form or another and it was time to change the subject.

“Busted” (1963) (Harlan Howard): The only album Ray released in 1963 was Ingredients for the Recipe of Soul, where he mostly borrowed songs from the Great American Songbook and set them to soul, R&B and Big Band jazz arrangments. The album did quite well on the pop charts, reaching #2, but like all of his 60s albums up to this point, failed to make the R&B charts. In a retrospective review on AllMusic, Richie Unterberger exposed the underlying dilemma:

Although it was a big commercial success, reaching number two on the LP charts, this record would typify the erratic nature of much of Charles’ ’60s output. It’s too eclectic for its own good, really, encompassing pop standards, lowdown blues, Mel Tormé songs, and after-hours ballads. The high points are very high — “Busted,” his hit reworking of a composition by country songwriter Harlan Howard, is jazzy and tough, and one of his best early-’60s singles, and the low points are pretty low, especially when he adds the backup vocals of the Jack Halloran Singers to “Over the Rainbow” and “Ol’ Man River.”

It seems the white folk wanted something closer to Easy Listening and the black folk wanted R&B and blues, so the sweet spot was Country & Western delivered with plenty of soul. “Busted” charted at #4 on Billboard and #3 on the R&B charts. Ray wanted to experiment with different genres but the people who fell in love with him because of Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music wanted a stable, reliable brand, not a dozen different versions of Cheez-Its.

The gap between Ray’s output and fan preferences would widen considerably in the following years, but for now, “Busted” was just the thing to turn his audience into happy campers. It was also a perfect song for Ray Charles, given his upbringing: “You hear folks talking ‘bout being poor. But listen here: When I say we were poor, I’m spelling it with a capital P. Even compared to other blacks in Greensville, we were on the bottom of the ladder looking up at everyone else. Nothing below us‘cept the ground. Fact is, I was fairly old when I got my first pair of shoes. Indoor plumbing was something we never even dreamed of.” (ibid) The fear of not having enough money to get by haunted him during his early years as an itinerant musician and explains his resistance to Atlantic’s suggestion that he give up the Nat King Cole act. He was earning good money imitating the popular singer, so why take a gamble on a new approach?

Ray plays the role of a small farmer trying to make a living and . . . comes up a cropper. Filling his voice with genuine frustration and anxiety, Ray tells us that he has overdue bills galore because cotton prices have fallen, the cow went dry, the hen won’t lay and the baby needs new shoes . . .  but he’s busted. He reaches out to his brother for assistance and hears the same old story:

I went to my brother to ask for a loan ’cause I was busted
I hate to beg like a dog without a bone but I’m busted
My brother said, “There ain’t a thing I can do
My wife and my kids are all down with the flu
And I was just thinking about calling on you ’cause I’m busted”

African Americans have always been on the losing end of the American economy; in the 60s they earned 55% of what white workers make. Sixty years later, black earnings have inched up to 66% of what whites earn and the unemployment rate for blacks is still twice as high. Harlan Howard was a white guy and politics was likely the furthest thing from his mind when he wrote the song and Ray wouldn’t dip his toe into the waters of political messaging until much later, but I’m pretty sure poor people of every stripe could relate to “Busted” and bemoaned their lack of power to change what seemed to be their permanent lot in life.

When I listen to the song, I deeply appreciate Ray’s obvious empathy, but when the song fades into the ether, I hear Phil Ochs singing, “Now wouldn’t it be a riot if they really blew their tops?”

“That Lucky Old Sun” (1964) (Haven Gillespie/Beasley Smith): The second song pulled from Ingredients for the Recipe of Soul had already been recorded in the late 1940s by many of the top singers of the era: Frankie Laine, Vaughan Monroe, Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra. Avoid the Monroe version because I think he was suffering from constipation. Frankie Laine’s take was the most successful, but I think he was better on the theme song for Rawhide. Sinatra’s version is surprisingly good, but Satchmo’s is easily the best of the bunch.

Ray’s version is fairly close to Satchmo’s in terms of both quality and arrangement—not surprising when we’re talking about two of the most distinctive voices in music history. This is a gospel song, so you have to expect the cliché angelic choir, but once you manage to ignore that irritant, you’ll find a lovely melody that both men sing with appropriate anguish, passion and empathy for the working stiff.

ABC would release several Ray Charles singles in 1964, none of which made it to the top thirty. There were big changes in popular music in 1964 thanks to the Beatles and Motown, and Ray was beginning to sound dated, especially in comparison to the new Motown singers. While he would successfully challenge that perception a couple of years later, 1964 was a pretty lousy year for Ray Charles. There was no treat waiting for him on Halloween, for on October 31, 1964, he was busted for heroin possession and avoided jail time only because he agreed to go into rehab.

“Cry” (1965) (Churchill Kohlman): With the artist in absentia, In 1965 ABC released a few singles from recordings left in the vault, all of which were generally ignored. Ray’s cover of Johnnie Ray’s signature song is probably the best of the lot . . . at least until the Jack Halloran Singers take over. Even with that rude interruption, I prefer Ray’s more subtle and tender take on the song in contrast to Johnnie’s unbridled emotional approach.

Three Classics from Live in Concert

The Ray Charles Video Museum provides two opposing opinions concerning the value of Live In Concert:

1. “Ray had no idea that this concert was being recorded. Ray’s manager Joe Adams came up with the idea. The result was so good that ABC purchased a Cadillac for Adams to show their appreciation.”
2. Remastering guru Steve Hoffman, who spent many hours with Brother Ray, wrote that Ray Charles said he “hated” the live album. Hoffman believes that Ray felt the Shrine gig “was an off night for him. He owed ABC an album and couldn’t come up with it for reasons we all know.”

As for the artist, he gave this account in his autobiography: “We also did a highly successful concert in the Shrine Auditorium in L.A. which was turned into an album.” (ibid)

Will someone explain to me how in the fuck you can have a highly successful off-night that was so good?

The evidence displayed in the recording confirms the off-night hypothesis. Ray and his band had just returned from a tour in Japan and it sounds like everyone was suffering from jet lag. The recording quality is piss-poor and there are a few moments where the mics cut out. It’s likely that ABC failed to break even on their Cadillac purchase, as the album stalled at #80 on the pop charts. The sad truth is that everything ABC released in 1965 to cover Ray’s absence was generally ignored by the listening public; whether Ray’s decline in popularity had to do with the bust, poor song selections or the aforementioned change in the music scene is open to debate. My sense is that it was a combination of all three.

Ergo, I will cover both the live versions and the original releases of the three most important songs.

“I’ve Got a Woman” (1954, 1965) (Ray Charles/Renald Richard):

While I was stomping around New Orleans, I had met a trumpeter named Renolds Richard who by this time was in my band. One day he brought me some words to a song. I dressed them up a little and put them to music. The tune was called “I Got a Woman,” and it was another one of those spirituals which I refashioned in my own way. “I Got a Woman” was my first real smash, much bigger than “Baby, Let Me Hold Your Hand.” This spiritual-and-blues combination of mine was starting to hit.

At the time this was happening, not everyone approved. I got letters accusing me of bastardizing God’s work. A big-time preacher in New York scolded me before his congregation. Many folks saw my music as sacrilegious. They said I was taking church songs and making people dance to ‘em in bars and nightclubs. Must tell you that none of those reactions bothered me. I’d always thought that the blues and spirituals were close—close musically, close emotionally—and I was happy to hook ‘em up. I was determined to go all out and just be natural. Everything else would spring from that. I really didn’t give a shit about that kind of criticism. “Everyone has a point of view,” Mama used to say to me, “and everyone is entitled to one. So, don’t judge them. Leave them alone.” I knew well in advance of any controversy that nothing was going to bother me. I wouldn’t have done it if I had believed it was wrong. My first concern was seeing whether Ray Charles as Ray Charles—not as Nat Cole or as Charles Brown—was going to work. Besides, the church was something which couldn’t be taken out of my voice even if I had wanted to take it out.

Ritz, David; Charles, Ray. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story (Function). Kindle Edition.

The music to “I’ve Got a Woman” was heavily influenced by the spiritual “It Must Be Jesus” and Big Bill Broonzy’s “Living On Easy Street.” The sheer energy Ray displays in the original tells us he has found his sweet spot . . . actually two sweet spots if you count the woman. Though he hadn’t smoked a sufficient number of cigarettes at this stage to have mastered the low-end growl, his superb falsetto extends his vocal range and emotional reach. Though I cringe when I hear the line “She knows a woman’s place is right there in her home,” it sounds like the woman in question is quite happy staying home and getting her jollies in the bargain. When Ray claims the song was a big smash, he means that the song climbed to the top of the R&B charts. This was still the era of “race records,” so “I’ve Got a Woman” couldn’t have cracked the pop charts because none of the pop deejays played that kind of music.

The live version opens with a brief nod to Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” followed by a lyrical feint that leads one to believe Ray is introducing a slow blues number. After a brief caesura, he launches into “I’ve Got a Woman” and the crowd noise rises in recognition. In contrast to the hit version, Ray sounds like a guy who has sung the song a gazillion times and never comes close to the excitement of the original.

“Hallelujah I Love Her So” (1956, 1965) (Ray Charles): I had to laugh when I read Wikipedia’s description of this song: “Hallelujah I Love Her So” is a testament to the joyous release of love.” I’ll clean it up for them: “Hallelujah I Love Her So” is a testament to the orgasm.” Lyrically, the song is quite similar to “I’ve Got a Woman,” but now they do it at his place instead of hers. Ray’s vocal is filled with joyousness, indicating he probably got his rocks off a few minutes before the recording. The song has a nice, bouncy beat enhanced by stop-time moments in all the right places. Don Wilkinson delivers a sizzling tenor sax solo, so he may have recently experienced the joyous release of love as well. The brass section sounds pretty happy, too, but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about a possible orgy.

This is the strongest of the three live performances, with Ray and the band putting out the energy from the get-go, inspiring the audience to voluntarily clap along to the beat. Ray delivers the lyrics in a strong, husky voice, having finally smoked enough to ensure a constant flow of grit.

“What’d I Say” (1959, 1965): (Ray Charles): Gee. I seem to be quoting that altrockchick a lot lately, but I have to do it again because she expressed exactly how I feel about the original:

From the electric piano intro to the visceral sounds of the call-and-response between Ray and The Raelettes, “What I’d Say” works on two levels. For the technical connoisseur, “What I’d Say” is the blessed marriage between gospel and R&B that spawned a new genre called soul music. For the person who seeks enjoyment through music and couldn’t give a damn about origins, influences or classifications, “What’d I Say” is a ringing endorsement of more open sexual expression in music. As Ray famously said, “I’m not one to interpret my own songs, but if you can’t figure out ‘What’d I Say’, then something’s wrong. Either that, or you’re not accustomed to the sweet sounds of love.” The exchange of pre-orgasmic vocalizations punctuated by Ray’s screams of delight express far more sexuality than the clever euphemisms permissible in the era. “What I’d Say” is sexual heat turned into music, and given my active libido, it should come as no surprise to my readers that I fucking love this song.

As depicted in the film Ray, “What’d I Say” was born live and in-person during a gig when he needed to fill twenty minutes with music to meet his contract. Ray and the band continued to work on the song in live performances until Ray felt he was ready to record it. I love how the original mimics its improvisational origins by seemingly ending the song and then starting up again after vigorous protests from the “audience.” Though Ray never cottoned to rock ‘n’ roll, he admired Chuck Berry and Little Richard, and he owed a lot to those rockers for destroying “race record” segregation. “What’d I Say” turned out to be Ray’s first visit to the pop charts, eventually landing at #6. The Part 1/Part 2 format of the single may have been a bit awkward thanks to the limitations of 45s, but consumers didn’t seem to mind.

The live version is quite a disappointment. The mic cuts out when Ray starts his vocal and the performance by the singer and his band feels somewhat forced. The crowd response can best be described as tepid . . . a surprising response to an all-time classic.

The Post-Rehab Era

Swapping heroin for gin and cigarettes, Ray makes a surprising comeback before transitioning to cherished live performer and elder statesman of music. He wasn’t worried in the least about his prospects, as he colorfully explained in the chapter “Coming Back”: “Folk can really talk some shit: ‘Oh man, you’ve been off, Ray.’ ‘No telling how you’ll go over now, baby’ ‘Yeah, you been away, Brother Ray.’ That’s the sort of thing I was hearing.” (ibid)

“Crying Time” (1965-1966) (Buck Owens): Ray’s best bet was to return to his sweet spot, and he found his groove in this Buck Owens b-side. The arrangement features both the Raelettes and Jack Halloran Singers, with the former garnering most of the attention. Margie Hendrix had been fired back in 1964, but Ray more than made up for that loss by bringing Merry Clayton into the fold. The harmonies are quite lovely, and Ray captures the essence of the song by singing in a voice weary of another round of lost love. His obvious sincerity likely went a long way towards rehabilitating his reputation with fans, as the song reached the top 10 in all three American charts.

“Let’s Go Get Stoned” (1966): (Valerie Simpson/Nicholas Ashford/Josephine Armstead): It took plenty of guts to release a single about getting high after exiting rehab, but Ray had the habit (pun intended) of recording any song he happened to like, and this Ronnie Milsap b-side tickled his fancy. Strangely enough, Ray makes no mention of the song in his autobiography, which just missed the Top 30 in the pop charts but hit #1 on the R&B side.

The song has a languorous feel, with both Rae and the Raelettes delivering their lines as if they’ve already had a few. The stark organ-piano-guitar arrangement tells me it’s closing time and the band is ready to call it a night. Those features might be negatives in other songs, but they express the emotional state of someone in need of a shot or two of booze—lonely, depressed, and a little pissed that nothing seems to go right. The positive aspect of the song from a psychological standpoint is that Ray never drinks alone, choosing to hang out with a buddy or with the regulars at the local establishment.

I was a little surprised by the weak commercial performance because by this time the meaning of “getting stoned” had shifted from alcohol to marijuana, but I guess people weren’t too stoned to miss the reference to gin.

“I Don’t Need No Doctor” (1966) (Nicholas Ashford/Valerie Simpson):  If there’s one trope I’d like to see permanently banished from popular music, it’s the doctor. From the Rascals to Robert Palmer to the Stones and a host of others, it seems every musician has to go to the doctor sooner or later because they can’t get laid. Kudos to Jackson Browne for consulting a doctor about seeing too much truth . . . but I doubt the doc would have been much help.

I go to a doctor, a dentist and a dermatologist and though I appreciate the service, I hate going there. Why? BECAUSE ALL DOCTORS OFFICES PLAY CRAPPY MUSIC! DOCTORS AND MUSIC DO NOT MIX!

Back to Ray . . . this is as close to rock ‘n’ roll as he’d ever get, which isn’t saying much. The song has a nice beat, Dick, but the lyrics are pure nothingburger, and not even a genius can extract much meaning from them. “I Don’t Need No Doctor” is one of those songs that refused to go away, so we have versions from the Chocolate Watchband, Humble Pie, the New Riders of the Purple Sage, Styx, and a few others. None of the versions released as singles (including Ray’s) became hits; Ray won the Battle of the Doctors over Humble Pie by the score of #72 to #73. WE DON’T NEED NO DOCTORS IN MUSIC!

“Here We Go Again” (1967) (Russell Steagall/Donnie Lanter): Ray made a quick recovery from medical-musical-malpractice with this easy-on-the-ears country tune set to 12/8 time about a couple who just can’t seem to let each other go, despite one failure after another. The lyrics contain no hints as to why they’re stuck on the merry-go-round, but I’d guess it’s either great sex without emotional connection or an “I always wanted to marry a (fill-in-the-blank)” kind of thing. The Raelette harmonizing with Ray is unidentified but the does a pretty good job of matching Ray’s dampened energy.

The version Ray recorded with Norah Jones and Billy Preston in 2004 for the album Genius Loves Company has the advantages of superior sound quality and three accomplished musicians, but what I love most about that take (and the album) is that Ray still had his singing chops in what would become his final LP.

“Eleanor Rigby” (1968) (Lennon/McCartney): Ray was the first of two soul icons to cover this song; Aretha Franklin’s version came out the following year. When asked about the song’s creation in an interview with Hit Parader in 1972, John Lennon (who wrote seventy percent of the lyrics) noted that “Ray Charles did a great version of this. Fantastic.”

As to why John failed to mention Aretha’s cover, I’d bet my bottom dollar that it was because she omitted the key closing line in the final verse: “No one was saved.” I don’t think the preacher’s daughter and Mr. Lennon were on the same page when it came to religion.

Ray did not remove the line in part because his beliefs were tempered with healthy skepticism regarding organized religion: “My relationship is really with the Supreme Being, not with Jesus. I suppose I consider myself religious since I believe in God. But I never thought about joining any particular faith just ‘cause then I’d have to face someone else’s set of rules, and I don’t see much sense in that.” (ibid) The more important reason for the line’s inclusion involves his interpretation.

McCartney’s approach involved understated detachment, and it worked for many reasons. Understatement reflects the bleakness of the storyline and the indifference of others to the lives of Eleanor and Father McKenzie. Paul’s interpretation evokes empathy for “all the lonely people” and hopefully inspires the listener to reflect on their indifference to the forgotten souls they encounter.

Ray’s interpretation possesses greater emotional urgency. His phrasing is quick, insistent and frequently off-rhythm, as if he just heard a story that shook him to the core and he has to talk about it to someone, anyone. His renderings of “look at all the lonely people” are filled with pain and anguish for the hopeless and unloved. By the time he arrives at “no one was saved,” I get the sense that his interpretation of that line has nothing to do with Jesus or Father McKenzie’s failed efforts on Christ’s behalf—he’s telling US that WE have to do something about human despair, and that no one should ever live a meaningless life.

The arrangement combines nods to the original with staccato violins opening the piece. The orchestration is tastefully muted, with the faint sound of a clarinet echoing the underlying loneliness. The Raelettes add a nice touch of soul with their background vocals, superbly syncing with Ray’s emotional urgency.

“America the Beautiful” (1976) (Katherine Bates/Samuel Ward): I have to recuse myself on this one due to my utter disgust with America the Ugly. Take it away, Ray!

America’s made bigger promises than almost any other country in history. We’re told that everyone’s entitled to this and to that. We’ve got this hip Constitution and this precious Bill of Rights. We make the promises, we talk the talk, but often we don’t do the deed. And even though I might be a little cynical—I call it realistic—about the way America’s run, I still feel like it’s my country . . .

I ain’t gonna lie to you and tell you I don’t love America. I do. But I’m also gonna tell you what gripes my ass about this country: the hypocrisy . . .

I tried to describe the things which were out of tune in America on A Message from the People. I sang “I Gotta Do Wrong” and “Hey, Mister” and “Heaven Help Us All.” But I also did “America, the Beautiful.” I was saying, “Listen, you need to clean up some of this shit, America, but I still love you.” A black magazine wrote that I was selling out by singing “America.” Well, if I was, I had sold out a long, long time ago. Ever since I started traveling round the world and seeing other places, I’ve been convinced that what we got—as rotten as part of it might be—is hipper than anything else I’ve noticed out there.

Ritz, David; Charles, Ray. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story (Function). Kindle Edition.

*****

Richie Unterberger’s comment about how Ray let his eclecticism get out of hand has some validity. During his lifetime, Ray recorded 62 studio albums, 7 live albums, 39 compilation albums, and 127 singles. Since his passing the number of compilations has increased to more than 200, according to AllMusic. When he heard a song he liked, he recorded it, paying no attention to genre or a particular song’s marketability. When it came to business, he was a realist: “People buy what they like. Period.” (ibid)

Ray made music because he loved music. Period. While his genre-hopping and song selection did not always sit well with the public, I don’t think he should be punished for his prolificism. Ray’s contribution to music should be considered in the same way we consider the works of the great poets. Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, William Butler Yeats, Pablo Neruda and Langston Hughes were all quite prolific; some of their work fell flat, but they also wrote many poems that have stood the test of time. Ray certainly recorded more than his fair share of classic performances that are still cherished today and will likely be cherished forever.

As mentioned in my review of Thelonious Monk’s Brilliant Corners, all artists face a variety of obstacles, making stick-to-itiveness a must. Ray faced more obstacles than most but he was fortunate to have a mother who refused to allow him to wallow in self-pity.

Going blind. Sounds like a fate worse than death, doesn’t it? Seems like something which would get a little kid down, make him afraid, and leave him half-crazy and sad. Well, I’m here to tell you that it didn’t happen that way—at least not with me . . .

Mama was a country woman with a whole lot of common sense. She understood what most of our neighbors didn’t—that I shouldn’t grow dependent on anyone except myself. “One of these days I ain’t gonna be here,” she kept hammering inside my head. Meanwhile, she had me scrub floors, chop wood, wash clothes, and play outside like all the other kids. She made sure I could wash and dress myself. And her discipline didn’t stop just ‘cause I was blind. She wasn’t about to let me get away with any foolishness.

So I still had the freedom to fend for myself on the outside. That made me happy. Even though I couldn’t see much, I wasn’t afraid of running around. I knew every inch of Greensville, and I didn’t lose my confidence about finding my way; I went wherever I wanted to.

Some of the neighbors gave Mama a hard time. They got on her case when they saw me working out back or helping her in the house.

“He’s blind,” Mama told them, “but he ain’t stupid. He’s lost his sight, but he ain’t lost his mind.”

Mama was looking way down the line.

Ritz, David; Charles, Ray. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story (Function). Kindle Edition.

And way down the line Ray Charles would overcome blindness, prejudice, color lines, and heroin addiction to become one of the most beloved and respected musicians of all time.

*****

My next review will not appear for a couple of weeks because I’ve booked an extended weekend stay in Dublin to celebrate Bloomsday. Can’t miss that!