His Legacy on the Line

The permit on the dressing room wall at the House of Blues in West Hollywood lists the capacity as 20, but twice that many people are shoehorned into the space--and most will be joining Solomon Burke on stage.

“We need your immediate attention,” demands the bear-sized Burke from the rear of the room. “We go on stage in 15 minutes. No drinking water on stage. No chewing gum. No talking. A hundred-dollar fine if anyone talks.”

The 62-year-old soul singer, who weighs nearly 400 pounds, has sunk so deep in an oversized chair it looks as if he’ll need a crane to lift him out.

Everyone makes a pilgrimage to him--old friends who remember him as the “king of rock and soul” back in the ‘60s, when sweet soul music briefly ruled the airwaves, an elderly woman who attends Burke’s monthly church sermons and “healings” at a converted movie theater in Inglewood.

Part showman, part patriarch, Burke gives each of the guests a big thank-you, a how-you-feeling, some flattery and, always, a closing joke.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells Andrea Leonard, the KCRW-FM radio host who will introduce him on stage. “You doing OK? Thank you so much for coming tonight to do this for me ... just don’t call me Barry White.”

Holding court is second nature to this man, who has had audiences under his spell since his childhood days in Philadelphia. He was such a charismatic preacher that he had his own weekly radio show at age 12.

By the time he was 21, he was captivating R&B; audiences with his exquisite voice and showmanship. He took the “king” title so seriously (it was given by an admiring disc jockey) that he walked on stage in the mid-’60s with a bejeweled crown and 15-foot-long cape.

Like many artists from the early days of R&B; and rock, Burke complains about shamefully low record royalties, about being forced to give away some of his publishing rights and being cheated by greedy business associates.

Worst of all, however, Burke has been robbed of his legacy.

At one time, Burke was considered one of the greats of soul music, right alongside Otis Redding, Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson. Some even called him the greatest. Asked 30 years ago to name the best soul singer, producer Jerry Wexler, who has been in the studio with Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin and Redding, declared, “Solomon Burke with a borrowed band.”

Yet Burke’s name has largely faded from the pop consciousness. He hasn’t had a Top 40 pop hit in almost 40 years and he has had a scant presence for years on the U.S. concert circuit.

What happened?

No one may even have raised that question if Burke hadn’t been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last year. That honor led numerous critics and industry insiders to brush up on their pop history by searching out some of Burke’s classic recordings. There they discovered the remarkable purity, passion and range of his voice. (See story, Page 77.)

There’s a tendency to think of soul singers as raspy and explosive, but the heart of soul music’s mix of gospel and R&B; strains is in the sweet, soft, caressing notes. Burke is a master of that soft touch, as he showed on such records as his first Atlantic single, “Just Out of Reach (Of My Two Open Arms),” in 1961.

But he was equally at home with the howling and aggressive soul sound on “Cry to Me,” his follow-up hit the next year. It’s amusing now to listen to the Rolling Stones’ early versions of “Cry to Me” and another Burke hit, “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love,” and hear Mick Jagger trying to incorporate some of Burke’s phrasing into his vocals.

The key to Burke’s resurgence rests in connecting with a new generation of fans. His first step is “Don’t Give Up on Me,” a just-released album on the Fat Possum label. On it, Burke interprets songs written for him or given to him by such longtime admirers as Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Tom Waits and Elvis Costello. Reviews have been glowing.

The next--and most crucial--step is demonstrating on stage that he’s still a vital artist. That’s why there seems to be a bit of urgency in the air backstage--a trace of nervousness in his eyes. For the first time in almost 30 years, there’s something at stake again. Burke is fighting to reclaim his legacy.

It’s not a slam dunk by any means. Burke has been doing the old tunes so long that they have become a security blanket, but his record company, among others, feels he must move into the new material to maximize his opportunity today.

“It’s all so exciting,” Burke says, ignoring for the moment the issue of old versus new material. “I feel like a man who is finally coming out of exile. Now, they just need to give me all the money.”

Burke is a colorful storyteller, and it’s hard not to get so caught up in the humor and rich detail of his tales about the old days that you lose track of your main concern: How was it possible for this man to fade from pop consciousness for all those years?

Sitting in the living room of his large but not lavish two-story home on the western edge of the San Fernando Valley, Burke tells many of the stories that he has honed over the years--tales as irresistible as his best records. His Hall of Fame induction statuette and a House of Blues plaque rest on a mantel, the only signs of the music business in the room.

There are so many chapters in his story that it’s hard to believe he crammed all the adventures into one lifetime. Did we mention he has 21 children and 67 grandchildren?

Burke’s story began 12 years before he was born James Solomon McDonald in Philadelphia. (He doesn’t remember his real father; the name Burke comes from his stepfather.) That, he says, is when he came to his grandmother in a vision that led her to form a church, Solomon’s Temple: the House of God for All People, in anticipation of his birth. Young Solomon gave his first sermon in that church at age 7 and was soon known by the faithful as the “Boy Wonder Preacher.”

Burke started drawing wider attention around town in his mid-teens when he made some records for the Apollo label, but most of his tales deal with the years in the ‘60s when he was on Atlantic, the R&B; powerhouse whose roster included Ray Charles, Clyde McPhatter and Ruth Brown.

There’s the night in the ‘60s in the segregated South when a white promoter, who booked Burke after hearing the country-tinged single “Just Out of Reach,” was shocked to find that Burke was black. In a panic, he talked the singer into going on stage with his face covered with bandages.

There are also countless tales of Burke’s efforts to make an extra buck. While on a bus tour of the South with other R&B; artists, Burke brought along bags of extra sandwiches and soda bottles to sell to the musicians, knowing he could increase the prices the further they got into the South.

Burke tells these stories easily--and, one senses, often. He’s by nature a positive person who likes to see his story told in upbeat terms.

From some of the recent articles, you get the impression that Burke is a wealthy entrepreneur who has a network of churches and a financial share in a string of mortuaries.

He does frequently preach and his family has ties to some mortuaries, but none of this gives him a huge stream of money, people close to him say.

On a recent Sunday afternoon at the theater in Inglewood, there were only about 125 people present. The microphone wasn’t even working, but that didn’t faze Burke, who preached for more than an hour.

“Someone said on the way in, ‘Bishop, the microphones aren’t working.’ I said, ‘So what? I wasn’t born with a microphone. I was born with a voice,’ ” Burke, a bishop in the House of God for All People church, told the congregation in a booming voice.

There was a time in the ‘70s when Burke preached at a church at 54th and Broadway in Los Angeles, and people would line up for hours for a seat.

Given the small turnout these days, you wonder why he doesn’t promote the church dates more. He doesn’t even put his name on the fliers in the theater window. “I don’t want people coming here to see Solomon Burke,” he says softly. “I want them to see the bishop.”

His son, Solomon Jr., says, “I think my father is excited about what’s happening to him, but it’s not like he’s been melancholy all these years. He keeps busy every day. He’s a happy man. He has put his life in God’s hands and God takes care of him.”

It’s only after all the stories about the sunny times that Burke acknowledges some of the darker moments in his life, including periods of financial struggle.

“The Lord did bless us with this house,” he says. “The owner said, ‘I want you to have it.’ He moved out and I moved in. He’s selling it to me. He’s like an angel. I wouldn’t qualify financially to buy this house. I have a lot of debt--bills and expenses and children to raise.”

The talk of struggle reveals a resentment over the money he thinks he is owed from the old days.

His first bitter taste of the music business came while he was still on Apollo Records in the ‘50s when, he says, a former manager pocketed some of Burke’s concert fees. When confronted, the manager warned that he would blackball Burke in the industry--and the singer did find it hard to get club dates.

“My life was shattered,” he recalls now, sitting at home on a wooden throne similar to the one he uses on stage and built especially for his large frame. “I was so disillusioned I didn’t want to sing anywhere except in church.”

Burke, who by this time was married to the first of his three wives, went to mortuary school and worked in a Philadelphia funeral home owned by his aunt.

But Burke finally returned to music. Even after signing with Atlantic Records in 1960, however, he remained wary of industry practices.

Realizing it was hard for individual singers to stand up to record companies, publishers and booking agencies, Burke organized some other singers into a group called the Soul Clan. Burke’s idea was that the group, which also consisted of Arthur Conley, Don Covay, Ben E. King and Joe Tex--wouldn’t just record together, but stand together to demand its rights in business affairs.

The move sent signals to the industry that he was difficult to work with, Burke says.

“Organizing the artists wasn’t something that was popular,” he says. “But I didn’t think we were being treated right. It’s the same thing some recording artists are doing today.”

Burke seems especially upset over the songwriting credit for “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love,” which he sang during the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony last year, stealing the show from Aerosmith, Steely Dan and other inductees.

The recordings have always listed three names: Burke, Wexler and writer-producer Bert Berns, whose credits include “Here Comes the Night” for Van Morrison’s group Them and “Piece of My Heart” for Janis Joplin. Burke claims he was the sole writer on the song but was talked into sharing credit by Wexler and Berns.

“I wanted the Soul Clan to be independent enough to say when we write a song, we get credit for it and paid for it,” he says. “When I’m gone, I want the money from that song to go to my children, not to Jerry Wexler or to the estate of Bert Berns.”

Various business disputes left Burke so disillusioned that he has found it difficult to trust people, those close to him say. That led him to manage himself and book his shows at times--moves that may not have always been the most productive for his career. He has recorded for several labels since leaving Atlantic in the late ‘60s and had some R&B; hits with MGM Records in the early ‘70s. But nothing’s been on the charts since.

Although he toured regularly in the U.S. and Europe in the ‘70s and ‘80s, bookings dwindled in the ‘90s and averaged less than a dozen shows a year in recent years.

There are nearly two dozen Burke albums in circulation, including repackages, on a variety of labels. Their total sales last year amounted to only 12,000, according to Nielsen SoundScan. Burke filed Chapter 7 bankruptcy in 1998, the result, someone close to Burke says, of some “bad business deals.”

James Fifield, former chief of British music giant EMI and a leader in the campaign to encourage record labels to upgrade the royalty rate on reissues by ‘50s and ‘60s artists, is a huge Burke fan and has been offering him counsel in recent years.

About Burke’s complaints about industry practices, Fifield, whose relationship with Burke is personal, not professional, said recently, “Solomon’s early hits were in a different era, when I think artists were taken advantage of, and that did lead to a trust issue. I don’t know if he ever really got a big royalty check. But that’s history.

“To me, the important thing is there is a new record out that has been critically acclaimed. All these great artists have contributed songs to it. My goal with this album is to make sure he finally gets a real royalty check.”

No one has had to tell Andy Kaulkin, the lanky, 6-foot-7 president of Epitaph Records, about Burke’s legacy. Kaulkin grew up in the Washington, D.C., area listening to Burke and other soul music greats

Kaulkin wanted to sign Burke to Fat Possum, which is half-owned by Epitaph, after seeing the singer at a blues festival last year in Oregon.

“Solomon was probably suspicious of me at the start,” Kaulkin says in his office at Epitaph’s headquarters on Sunset Boulevard in Silver Lake. “I think he thought I might be just another guy blowing smoke. I get the sense he’s met a lot of those guys over the years. I’m sure he also had reservations about the kind of record I wanted to make.

“I didn’t want to do another traditional soul album. There’s no point in trying to re-create what Jerry Wexler did so well. I wanted to make a raw, organic record--just him and a few musicians so that there is an intimacy to the recording--so that you can just hear that great voice right out in front.”

Kaulkin tapped singer-songwriter Joe Henry to produce the record, and they lined up the material together.

“The response among songwriters was amazing,” Kaulkin says. “We’re just a small label and I don’t know these people, but when we called managers to say we were looking for songs for Solomon Burke, we got calls back sometimes as fast as a half an hour saying their artist would love to give us a song. They all have so much respect for Solomon. Elvis Costello even came down to the studio to watch Solomon record his song.”

Weeks before the album’s July 23 release, an ambitious press and promotion campaign was put together.

Asked for a sales prediction, Kaulkin pauses.

“Our advance orders are about 40,000 in the U.S. and about the same in Europe. He’ll get a royalty check, but I think the main thing is the album put him back in the spotlight. That’s when he could really cash in. He could get endorsements. Maybe some bigger label would want to sign him. Our contract is only for one record, so he has the freedom to go. I could even see him do some acting or see his music get picked up in films.

“I’m hoping the first-week sales will be around 3,000. If it does 5,000 copies, I’m going to be thrilled.”

“It’s amazing the way Solomon is in the air right now,” Wexler says by phone from his home in East Hampton, N.Y. “It’s amazing how this funky little company has him on David Letterman’s show and on CNN.”

Wexler, 85, is as engaging a storyteller as Burke, and he’s soon into remembering some of their good times together.

“There was a blizzard the morning we were to do the first recording session with Solomon and I didn’t know if I would be able to get into” New York, says Wexler, who has also produced albums for Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson and Dusty Springfield. “The trains weren’t running, but I made it in that morning and there was Solomon, who had come up from Philadelphia. We did four songs in three hours, including ‘Just Out of Reach.’

“After we finished recording, I went into the control room to listen to the playback. I looked around for Solomon, but he was heading out the door. He said he had to get back to Philadelphia while it was still light because he had a job shoveling snow. I think he was getting paid $3.50 an hour. He already had something like eight kids.”

Wexler still marvels at the records Burke made for Atlantic. “I was listening to one of the compilations the other day, and I think it is one of the best I’ve ever heard. There are no fillers in there. His voice is just magnificent.”

So why did Burke fade from pop consciousness?

“The same thing happened to him as happened to everybody else from that era.... Soul music went away. Disco and rap and hip-hop came in. Plus, Solomon didn’t have any real crossover hits. He remained the province of the rhythm & blues market, the Southern black audience. He never reached the level of recognition of an Otis Redding or Al Green, whose records exploded in the pop market.”

Dick Alen, a William Morris agent whose clients include Chuck Berry, Aretha Franklin and Juanes, underscores the void left in Burke’s career by the lack of a crossover hit.

“Solomon is one of my favorite talents, but he had a strictly black following in the ‘60s, and that worked against him because record sales and the live drawing power of R&B; acts was limited,” says Alen, who worked with Burke in the ‘60s and who sometimes still books him for shows.

“If he had some crossover hits, he would also be a bigger concert name today. One thing that hurt him was that his timing was a little off. He hit before the big soul explosion.”

Wexler says he still speaks to Burke from time to time by phone. “He’s even made me a minister in his church. I’ve got this document on my wall from Solomon that empowers me to do weddings, confirmations, laying on of hands--and circumcision,” Wexler says with a chuckle.

He doesn’t, however, know much about Burke’s world outside the studio--or specifics of Burke’s life since. “We weren’t like Motown, where Berry Gordy was involved in every part of his acts’ life and business.” Wexler adds. “We didn’t agent anyone or manage anyone. We just made the records.”

What about the songwriting credit on “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love”?

Wexler sighs.

“I know Solomon is upset about that, and I wrote him a long letter explaining how we wrote the song together and that he has always gotten his share of the royalties. I know that because I get royalty checks for the song.

“The whole process of making a record is a collaborative affair and the issue of who does just what on a song sometimes gets confusing, but not on that song. We wrote it in Bert’s apartment. Bert had a guitar and we wrote it together.”

Maybe, Wexler admits, they’ll just never agree on the point.

It’s nearly show time at the House of Blues, and the musicians shuffle nervously in the dressing room as Burke gets to his feet and leads everyone in prayer. The band heads to the stage and begins playing. The crowd waits eagerly for Burke to step out and reclaim his “king of rock and soul” crown.

After a few warmup numbers by the band, he makes his way to the center of the stage and takes his place on his trademark throne. With horns ablaze, he goes into the first number, and the voice is everything you hoped it would be.

He opens with “Don’t Give Up on Me,” the title song of the new album. Written by Dan Penn, Carson Whitsett and Hoy Lindsey, it’s the story of a man trying to hold onto a loved one. But in the context of the show, it’s easy to hear the song as a plea to the pop world not to give up on him after all these years.

For the rest of the set, Burke focuses on oldies, mixing his own hits, including “Cry to Me” and “Just Out of Reach,” with songs associated with Redding, Cooke and other singers.

In “Cry to Me” alone you can hear Burke’s influence. John Fogerty is widely regarded as one of the great rock vocalists ever, and you hear Burke’s howl in several of the records he made with Creedence Clearwater Revival, including “Born on the Bayou” and “Tombstone Shadow.”

You also hear in “Cry to Me” a touch of the vocal stutter that Redding would later use to great effect. In “Just Out of Reach,” Burke laid down a blueprint for Ray Charles’ later mixture of soul and country.

After 40 minutes, the show begins losing its punch because Burke seems stuck in the past. He only does two more songs from the new album, and late in the set he turns to “My Way,” the Sinatra anthem that simply has been worn out over the years.

The set may be nice enough for longtime admirers, but anyone drawn to the show by the new album is likely to be disappointed by the oldies tone.

Can he ever step away from the safety of the oldies? Backstage, Burke vowed to do more of the new songs on his U.S. tour this fall. The impact of the tour may depend on whether he follows through on that pledge.

“Thank God my father never gave up and that he is given this opportunity,” Burke’s son Selassie says backstage before the concert. “The good thing is he’s getting the recognition while he’s still alive.”

And what was that first-week sales figure? 8,940 copies, according to Nielsen SoundScan. That was enough to enter the national sales charts at No. 138, the highest album chart position he has ever had.

Somewhere, someone must be saying, “Hallelujah.”

*

Robert Hilburn, The Times’ pop music critic, can be reached at robert.hilburn@latimes.com