Tortured Soul

‘Do you like good music?’ cried Arthur Conley to the American public in June 1967. Belting out his homage to the soul greats of the South Coast, the singer was posing some direct questions to the people of America: Did they like Lou Rawls? Did they like Otis Redding? Did they like James Brown? But more precisely – he was asking the white middle class people of America if they actually liked the ‘sweet soul music’ phenomenon that was sweeping their nation. The answer – an answer Conley already knew – was a resounding yes. By the mid-60s, the American public were going mad for soul music.

The real question, of course, had been asked eight years earlier, not by Conley, or Redding, or any of the Atlantic or Stax soul artists, but by Berry Gordy when he set up Motown records in Detroit in 1959. Armed with just 0 of borrowed money and an unshakeable belief in the power of Afro-American music, the failed jazz store owner took a massive gamble. In an environment of racism, poverty and an economy based almost entirely on motor sales, he asked people to buy into a new kind of music – a form of gospel music made by black artists on a black record label with a black owner. Ordinarily, this would have been an unmitigated disaster but fuelled by a wealth of musical talent and an innovative pop style unheard by mainstream audiences, the label took off. And thus, in the face of great adversity and pessimism, the Motown sound was born.

The next 10 years were a boom period for black soul music. Based on the success of Motown – led by The Supremes and Smokey Robinson and The Miracles – the Memphis-based Stax Records shifted in 1961 from their previously country slant to sign up soul artists like Redding, Sam And Dave and Wilson Pickett. The US Billboard chart was suddenly packed with artists from Motown, Stax and Atlantic Records (who between 1960 to 1968 formed a strong and successful alliance with Stax). These struggling black singers who had grown up singing gospel music in Baptist church congregations were suddenly overnight sensations, and a previously hostile America was now dancing to their tune.

Sadly though, like all the great music fairytales, the birth of soul music carried with it a dark and tragic afterbirth. Behind the doo-wop, the dancing and the delirium, a destructive force was eating away at the very people creating it. Faced with new found fame and fortune, many of the soul artists turned to drugs; depression kicked in; inter-label fighting broke out, and violence began to spiral out of control. The faces plastered on the record sleeves and those seen at the live performances painted a picture of unbridled contentment, but the reality for many was far different. Whether by the artists’ own self-destructive impulses or by the unforeseen circumstances surrounding them, many of the soul greats eternally captured on record singing that sweet music met with disastrous ends. As we delve into just five of these tragic stories, we tap into the power, the passion and ultimately the pain behind one of the greatest music phenomenons in history.

SAM AND DAVE

The rawness, spirit and energy of the soul movement was embodied in many of the legendary artists of the 60s – but none more so than Georgian double act Sam And Dave. The pair – Sam Moore and Dave Prater – had an unrivalled stage presence, literally leaving the stage covered in puddles of sweat after each performance. In fact, such was the difficulty of bettering the crowd favourites during their 1967 Stax-Volt tour, headliner Otis Redding told his manager that he would never ever tour with those ‘motherfuckers again’.

By the end of the 60s, however, two things happened that would rip the soul of ‘Double Dynamite’ apart. The first was Moore’s introduction to the world of heroin by soul star Little Willie John. Fatigued by the demands of touring their show 280 nights a year, and by an increasing desire to work on solo material, Moore became ever more dependent on drugs, to the point of addiction. ‘Heroin and cocaine’, he said later. ‘They made me feel bigger than life. You can insult people, get in fights, treat women any kind of way. But, eventually, it gets to the point where you’re just taking them because you don’t want to get sick.’

The second incident, and the final nail in the relationship of Sam and Dave came in 1969 when Prater did something impulsive and outrageous – he shot his girlfriend in the face. Although she didn’t die and later went on to marry him, it was an incident that Moore would never forgive his partner for. ‘I took it upon myself to become judge, jury and executioner,’ Moore said. ‘I told him I’ll sing with you but I’ll never speak to you again.’ True to his word, the pair never uttered a word to each other offstage for the next 12 years.

Though the pair continued to tour extensively, they were dropped by Atlantic records in August 1972, and never replicated the success of early singles ‘Soul Man’ and ‘Hold On, I’m Coming’ on any of their subsequent labels. In 1982, Prater finally shunned his old partner and began touring the Sam and Dave act with another Sam – Sam Daniels – despite strong legal action from Moore. On April 3, 1988, Prater and Daniels performed at the Stax Reunion gig in Atlanta, alongside Isaac Hayes, Eddie Floyd and Carla Thomas. It was to be Prater’s final show, however, as six days later, when driving to his mother’s house, he was killed in a car crash.

Sam Moore and Dave Prater were the most successful soul duo of their generation but their on-stage chemistry and innovative call-and-response act sadly never told the real story. Reflecting on Prater’s death in an interview in 2001, Moore said: ‘I have never mourned the man – 13 years on, I still haven’t. I didn’t cry. I’ve cried about a lot of things, but I never cried for Dave.’

SAM COOKE 

Credited with being one of the pioneers of soul music, Sam Cooke was an inspiration to many of the soul generation that followed him; with artists such as Otis Redding and Wilson Pickett heavily indebted to his sound.

The Mississippi born singer’s heavenly voice, twinned with his dashing good looks, made him one of the most popular black artists in America, reaching no.1 in the Billboard chart with debut single ‘You Send Me’, and going on to record 29 Top 40 hits. It also made him a big hit with the ladies – and very quickly, Cooke developed a sexual appetite of unbridled proportions. By the age of 22, he had impregnated three different women, and though he attempted to quell his raging libido by marrying teenage girlfriend, Barbara, in reality it sparked a sexually destructive chain of events that would ultimately lead to his demise. Within months of the marriage, their infant son drowned in a Hollywood swimming pool, prompting Cooke to start drinking heavily and find solace in the company of local prostitutes. On December 10, 1964, however, this lethal combination led to one of the most mysterious and tragic incidents in music history.

After meeting 22-year-old Elisa Boyer at a local nightspot, Cooke drove her to the Haciena Motel and marched his conquest up to a room. Fuelled by lust and the alcohol inside him, Cooke took off his clothes, stripped her, then, according to Boyer, tried to force himself upon her. With Cooke distracted briefly in the bathroom, a distressed Boyer is said to have grabbed her clothes (and some of Cooke’s) and ran from the motel. Enraged, Cooke then jumped in his car and sped round the front of the motel to find her. Assuming she’d gone into reception, Cooke – despite wearing nothing but a sports jacket and a shoe – angrily confronted hotel manager, Bertha Franklin, as to her whereabouts. An altercation ensued, and after tussling with Cooke, Franklin pulled out a pistol and fired three shots. The singer, according to Franklin, looked up from the floor, said, ‘Lady, you shot me!’ before charging at her again. Franklin responded by beating him with a broom handle, until Cooke fell to the floor dead.

The details of this incident remain sketchy, with some sections of society accusing Boyer of being a hooker out to rob Cooke, and others saying it was the result of a wider vendetta against Cooke. ‘I still think it was some kind of conspiracy’, said Atlantic soul pioneer Solomon Burke. ‘I can imagine Sam going to the counter and saying, “Hey, somebody just took my pants.” I can imagine him saying, “Give me my pants.” But I can’t imagine him attacking her. He wasn’t the type of person to attack somebody. That wasn’t his bag. He was a lover.’

Lover, fighter, singer, sex addict; another soul legend was nonetheless dead.

MARVIN GAYE 

‘I come up hard’, Marvin Gaye sang in 1972. ‘I come up, gettin' down; There's only three things that's for sho'; Taxes, death and trouble…’ The words – lyrics from his blaxploitation soundtrack Trouble Man – were also Gaye’s painful confession about his own turbulent life. Young, gifted, rich and famous, Gaye, by this stage, was a tormented soul heading for disaster.   

Employed by Motown as a session drummer in the early 60s, the Washington-born musician, through his good looks and talent, very quickly became the label’s guiding light, releasing hits ‘Can I Get A Witness?’ (1963) and ‘How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)’ (1964) to great success. In 1967, after teaming up with a beautiful, unknown singer called Tammi Terrell, Gaye’s star profile was at its peak. Though the pair weren’t lovers (Gaye was married at the time), the sexual chemistry on hits like ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ was audible for all to hear, making them the hottest couple on the circuit. In October 14, 1967, however, disaster struck: performing at a concert in Virginia, Terrell suddenly collapsed into Gaye’s arms on stage. She was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Three years later, she died. The tragedy destroyed Gaye: he went into seclusion, refused to perform for nearly two years, and during her burial is even said to have talked to her remains as if in a conversation with her.

Employed by Motown as a session drummer in the early 60s, the Washington-born musician, through his good looks and talent, very quickly became the label’s guiding light, releasing hits ‘Can I Get A Witness?’ (1963) and ‘How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)’ (1964) to great success. In 1967, after teaming up with a beautiful, unknown singer called Tammi Terrell, Gaye’s star profile was at its peak. Though the pair weren’t lovers (Gaye was married at the time), the sexual chemistry on hits like ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ was audible for all to hear, making them the hottest couple on the circuit. In October 14, 1967, however, disaster struck: performing at a concert in Virginia, Terrell suddenly collapsed into Gaye’s arms on stage. She was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Three years later, she died. The tragedy destroyed Gaye: he went into seclusion, refused to perform for nearly two years, and during her burial is even said to have talked to her remains as if in a conversation with her.

His 1971 comeback album, the internationally acclaimed What’s Going On? was, in part, Gaye’s cathartic response to the tragedy. Though the release put his professional career back on track (the million record deal that followed made him the highest earning black artist in America) and he did go on to score huge worldwide hits like ‘Let’s Get It On’ (1973) and ‘Sexual Healing’ (1982), he never truly recovered from the ordeal.

Riddled with tax problems, depression, drug addiction and bad health, Gaye, in August 1983, moved back in with his parents – and in the process, reignited the tumultuous relationship with his father of years previous. A year later, this would prove fatal. On April 1, 1984, a domestic dispute broke out between Gaye’s father and mother. As Gaye tried to intervene, his father went and got the gun that Gaye had bought him four months earlier. ‘My husband didn't say anything,’ recalled Gaye’s mother afterwards. ‘He just pointed the gun at Marvin. I screamed but it was very quick. He, my husband, shot – and Marvin screamed. I tried to run. Marvin slid down to the floor after the first shot.’

The gunshot punctured his chest, killing him instantly. The Trouble Man’s troubles were over once and for all.

RICK JAMES

Violence, addiction, suffering and tragedy befell almost every performer that came out of the soul movement of the 60s – but none more so than Rick James. The legendary ‘King of Funk’ experienced it all – and his story is perhaps the most depraved of the lot. 

The nephew of Temptations singer Melvin Franklin, James’ initial hopes of a Motown recording contract were dashed in 1966 when the manager of his band, the Mynah Birds, pocketed the advance Gordy had given him and shopped him to the Navy (he had gone AWOL two years previously). After serving his stint in Brooklyn naval prison, James finally joined Motown, but only as a producer, working on the songs of artists such as Smokey Robinson.

Though he had minor success as an artist in the 70s, the aspiring pop star had to wait until 1981 till his major musical breakthrough came through, in the form of concept album Street Songs, featuring the seminal funk anthem ‘Super Freak’. The album – his fifth – catapulted him to star status, and though several other hits followed, so did the drugs. By the time MC Hammer sampled ‘Super Freak’ on 1990 smash ‘U Can’t Touch This’, James was spending ,000 a week on crack, and things went rapidly downhill.

In 1991, during one of his many cocaine binges, Rick and girlfriend Tanya Hijazi met music executive Mary Sauger for a meeting, kidnapped her and allegedly beat her over a 20-hour period. Two years later, while out on bail for the incident, the pair struck again: they held 24-year-old Frances Alley hostage for six days, tied her up, forced her to perform sexual acts on them and burned her legs and abdomen with a crack pipe. Though he was cleared of the torture charge, James was sent to Folsom Prison. 

‘Prison has been a blessing in disguise,’ he said of his conviction later. ‘Otherwise, I probably would have been dead by now.’ On his release in 1996, the fallen superstar claimed he had shaken the drugs and began working as an anti-drug advocate; though 10 years later, when James tragically fell victim to a heart attack, traces of cocaine were found in his blood.

Despite curbing his hedonistic party ways, his number one vice still had a hold of him, right to the point of death.

WILSON PICKETT 

Wild, passionate, impulsive and bursting with sexual energy, ‘Wicked Pickett’ was as vivacious off record as he was on it. Spending his childhood in a Baptist community in Alabama being routinely smacked about by his mother, Wilson moved to Detroit in 1955 at the age of 14 and threw himself headfirst into the music industry. Despite finding himself in the thriving Motown city, it wasn’t Berry Gordy’s label that signed up the confident young singer, but Atlantic, after he sent them a demo of early song, ‘If You Need Me.’

Recording at the Stax recording studios with soul legend Isaac Hayes on keyboard, Pickett’s career quickly flourished, and through hits like ‘In The Midnight Hour’ (1965) and Mustang Sally’ (1966) he quickly became part of the 60s soul elite. As his popularity increased, however, so did Pickett’s temper, and though the 70s and early 80s were a productive music period for him, his increasing sexual appetite, reliance on alcohol and fascination with firearms became a huge source of concern to those around him. When his music career eventually dried up, Pickett’s personal life imploded. 

In 1987, he received two years’ probation for carrying a loaded shotgun, and four years later, was arrested again after driving his car across the front lawn of a New Jersey mayor and repeatedly yelling death threats at him. A further arrest came for assaulting his girlfriend that year; then in 1993, he ended the life of an 86-year-old pedestrian after hitting him in his car whilst riddled with booze.

‘Wilson Pickett’s worst enemy is Jack Daniels’, commented his then manager as Pickett completed his year’s term in prison. Sadly for Pickett, the penal institutional couldn’t curb his volatile ways, and the 90s were again spent on the wrong side of the law, be it for cocaine possession or beating up women. The troubled star continued making music despite this, but after continued health problems, Pickett died of a heart attack in January 2006.

On 1972 hit ‘International Playboy’, Pickett had declared himself a ‘legend in his own time’ but like so many of his talented contemporaries, that genius was entwined with a personality that ultimately destroyed the legend within.