Professa R.A.P.

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ROOTS 'n' RAP

Diggin' in the Crates, part I: The Stax-Volt Sound

[This is the first in a series in this column which will look into the

trax that hip-hop DJ's have carried in their crates from back in the

day to the 95. Future columns will delve into King Records/James

Brown, Philadelphia International Records, Douglas Records, Ohio funk,

Spoken Word, and the Jazz Roots of hip-hop. Each column will also

track a few samples down to the source -- RAP]

What do Big Daddy Kane's "The Beef Is On," Cypress Hill's "How

I Could Just Kill a Man," Heavy D's "Don't Curse," Das EFX's "Dum

Dums," and Salt 'n' Pepa's "Tramp" all have in common? They all rely

on samples and loops from the catalog of Memphis's legendary Stax/Volt

records. Sometimes overlooked in the shadow of Motown, Stax was a

cultural crossroads in the pivotal years of the 1960's, and even

though Stax (unlike Motown) was not originally Black-owned, it

acquired over the years a reputation for a Blacker, more streetwise,

less pop-crossover sound.

It's no coincidence, then, that musicians such as Isaac Hayes

paid their dues writing or recording for Stax, and that when DJ's

reached into the crates, it was Stax more often than Motown that

provided the beats (Stax house drummer Al Jackson Jr. should be up

there with Clyde Stubblefield and Ziggy Modeliste in the funky-drummer

hall of fame). It's strange to think, then, that it all started way

back in 1960 in a disused Memphis movie theatre located at 926 East

McLemore, when a white banker (and former country fiddle player)

teamed up with his sister to borrow enough money to buy an Ampex reel-

to-reel tape machine.

That theatre, which later was dressed up with the legendary

neon marquee showing the Stax of Wax, eventually housed more talent to

the square inch than any recording studio in the country. Some of

it was due to fortuitous urban and cultural geography; keyboardist

Booker T. Jones was a gangly sixteen-year-old who lived just

around the corner; songwriter David Porter worked at the Big Star

grocery store across the street; Rufus Thomas hosted a popular

show on Memphis's WDIA.

But the neighborhood feel belied the nationwide audience of

these artists: at 50,000 watts, WDIA was one of the most powerful

Black radio stations in the country, with over 1.2 million Black

Americans in its listening area -- over 10% of the Black population of

the U.S. at the time. Stax's deal with Atlantic in 1961 connected it

with their nationwide distribution and promotion, and guaranteed Stax

artists a better royalty rate. Motown's Berry Gordy worked his

artists hard, but paid as little as a fifth of the standard royalties,

while at Stax hard work meant hard cash.

It wasn't just the money, though -- it was Stax's commitment

to Black artists, songwriters, and promotion via Black radio that gave

it the edge. While Motown was aiming itself directly at the pop

charts -- and white consumers -- Stax always went for the R&B charts

first, even when, in yet another racist twist, Billboard magazine

stopped listing R&B charts altogether in 1963-5. As Mable John -- one

of Gordy's first signees, said when defecting to Stax in 1965, "Motown

is not basically a soul company -- it's more pop and I'm not a pop

singer. Gordy had no soul writers or producers, so I asked for a

release."

Memphis was also part of a larger cultural crossroads between

country music, rhythm and blues, and rock 'n' roll; if it was Sun

records that first vanillified jump blues and called it 'rock'n'roll,'

it was Stax that took it b(l)ack. Their artist roster during their

glory days was a hall of fame all in itself: Otis Redding, Sam and

Dave, Johnnie Taylor, Rufus Thomas, Carla Thomas, Albert King, the Bar-

Kays, Booker T. and the MG's, Eddie Floyd... the list goes on and on.

Stax's in-house band and jam-session atmosphere was a rich

collaborative atmosphere for all its artists. On the promotion side,

Al Bell took care of business, keeping Stax's links with Black DJ's

and record-shop owners strong.

It all seemed to good to last, and in some ways it was; with

Otis Redding's death in 1967, the label lost its brightest star, and

the following year saw all kinds of upheaval at Stax. Major labels

wanted a bigger slice of the R&B pie, but lacked the organization and

links with Black communities to get it. When Atlantic itself was

bought out in 1968, Stax used a clause in its contract to end their

distribution deal, and make its own.

Stax inked its own arrangement with Gulf+Western in '68, and

for a while it seemed things would go on just as they had. But having

a large corporate parent inevitably changes things, and in any case,

Stax's artists themselves were changing and evolving. As the '70's

dawned, Booker T. Jones left for California (and A&M records), and

writer/guitarist/A&R chief Steve Cropper was replaced by Detroit's Don

Davis. Stax branched out with more subsidiary labels, and something

of that neighborhood feel was lost.

There were gains, though -- for one, Stax broke into comedy

records, signing the then-unknown Richard Pryor, whose 1973 debut

"That Nigger's Crazy" no major label would touch, let alone even guess

how to promote it. For another, Jim Stewart sold his interest in Stax

to Al Bell, making Stax a Black-controlled label. Bell was a

committed political activist with a long civil rights record, and he

initiated a period of wide-ranging activism at Stax. He supported the

Rev. Jesse Jackson in the early days of operation P.U.S.H., releasing

Jackson's speech "I Am Somebody" on Stax's Respect label. 1972 saw

what Nelson George rightly recognizes as a high-water mark of R&B

music and Black community activism, the Wattstax project:

'On August 20, 1972, Bell and Jackson stood side by side in

the middle of the cavernous Los Angeles Coliseum, chanted "I Am

Somebody," and then raised their fists in the Black Power salute

before a hundred thousand music fans. With that gesture began a

long day of live music by every Stax artist to raise money for the

Watts Summer Festival. It was a symbol of black self-sufficiency.

Wattstax became a film -- shot by a predominantly black crew -- and

a six-sided album.'

(Nelson George, _The Death of Rhythm and Blues, 139-40)

It's an event that is simply unparalleled today -- even when

Priority records raised money to rebuild south central L.A., it did it

relatively quietly. We could use something like Wattstax today.

Unfortunately, as so often happens, success killed Stax

records, hurried along by white-controlled major record labels and their

lawyers. In 1972, Stax made a deal with Clive Davis at CBS, which

initially looked to be a flush one for them. Then Davis was

summarily fired, CBS failed to honor the terms of the agreement,

and Stax ended up being obligated to ship inordinately high

numbers of new titles at a lowered royalty rate within a very

short period of time. Veterans such as Carla Thomas were hurried

into the studio, then had their vocals buried under slathers of

generic strings; it was no surprise that sales were poor.

The only good thing to come out of this debacle was Isaac

Hayes's "Hot Buttered Soul," which Hayes -- for nearly a decade Stax's

in-house songwriter/arranger -- slipped through in the rush. It was a

huge success, and opened the door into "Shaft" and Hayes's most

productive and popular decade. But it was too late for Stax; after a

string of lawsuits involving CBS and the banks, Stax bled artists left

and right, and finally went under in 1976. To his credit, Al Bell

went down fighting, but there was not much he could do against CBS and

its endless supply of corporate lawyers.

There are, however, other forms of survival more important

than those recognized by corporate America. The hard-driving beats of

the Stax studio had a future that no one -- not even Bell himself --

could have foreseen. They were perfect for scratching and sampling.

The drum breaks and intros to Stax tracks were spare enough to build a

beat, but rich enough to suggest something more; check out Salt 'n'

Pepa's cut on Otis Redding & Carla Thomas's "Tramp" (from back in the

days when Spinderella actually *spun* some vinyl). The horn riffs

provide a perfect accent for the overdubbed beat, and the roughness

around the edges fits Salt 'n' Pepa's lyrics like a body suit.

The "Tramp" beat was a favorite from the start, and rivals the

"Funky Drummer" for status as an all-time DJ classic. The

instrumental skills of Booker T. & the MG's made their tracks another

favorite; even though Heavy D and guests "Don't Curse," the loop from

"Hip-Hug Her" gives the track a down and dirty undertone. Even the

Stax vocal singles have given up some samples for the hip-hop

underground; when Das EFX wanted a light but steady diet of funk for

"Dum Dums," Otis Redding provided it, and when Big Daddy Kane set out

to show that the Beef was On, the uptempo intro to Rufus Thomas's "I

Think I Made a Boo Boo" brought the sauce.

Thanks to extensive reissues, it's possible to get most of the

Stax/Volt catalog on compact disc, though you might have to buy it in

big chunks. First to be re-issued was the 9-cd set "The Complete Stax-

Volt Singles, 1959-1968"; all of the classic old-school Stax is here,

digitally remastered from the original tapes. Other boxed sets follow

the history of Stax after its split from Atlantic in 1968, and the

acquisition of its back catalog by Fantasy Records. Fantasy has put

out its own samplers of Stax classics, and Rhino/ATCO have re-issued

many of the original pre-'68 Stax albums on CD; you may have to look

around a little -- but not as much as DJ's back in the day, who might

search through a mountain of dusty vinyl to get that one Stax '45.

Even beyond the music, though, Stax is a major landmark in the

history of Black music. As Nelson George has observed, the early

history of hip-hop -- starting on black-owned labels such as Enjoy and

Sugar Hill and eventually becoming subsidiaries of major corporations --

has repeated the history of R&B in miniature. If the end of the hip-

hop is to avoid the crass commercialization that did in R&B, somebody

had better take a lesson from what one small label that stood up for

what it believed in could accomplish.

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Credit/Discographical Note: Much of the 411 on the early years

of Stax is drawn from Steve Greeberg's exhaustive 64-page book

accompanying _The Complete Stax/Volt Singles, 1959-1968_, Atlantic

82218-2, 9 cds. I'm also indebted to Nelson George, Simon Frith,

Cilve Anderson, and Ian Hoare for their histories of R&B and the Stax

sound.