The story of how a producer and filmmaker earned a crude, but loving and highly appropriate, moniker from a bevy of the greats…
by: Alan Swyer
A remark a Black friend made several years ago has always resonated for me. “White people think about race only when it comes up,” she stated, “whereas people of color think about it every moment of every day. But,” she then added, “once in a while there’s an exception like you.”
Josie, who was senior VP of Diversity for CBS, was referring not merely to my work — which at that point included an HBO film about a Harlem basketball legend, a documentary about the Latinization of baseball, and articles about musicians like Memphis Slim and Charles Brown — but also to my nearly total immersion in Black and Latino cultures.
Most of that that owed to my childhood in urban New Jersey, where the neighborhood saved me from an unhappy home life. My two escapes, to my parents’ chagrin, were sports and music, though not necessarily in that order. In those days, Blues, Jazz, and early R&B could be heard everywhere, from car radios, apartment windows, stores, and above all at the soul food restaurant where the food, in contrast to my mother’s, had taste. It was there that I first encountered records by the likes of Big Maybelle, Wynonie Harris, and a future friend named Ray Charles. As for sports, that became the key to lifelong friendships. The playground was where I became addicted to basketball. The park was where I developed my love for baseball. Then there was the Police Athletic League, which brought boxing into my life.
While my parents feared my obsessions would keep me from bringing respectability as a doctor or lawyer, it was thanks to sports and music that I wound up with a career that was not merely more satisfying, but also a reflection of who I was.
First came a project about a Harlem playground basketball legend. Though the producers’ hope was to hire a Black screenwriter, I was the only writer with credits they could find who had seen the real Earl Manigault play. Why? Because I’d lied to my parents about going to the movies when in truth I was headed to the Rucker Tournament in Harlem.
To the surprise of the producers, I requested two weeks there before starting the script. “Why?” they asked, since it was a world I already knew. To soak in the sights and sounds, I explained. And to pick up memories, anecdotes, and other bits of lore.
It was in Harlem that I acquired what would become, depending upon the situation, a term of either endearment or scorn, plus a distinctive moniker.
Earl and I were about to enter a celebrated restaurant called Sylvia’s when he was spotted and embraced by Vaughn Harper, an ex-basketball star who’d become an important radio D.J. Then suddenly, Harper turned his attention to me, asking playfully, “Who’s the white motherfucker?”
From that point on, whenever Earl introduced me to local legends like Willie Magnum, Joe Hammond, and Herman the Helicopter, he always said, “Say hello to my friend Alan, who Vaughn Harper called a white motherfucker.”
Thanks to the film that resulted, plus an article I wrote about my friendship in Paris with Memphis Slim, I was approached about doing a piece on Ray Charles.That yielded two sessions with Joe Adams, who ran Ray’s professional life. Finally Joe asked if I’d like the assignment. “You bet,” I stated. But I added that I had three conditions. First, to tell the truth. Second, serious access to Ray. Third, help in getting to people who were hard to approach.
“Let’s leave that to Ray,” said Joe, bringing me in to meet the man himself.
“Joe tells me you know your shit,” Ray said once we were alone.
“More than most,” I replied.
“When I was coming up, who were three acts you never wanted to follow.”
“Guitar Slim,” I offered, bringing a smile to Ray’s face.
“With that 100-foot cord on his guitar. And?”
“Joe Tex.”
“With those microphone tricks everybody copped. And?”
“A dancing bear.,” I blurted
Ray froze for a moment, then laughed so hard he fell off his chair. “We’re gonna get on fine,” he said, getting to his feet. “So who do you need help with?”
“First, your ex-“
“I’ll take care of it. And?”
“Stevie.”
“With those 75 motherfuckers you gotta get through. And?”
“Quincy.”
“That’s the easiest of all.”
“For you.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
Two days later I was at my son’s high school baseball game when Ray called. “Call Q tomorrow morning at 10. Yulanda’ll get you the number.”
“So what do you need?” asked Quincy once I made it past three different interceptors.
“Some time together,” I replied.
“I’ve got workmen at my house, so it’s pretty much a disaster.”
“Then how about I buy you a coffee? Or lunch? Or a drink?”
“I don’t drive,” Quincy said.
“So I can pick you up.”
“How about if we do it right now over the phone? That make you happy?”
“Not really.”
“Let’s just give it a go, and then we’ll see. The first thing you’ve got to know about Ray and me is that we’re the only motherfuckers who never did shit unless our hearts were really in it.”
“That explains it!” I exclaimed.
“Explains what?”
“Lesley Gore, “It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To.”
Suddenly, there was dead silence at the other end.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“A white motherfucker with a memory,” Quincy joked, unaware that in the aftermath of Harlem, I’d been wondering if or when I’d be called that again.
Though far more amiable in the aftermath, Quincy could sense I was still less than thrilled. “Satisfied?” he asked hopefully once we were ready to hang up.
“Not really.”
“Will you tell Ray?”
“Only if he asks.”
“Will he?”
“Time will tell.”
The next morning a messenger showed up at my house with a carton containing vinyl, CDs, and DVDs galore. Immediately the phone rang.
“Happy now?” asked Quincy.
“What do you think?” was my answer.
I had no way of knowing that my time with Ray would result in an ongoing friendship not merely with him, but also with people like Ahmet Ertegun and Solomon Burke whom I met though that involvement. Nor was I aware that it would be my entry into the music business. After writing essays for reissues of albums like “Ray Charles & Betty Carter,” then producing a compilation of Ray’s love songs, I went on to produce records, manage artists, and direct music videos.
But first came an experience at the intersection of race, music, and film. It began with an overture from producers hoping to do a film about Duke Ellington. Over coffee, they said they were having trouble finding an approach, which told me I was far from their initial choice.
The pitfall, I explained, was trying what I called “First burp to last breath.” Because Duke’s life spanned many decades, plus scores of memorable events, what was required was a means to go back and forth through time.
I proposed starting with Ellington on his deathbed, desperate to find a way for his orchestra to continue. One possible successor was Billy Strayhorn, the brilliant composer of “Lush Life” and “Take The A Train,” who’d become a surrogate son. But it seemed unlikely that the world — or the band members — would accept a diminutive and clearly gay leader of a major Black orchestra at that time. The alternative, therefore, was Ellington’s biological son. But that meant overcoming Mercer’s hurt feelings.
The film, therefore, would consist of a series of confrontations, discussions, and reminiscences between father and son, complete with dramatic flashbacks — some sweet, some bitter, some touching, some funny. Plus loads of great music.
“That’s it!” cried one of the producers.
“You nailed it!” shouted the other.
To help in the search for funding, I wrote a twenty-page treatment, which in Hollywood fashion led to what every screenwriter dreads: notes. I ignored the silly ones, and tinkered with a couple that were somewhat valid, while fighting to omit anything anachronistic or crass.
“Now were ready!” announced both producers, which led to an obvious question. “Where do we take it?” they both asked
I suggested HBO, where I’d had a good experience with a Black film. But the producers wanted the big screen, which I considered a stretch unless we could somehow get a commitment from Denzel Washington.
Not wanting to sit around and wait, I agreed to do a rewrite on a low-budget thriller — an assignment I’d turned down twice before — on the condition that I be allowed to direct. Even there, my connections to Black music came in handy. When funding for what’s known as needle-drop — music heard from car radios and inside stores — disappeared, I was able to lean on people I’d gotten to know through Ray Charles. Both Mable John and Jimmy Lewis happily supplied tunes.
Then out of the blue came two voices from the past: the producers on the Ellington project. “How would you feel,” one asked, “about Wynton Marsalis coming on-board?”
“What does he bring?” I inquired, though I was pretty sure of what the answer would be.
“He’s Wynton Marsalis,” said the other producer, making it clear that what was wanted was Wynton’s cachet.
Acknowledging my diffidence, the first producer again spoke. “Will you at least have a conversation?’
In those pre-Zoom days, I soon found myself on a conference call with three disembodied voices belonging to Wynton, his manager, and his attorney.
Immediately, Wynton tried to put me on the defensive. “What gives you the right to do Duke Ellington?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Duke is brother shit.”
“I’m naive,” I said. “Tell me what that means.”
“What it comes down to,” explained the trumpeter, “is pussy.”
“Oh,” I responded. “And no white guy, yellow guy, green guy, or blue guy ever cared about that? I think your father would be embarrassed to hear you play the race card.”
“What do you know about my father?”
“What if I say a friend used to change your dirty diapers?”
“Motherfucker!” he screamed. “You better not be lying!”
“Don’t you mean white motherfucker?” I blurted. Before Wynton or the others could respond, I spoke again. “Let’s play a game. Who is Clora Bryant?”
“H-how do you know about Clora?” Wynton mumbled.
“Shouldn’t you be wondering how I not only know of, but actually know Clora?” I asked, speaking about a female trumpet player who left Texas for Los Angeles in the fifties.
There was a moment’s silence before Wynton spoke again. “Let’s move on.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “I know about you, but you don’t know about me.”
“What do you know about me?” Wynton demanded.
“You’re curator of the Jazz museum, playing transcriptions for wealthy white people at Lincoln Center.”
“I resent that!”
“But you didn’t say it’s not true. So tell me. Do you have a second phone line?”
“I have multiple lines.”
“Then I’ll give you a number so you can check on me.”
“I’m not taking down a number!” Wynton protested.
“I’ll take it,” said one of the other voices.
When I gave the number, the man laughed. “Apologize to Alan.”
“Why?”
“That’s Ray Charles’s private number.”
The conversation went nowhere after that. Nor, unfortunately, did the project. Despite the producers’ claim that they owned the rights to all of Ellington’s music, that turned out not to include “Take The A Train,” “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, “I Got It Bad And That Ain’t Good,” and many of Duke’s other best known songs.
My life took a bizarre detour a couple of months later when I got a dinner invitation from someone I only knew in passing: Ike Turner.
Though Ike and I had crossed paths hanks to Ray, Solomon Burke, and Jimmy Lewis, we’d never really had a one-on-one conversation. But I was curious enough to agree.
When I arrived at a restaurant in Santa Monica, Ike was already seated with his manager. “Ray says you’re smart,” Ike announced.
“For a white motherfucker?”
“For a white motherfucker,” Ike repeated with a laugh. “Tell me your thoughts about my career.”
“What you’ve done wrong? Or what you ought to do?”
“Both.”
“I’m not going to touch anything about Tina.”
“Thanks.”
“So let’s start with when you had a deal to buy songs, which you wrote yourself and signed D. Duck or M. Mouse.”
“Walking away with 100 bucks each when that was real money.”
“Which is fine with the ones that went nowhere. But a few today are worth six figures, for which you receive nothing.” Seeing Ike gulp, I paused. “Want me to go on?” Begrudgingly, Ike nodded. “Then let’s talk about how every time you had a hit, you jumped ship for a new label.”
“With a pretty signing bonus.”
“But Ray has a boxed set, and so does Aretha, Fats Domino, Clifton Chenier, and loads of others.”
“So I guess I’m my own worst enemy,” groaned Ike.
“Shhh!” I protested.
“Why shhh?”
“If you say it too loud, a hundred guys may come running up shouting, Don’t be so sure!”
Ike shrugged. “So what should I be doing?”
First, I said that Ike needed to do a PSA against domestic violence. Next, a record deal at a company owned by a woman. When he said there was no such thing, I mentioned Rounder Records, whose co-owner was Marion Leighton Levy. Then, I said, he needed to do a duet not with a an ersatz Tina, but with an outspoken feminist.
Suddenly, Ike glared at his manager. “How come you never came up with ideas like that?”
“I-I didn’t know you’d be interested,” he mumbled.
“Know what?” responded Ike. “You’re fired!”
That’s how I became Ike Turner’s manager.
Though we had good times and bad, there’s one memory that stands out. When I brought Ike, who was dressed from head to toe in Bluesman yellow — yellow shoes, yellow socks, yellow suit, and yellow hat — to the Getty Museum for a screening of a documentary about Gospel music, an employee came toward me when Ike headed to the men’s room.
“Is that who I think it is?” she asked.
“It’s not Bob Dylan,” I joked.
“Okay if I tell the man who put together this program?”
She scooted off as Ike reemerged and walked with me into the auditorium.
We’d just taken seats when a preppy-looking guy approached. “Mr. Turner,” he said, leaning over me to be closer to Ike. “We’re so happy and proud you’re here. Any chance of having you come back to speak, perform, or participate in some way?”
“If there’s something interesting,” said Ike.
“Wonderful! How do I reach you?”
“Through the white motherfucker you’re suffocating,” stated Ike with a laugh.
Because of all the joy I received as part of the Ray Charles universe, I kept searching for a way to say thanks. That opportunity finally came when I received a call from the promoter of the Chicago Blues Festival, asking if we could speak off the record.
“I’d love to book Ray,” announced Barry Dolins.
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t much like the band.”
“I get it,” I said. “Guys reading music.”
“What can we do to make it special?”
“How about reuniting Ray for with the guys from the great band who are still active, though not with him?”
“Like who?”
Off the top of my head I named Hank Crawford, Leroy Cooper, Marcus Belgrave, Phil Guilbeau, and David “Fathead” Newman.
“That’d be fantastic! How can I get ’em?”
“I’ll help if you’ll pay ’em real money.”
Barry didn’t hesitate to agree.
The night before the Chicago gig, I flew in on the red eye with Ray, his companion, and Joe Adams.
Given a choice of staying at the hotel with them, or the one housing the musicians and Raelets, I chose the latter, knowing it would be far more fun.
We dropped our suitcases off at both places, then went to Millennium Park for a run-through. Those lucky enough to be strolling by heard the greatest Ray Charles music in decades. Midway through the rehearsal it became better still when I surprised Ray by having a former Raelet named Mable John appear, singing along with that year’s version of the back-up group.
To document the historic reunion, I arranged for a video crew to join me backstage that evening while I conducted interviews. The first one, with Hank Crawford, who played alto sax, went wonderfully, as did the the second, with Leroy Cooper, who was a master on the baritone. But as I was beginning to speak with trumpeter Marcus Belgrave, a voice yelled, “Cut the shit!”
It was an irate Fathead Newman. “No way we should let the white motherfucker get rich off us!” Everyone froze as Fathead continued to bellow, until suddenly a very familiar voice interrupted him.
“Goddammit!” yelled Ray Charles, stepping forth from his private dressing area. “That ain’t no white motherfucker! That’s my friend Alan. Ain’t you ever heard of something called legacy?”
“W-well –”
“Well, nothing,” countered Ray. “You say you ain’t using, but you’re acting like a goddamn junkie!”
The interviews that followed went exceedingly well, except for the one with Fathead, who spent most of the time sulking.
Sadly, the friends I made during that time soon started disappearing. Ray’s death came first. He was followed by Jimmy Lewis, then the guys I assembled in Chicago, then Joe Adams, and finally Mable John.
It was during that time period that I switched to making documentaries that focused on the music I love. With “Harlem To Hollywood,” then “When Houston Had The Blues,” and the soon-to-be-completed “When LA Got The Blues,” I’ve been able to honor both the music and the people who made it.
Since then, even though in some ways it became a badge of honor, no one has called me a white motherfucker, playfully or otherwise.
Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera, plus a new one, When Houston Had The Blues. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel The Beard was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.
