Solomon Burke – The return of the king
“God helps those that help themselves,” he asserts. “And if you make one step, he takes two giant ones, so you have to keep in step.”
In his book, Wexler acknowledges that Burke was particularly money-savvy among his artists. Regardless, the singer had yet to understand the mechanics of publishing. Even though he wrote or co-wrote many of his biggest hits, the Bishop says he didn’t always see his fair share of the royalties — or even the writing credits. “If you look at songs like ‘Everybody Needs Somebody’ and ‘Got To Get You Off My Mind’, you’ll see Jerry Wexler and these other people’s names on them, and think, ‘Wow, these guys are great writers…'”
In the end, Burke would have the last laugh: When he appeared at a gala in the ’90s honoring Wexler’s career, the King called his alleged co-writers up onstage to help him sing “Everybody Needs Somebody”. He claims Wexler pleaded, “Don’t do this to us, man,” as he watched Jerry and Ahmet squirm uncomfortably while he and the band carried them through “their” song.
Like many R&B artists, Burke has learned to be protective of his assets in his old age. When The Blues Brothers movie hit cinemas in 1980, Solomon learned that, despite the inclusion of “Everybody Needs Somebody” in the film, he wasn’t acknowledged in the final credits. “They thanked Wilson Pickett and Jerry Wexler for the song!” he exclaims.
Burke’s attorney advised him to wait until they were sure the movie was a smash. And when it was, they picked up the phone. “We started calling, and [the producers] said, ‘We thought Solomon died.'” Burke lets out a mighty laugh. “Well, he has risen…and he would like a check!”
Not everyone stands Solomon Burke up for breakfast. In 2001, he enjoyed his morning repast in Los Angeles with one of the gentlemen who would engineer his comeback, artist and producer Joe Henry.
“We met at this old Jewish deli in Sherman Oaks that he likes,” recalls Henry. “Solomon was on a very strict diet at that moment, so he didn’t have his usual bagels and lox. But he lived vicariously through me. I’m a fairly slight fellow, but I ordered steak and eggs…”
“You’re going to have steak and eggs?” needled Burke. Yes, Henry replied.
“Are you gonna have a biscuit with that?” asked the singer. Henry answered in the affirmative once more. Solomon smiled. “Then you’re hired.”
Neither party that morning was standing on the firmest ground. Andy Kaulkin, president of Epitaph Records, had signed Burke with a promise of providing him with all new songs, penned by peers who knew and loved his existing repertoire. To Solomon, that meant fellow travelers such as Sam Cooke and Otis Redding, who were long gone; the reservoir from which to draw seemed so shallow as to make the proposed album’s completion unlikely. Although Burke had been inducted to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2001, his career had been in gradual decline for decades. His last secular record, 1997’s The Definition Of Soul on for Virgin’s Pointblank blues subsidiary, had barely made a ripple.
Henry, meanwhile, hadn’t seriously considered himself in the running to produce Don’t Give Up On Me, despite being a lifelong Burke fan. But in the course of conversations with Henry about joining the label as an artist, Kaulkin mentioned his desire “to do something different” with Burke, and Joe seized the moment.
“I started mouthing off, saying what I really thought: You have a beautiful idea, and I urge you not to lose your nerve,” Henry recalls. “No matter who you hire, don’t make some phony, retro-R&B record. If Solomon can still really sing, it will be really exciting, to put him out there, and expose him as a singer and a bandleader. And to find him material that is new, but also is appropriate, and has a chance of being authentic, so he doesn’t sound out of place doing it.
“I guess I said just enough of the right things,” Henry concludes, “because after that, we had a second conversation, and then a third.” And then he was breaking bread with Solomon Burke.
The next time they met was in the studio. The session ensemble, hand-picked by Henry, was small but versatile, including upright bassist Dave Piltch and Burke’s church organist Rudy Copeland. There were a few guest stars — producer Daniel Lanois played guitar, and the Blind Boys of Alabama sang some backing vocals — but nothing flashy. The big names, as it turned out, were lurking in the sheaf of original or unrecorded songs Henry had rounded up: Elvis Costello, Brain Wilson, Tom Waits, Van Morrison, Nick Lowe, Dan Penn, Bob Dylan.
“We sent him demos of all the songs,” Henry says. “And no matter what he tells you, Solomon did not listen to them beforehand. I think he allows now that his attitude was, he wanted everything to be as fresh as possible. Every time we approached a new song, it was like opening another present on Christmas Day. He wanted each one to be a surprise.”
That the songs had not come from the exact sources Solomon anticipated proved no matter to the singer. In fact, one of the most moving moments on Don’t Give Up On Me, the quasi-spiritual “None Of Us Are Free”, had leapt from the pens of Brill Building vets Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, in collaboration with Brenda Russell. (Henry reveals that Carole King also turned in several numbers, but by the time they arrived, two days into a four-day recording session, none quite meshed with the rapidly evolving character of the album.)