Wilson Pickett was one the biggest soul stars of the 60s
yet is often overlooked and taken for granted. I’ve a bunch of his singles,
from early sides on Double L (‘Baby Call On Me’) and Verve (‘Let Me Be Your
Boy’) to the humongous hits for Atlantic (you know the ones) but rarely pay him
much mind. There’s probably an element of unconscious soul snobbery at work
here; Wilson wasn’t an obscure and underappreciated talent and he didn’t die with
early promise unfulfilled; instead, he worked his way up, hit it big then floundered
through the decades with decreasing artistic reward. Pickett also inadvertently
provided fodder for karaoke nights and wedding bands everywhere and while ‘Land
of 1000 Dances’ still packs an almighty punch I never want to hear ‘Mustang
Sally’ again.
Tony Fletcher’s new biography, In The Midnight Hour, succeeds in turning the spotlight back to
Wilson Pickett y’all. Although the first Pickett biography his story reads a
familiar one as with unerring predictability his life plays out as the archetypal
60s soul star. If reads like a work of unoriginal fiction and a cliché, it was
Pickett, more than most, who established it as he walked toe-to-toe with the
progression of black American music during a sizable chunk of the second half of
the 20th century.
From growing up poor in Prattville, Alabama, to Pickett’s
father moving to work in the motor trade in Detroit, to young Wilson singing gospel,
joining the more R&B-focussed Falcons in Detroit, recording in New
York, sessions at Stax in Memphis and Muscle Shoals back in Alabama, huge
success with the trappings that bought, to helping switch attention to the soul of
Philadelphia, to performing in Africa, Pickett carried the flame. Then came the
downward spiral. Pickett struggled to find a place in the music business when
soul shifted from hitting hard in the guts and deep in the heart to the disco
era, skittering across emotions and dancefloors.
As Pickett’s star waned his descent into drink, drugs and
increased violence escalated alarmingly and stays in prison beckoned. “It’s
very difficult to get somebody who’s been to the top of mountain to accept that
they’ve living on the hillside,” offers Jon Tiven who attempted to help get
Pickett back on track in the 90s.
As always with Tony Fletcher, he put the miles in to
interview as many associates as possible to compile a thorough account of his
subject. There are plenty of anecdotes telling of Pickett’s greatness: his
dynamic stage presence, the way he commanded the studio, his artistry, charisma
and humour. And, of course, that voice and that scream. Jerry Wexler said James
Brown screamed but Wilson Pickett screamed in tune.
On the other side of the coin was The Wicked Pickett, a
nickname earned from pinching the mini-skirted behinds of secretaries in the
Atlantic Records offices. If we recoil at such practices nowadays it was small
fry compared to what was to come. Fletcher asserts “for most southern blacks of
the era, harsh physical discipline was accepted as a rite of passage” and harsh
physical discipline was something Pickett took from his childhood and delivered
in adult life. It makes grim reading and when added to beating women and his children,
pulling a gun on his brother, serving up a saucer of cocaine to his 14-year-old
son and a bunch of other assholery it’s hard not to feel when his bass player
rips a towel rail off a wall to smash Pickett in the head, breaking the bone
behind his left eye, that he didn’t have it coming. If this was a movie a little cheer may've gone up in the cinema.
If such passages make uncomfortable reading, Fletcher’s
analysis and descriptions of Pickett’s music are enthralling and redress the
balance. Such is Fletcher’s enthusiasm he does what any good music
biographer should, and sends the reader back to the records. For my part I
bought the first five Wilson Pickett albums (check out the Original Album Series, five CDs for little more than a tenner) and
have listened with fresh, excited ears. I like him more now and although still not the biggest fan of that sock-it-to-me chuggy-chugging brand of soul, gems aplenty have
surfaced. ‘Jealous Love’ and ‘I’ve Come A Long Way’ alone from 1967’s excellent
I’m In Love are new favourites and
have, at last, given me a fuller and fairer assessment of the Wicked (sometimes
very wicked) Pickett. Oh yeah, he also turned 'Hey Jude' into a decent record so he definitely wasn't all bad.
In The Midnight
Hour: The Life and Soul of Wilson Pickett by Tony Fletcher is out now,
published by Oxford University Press.
Great write up as always.I brought the 5 CD boxset at Christmas and have been listening to Wilson Pickett a lot lately and whilst listening i'v been thinking along the lines of your top paragraph - The book looks a must read and I haven't read a Tony Fletcher book yet which hasn't disappointed
ReplyDeleteI know you meant by the last line! You're right, TF is always good. Can get a little overly detailed in places (I thought so on the Smiths book anyway, and in places here)but can never really criticize a job done thoroughly.
ReplyDeleteWilson lived in the same state as me in the 1980's and was engaged in some bizarre blood feud with the mayor of Lodi,New Jersey. Ac a result he was sadly and constantly in and out of the headlines. Someplace I have the clipping of when he drove his Ford Bronco SUV onto the mayor's lawn and proceeded to do doughnuts on it at 2 A.M.
ReplyDeleteHahaha, that sounds about right! Cheers for sharing!
ReplyDelete