For The St. Louis American
I always had this picture in my mind of Wilson Pickett
as a mythic being. In my vision he had the face of a
hawk and the body of a horse. The word ‘ride’ seemed
to be at the core of this vision. He most often worked
himself into a sweaty, raspy, alternate state of mind
during the climax of his show. He’d bend toward the
audience in a bowlegged, half cowboy stance. The silk
suit he’d chosen that particular night would be
gleaming under the stage lights; the ubiquitous golden
key around his neck – it was the key to the highway –
would rest gloriously at the convergence of the lapels
of the silk suit. The microphone would be exactly six
inches from his mouth because, like all great soul
singers, he knew that was the perfect distance from
which to clarify the singer and amplify the song. From
this powerful place in the world he could both begin
and end his great ride. And Pickett was a rider. Just
picture him ridin’.
Pickett’s great ride began in Prattville, Alabama.
Like nearly all accomplished black singers of his era
he got his start singing gospel music in church. He
moved to Detroit as a teenager, joined a group called
the Falcons, and scored a hit with “I Found A Love”.
He had been heard. It was 1962.
In 1965 he hooked up with Jerry Wexler, the legendary
soul producer, at Stax Records in Memphis, and
recorded his greatest hit, “In The Midnight Hour”, for
Atlantic Records. A string of hits followed in the
sensual and aggressive style that had become the
hallmark of his art.
In 1991 he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of
Fame. He was given the Pioneer award by the Rhythm and
Blues foundation in 1993.
With the particulars of his biography out of the way,
I prefer to return to the myth of Pickett. In my
original vision he had appeared in the guise of a
hawk-faced man with the body of a horse. His aforementioned
horse-like attributes and his
projection as a rider aside it’s that hawk face, perhaps
presaged by his arrival with a group called the
Falcons, is something I’ve never been able to shake.
In 1991, British film director Alan Parker made
The Commitments. It tells a story of
the trials and tribulations of one Jimmy Rabbitte.
Jimmy’s dream is to form the “World’s Hardest Working
Band”, The Commitments, and bring soul music to the
people of Dublin, Ireland. During the entire film
Jimmy hustles and scrapes and digs – deeper and deeper
– until he arrives at the meaning of ‘soul’. He
gathers a group of oddballs, misfits and Irish ne’er
do wells. Steve, Imelda, Natalie Mickah, Bernie, Dean,
Outspan, Bill, ‘The Lips’ and Derek join him to make
music as The Commitments. Jimmy’s take on soul music in fact becomes
the musical credo for the band. “The Irish are the
blacks of Europe. Dubliners are the blacks of Ireland.
The Northside Dubliners are the blacks of Dublin.” He
follows this outburst with another presentation of his
take on the essence of ‘soul’. “Soul is the music
people understand. Sure it’s basic and simple. But
it’s something else ‘cause, ‘cause, ‘cause it’s
honest. It sticks its neck out and says it straight
from the heart. Sure there’s a lot of different music
you can get off on, but soul is more than that. It
takes you somewhere else. It grabs you by the balls
and lifts you above the muck.” Thus speaks Jimmy
Rabbitte.
What’s this got to do with Pickett? Did I forget to
mention that the major subplot of the film is a visit
to Dublin by none other than Mr. Wilson Pickett? The
Commitments practice and perform little gigs at high
schools, neighborhood bars and community centers to
discipline and purify themselves in preparation for
the arrival of none other than ‘The Wickit’ Pickett.
For them, this black American soul singer is a myth
about to materialize in their midst and make their
day.
As fate would have it, they have a job on the same
night at the same time that Pickett performs. After
their gig they rush to the theater where they think
their hero awaits, only to arrive at the stage door at
the exact moment that a long black limousine pulls
away leaving them in a cold and terribly disappointed
drizzle. You cannot see Pickett in the limo, but only
a shadow of his royal wickedness. A literal vapor
trail. But that’s the point. What the poet Ishmael
Reed once called ‘the hawk behind Sonny Rollins head’
is all there really was. He was his music; immediate,
lethal, airborne. He risked it all. Be thankful that
he let us come along for the ride.