Solomon Burke – The return of the king
“This was the beginning of my grandmother’s prophecy: ‘The Lord will take care of you. And your life will change, upon the minute you feel estranged,'” he says.
Burke recorded gospel sides for Apollo, including the best-selling “Christmas Presents From Heaven”, until 1957. His parting with the label was not smooth. “Apollo was a great record company,” Burke says. “They were true to who they were, and what they said. Unfortunately, I had a manager then who was able to take my career down, at his will, and I didn’t know how to handle that.” At 17, having been swindled out of the bulk of his profits, and without a recording contract, Burke took a sharp downward turn that lasted for three years.
“I had to go through being a bum on the street, living in abandoned cars, eating pork and beans out of the can, begging for nickels and dimes on the corner,” Burke recalls. “God wanted me to go through those trials and tribulations, so I could understand having and wanting, and knowing how to show compassion, and help others as well as myself.” Via good fortune (or divine intervention, as it were), eventually Burke encountered the mother of a young lady he had once dated. Their family helped him regain his footing and confidence.
Meanwhile, over at Atlantic Records, Jerry Wexler was having headaches of his own. His two biggest artists, Bobby Darin and Ray Charles, had flown the coop to other labels (Capitol and ABC, respectively). According to his 1993 autobiography, Rhythm And The Blues: A Life In American Music, by 1960 Wexler was feeling creatively exhausted, “Solomon Burke was the infusion of fresh energy I needed,” he wrote.
Their meeting was not purely kismet. Wexler’s former mentor at Billboard, Paul Ackerman, had been urging him to sign Burke for several years. “[Atlantic] had just released Ray Charles from the label; he hadn’t been gone a week,” Burke says. “I walked into Jerry’s office that day, and 30 minutes later he was hollering for them to bring me a contract.”
Atlantic already had a vision for Burke: “Their idea was, we have another young kid to sing gospel, and we’re going to put him in the blues bag.” But reproducing the formula that had worked for Brother Ray didn’t sit so well with Burke.
“I told them about my spiritual background, and what I felt was necessary, and that I was concerned about being labeled rhythm & blues,” he explains. “What kind of songs would they be giving me to sing? Because of my age, and my position in the church, I was concerned about saying things that were not proper, or that sent the wrong message. That angered Jerry Wexler a little bit. He said, ‘We’re the greatest blues label in the world! You should be honored to be on this label, and we’ll do everything we can — but you have to work with us.'”
When Burke showed up for his first Atlantic recording session, in December 1960, he was given four songs, including “Just Out Of Reach (Of My Two Empty Arms)”, a straight-up country number; Patsy Cline, among others, had already recorded it. Solomon figured this did not portend a long future with Wexler and company. (This was two years before Charles hit it big with Modern Sounds In Country And Western Music.)
“Here’s the greatest R&B label in the world, and they give me country songs to sing,” Burke figured. “What are they trying to tell me?” But the 20-year-old singer bellied up to the microphone, and, accompanied by smooth backing vocals and an arrangement equal parts Nashville and Nat King Cole, gave it his best.
On the song’s bridge, Solomon began speaking — rather than singing — the words. Wexler protested: “You can’t preach on these records!” But according to Burke, Ahmet Ertegun (who the Bishop gleefully mimics in a nasal twang at any opportunity) intervened, saying: “What’s the difference? Let the man do what he wants to do.”
Ertegun’s instincts proved correct. Released the following year, “Just Out Of Reach” became the first in a long string of Solomon Burke hits for Atlantic, peaking at #7 on the R&B charts and crossing over to #24 pop. Others would follow: “Cry To Me” and “Down In The Valley” in 1962, “Everybody Needs Somebody To Love” in 1964, and his biggest smash, the #1 R&B hit “Got To Get You Off My Mind” in 1965.
The public, particularly down south, responded strongly to Burke’s instinctive mix of the sacred and secular, or, to put it more simply, “soul music.” Unlike some artists with church backgrounds who encountered opposition when they attempted to reconcile the two, Burke suffered no backlash from his congregation.
“I’ve never had a problem dealing with my audience, because my approach was always that I am a minister first, and an entertainer second,” he explains. It helped that there was always a purity to his vocal delivery, especially in his upper register; ever the preacher, Burke never growled or moaned suggestively in his songs.
That winter afternoon in 1960, however, Burke didn’t even stick around to listen to the finished playback of “Just Out Of Reach”. A blizzard was pummeling the east coast, and Solomon had a gig waiting back in Philly…plowing snow, at four bucks an hour. He already had a family to look after, and if his previous experiences were any indication, record sales could not be counted on to put food on the table.
Driving a snow plow was just one of many non-musical enterprises Solomon has engaged in throughout his storied career. Among them: Running a chain of mortuaries (though he is now out of that business, some of his children still oversee it) and a crematorium; operating drugstores; selling popcorn and other concessions during his own shows; and even shilling meals to fellow African-American artists during package tours through the deep south. When his younger black colleagues, who didn’t realize they would be refused service at most roadside dining establishments, were starving, Solomon was at the ready with a stock of fried chicken, sandwiches and potato chips.