An example of the magic that life can present on occasion. The tale of a storyteller’s world colliding with a musical giant…
by: Alan Swyer
Ray Charles’s funeral was by invitation only. That meant having to go through a police checkpoint to approach the church, then another one to enter.
Deeply moving, the service featured heartfelt performances by none other than B.B. King, Willie Nelson, and Stevie Wonder.
For me it was an opportunity not merely to pay my respects to the musical giant who had become a close friend, but also to see, gathered together, the people I’d come to know in Ray’s inner circle.
My entrance into that largely impenetrable world came when I was asked to write something about Ray. Though thrilled at what I felt would be a privilege, I responded with three conditions. First, I insisted that I be allowed to tell the truth rather than writing hagiography or puff. Second, I required serious access to Ray. Third, I would be in need of help getting to people who would be difficult to approach.
Fearing that I’d talked myself out of a job, I was pleasantly surprised when I was summoned to meet with Joe Adams, who ran Ray’s professional life. The vetting was serious as Joe asked questions about everything from my upbringing to my work experiences plus, not surprisingly, my taste in music. That was followed, two days later, by another grilling. When a third get-together was requested, instead of spending time with Joe, I was led directly into Ray’s office.
“I hear you know your shit,” Ray said as I entered.
“More or less.”
“When I was coming up, what were the three acts you never wanted to follow?” Ray plainly asked.
“Guitar Slim,” I offered.
“With that 100 foot cord that let him walk through the audience,” Ray said approvingly. “Do you know I worked with him?”
“On ‘The Things I Used To Do,’ that’s you yelling Yeah.”
Ray seemed pleased. “And?”
“Joe Tex.”
“With those microphone tricks everybody stole. And?”
I thought for a moment, then blurted, “A dancing bear.”
There was stunned silence until suddenly Ray started laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair. “We’re gonna get on,” he announced happily.
We did better than get on. Ray loved hearing about the people from his past that I’d contacted: ex-Raelettes like Mable John, Merry Clayton, and Clydie King; Gosady McGee, who played guitar in Ray’s first group, the Maxim Trio; Hank Crawford and Marcus Belgrave from Ray’s great band of the 50s; his valet, Vernon Troupe, plus one of Vernon’s predecessors; and admiring younger musicians like James Ingram.
“But now,” I said one morning, “I need help with people I can’t get to.”
“Such as?”
“Your ex—”
Ray took a deep breath, then nodded. “And?”
“Quincy.”
“Will do. And?”
“Stevie.”
Ray sighed. “That means getting through the seventy-five motherfuckers blocking the way.”
One Monday morning, I was surprised by a call from Ray. “I’m pissed,” he announced.
“Because?”
“People say your wife’s a good cook, and you’ve never invited me.”
“She’s a great cook. Let’s pick a date.”
We settled on a day and a menu, only to have Ray call apologetically the night before. His last remaining aunt was failing, he explained, so he had to get on a flight to Florida to see her.
Another date was chosen after his return, but again Ray called to postpone.
“You know baseball,” I told him. “Three strikes and you’re out.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised once we’d agreed on a third date.
That very morning, Joe Adams called. “I hope you’re not expecting Ray tonight.”
“Are you calling on Ray’s behalf?” I asked. “Or to warn me.”
“Ray doesn’t eat in public,” Joe stated.
“I’m not public,“ I replied.
Immediately I called Ray. “Joe Adams says you’re not coming tonight.”
“Fuck him! You bet I am!”
“We settled on the menu,” I said, “but you never told me what you’d like to drink.”
Ray cackled. “Since you’re asking, how about Champagne?”
I bought a magnum of Dom Perignon, which Ray proudly opened.
Because that first dinner fell between Ray’s birthday — September 23rd — and my older son’s — September 26th — I suggested we should make it a tradition, which it became.
After a couple of months without communication, Ray called on a Tuesday afternoon. “I need a solid,” he informed me. A writer with a stutter was coming to interview him the next morning. He wanted me there to fill in the word not if, but when, the writer couldn’t manage to get out a thought. Happy to be spending time with Ray again, I agreed. But upon my arrival, he changed the rules, informing me that I, not he, would be the one answering the questions.
“You’re kidding,” I protested.
“You know all the shit,” Ray insisted. “Plus if the guy leaves, he doesn’t get paid.”
To the chagrin of the interviewer, I started to answer the first question. “When Ray—” I began, only to have Ray interrupt. “Say I,” he demanded. “When I –”
Ray enjoyed our little ruse so much that yet another tradition was started. Every so often he’d ask me to fill in for him on an interview, after which the two of us would spend time hanging out.
The opportunity I longed for to pay Ray back for the fun I was having came when I got a call from the promoter of the Chicago Blues Festival, who asked if we could speak off the record. Barry Dolins’s problem was that he didn’t like the band Ray was using, which he rightly felt was ordinary. “Is there any way to make Ray’s appearance an event?” he asked.
I suggested reuniting Ray with the guys from the great band who were still active, but no longer with him: Hank Crawford, Marcus Belgrave, David “Fathead” Newman, Leroy Cooper, and Phil Guilbeau.
“How can I get them?”
“I’ll help,” I answered, “if you’ll pay ’em real money.”
The result was the best Ray Charles concert in decades.
The next year I also helped get Ray a booking at the Long Beach Blues Festival by promising a reunion with his former protege, Billy Preston.
Sadly, problems from the liver disease Ray was fighting made that appearance impossible. Soon after, he was gone.
Leaving Ray’s funeral, I had every reason to assume that the wonderful Ray Charles chapter of my life was over. It turned out I was wrong.
Just a week later, I received a call from Ray’s valet, Vernon Troupe. “Can we get together?” he asked.” You’re the one guy who can help me.”
The next afternoon, Vernon was waiting outside his building when I pulled up. We made small talk as we walked to his apartment, then he pulled out a folder. One after another, he proudly displayed pristine black & white photos of the private Ray Charles — the side the public never got to see. Among the photographs were shots of Ray lounging in his dressing room before a show…giving instructions to the band during a recording session…sitting on an airplane deep in conversation with pretty ex-Raelette Clydie King…playing chess in an undershirt…practicing on a tenor sax…and at ease with his kids. ”It’s a treasure trove!” I exclaimed, dazzled by what I was seeing.
“What can we do with ’em?” Vernon wondered.
“Are there enough for a book?”
“I’ve got all you need.”
“And they’re all yours?”
“Every single goddamn one.”
“Can I get copies — prints, or even Xeroxes?”
“To?”
“Show to a book agent.”
“Those are wonderful behind-the scenes-photos,” a New York agent I knew exclaimed when she called the following Monday.
“Can you do anything with them?” I asked.
“Alone, I’m not sure. But with text—”
“What kind of text?”
“Insights. Anecdotes. Background. Insider verbiage that could situate the photos and bring them even more to life. Are you up for it?”
“Me?”
“Who else had your kind of access? Or rapport?”
“God sent you to me!” Vernon gushed, making me uneasy since the last person to hit me with that was Ike Turner, with whom I ended badly.
“How much money can be brought in will depend on the marriage of photos and prose.”
“Whatever it is, we split it.”
“It’s got to be something we’re both comfortable with,” I expressed.
“Fifty-fifty,” Vernon insisted. “My work’s done, but yours is just beginning.”
“If we get a deal,” I cautioned.
“Forget if! This is destiny.”
“The agent figures thirty-five to forty photos, so let’s started selecting, then sequencing. Oh, and by the way, tell me if you’re comfortable with the title I was thinking about — and that the agent thinks will fly.”
“Hit me with it.”
“Ray Lives.”
“I love it. And so would he!”
Vernon and I spent hours going through photos until we settled on a grouping that showed Ray in various settings over a period of years. Then we selected what we considered to the most representative batch of thirty-seven.
Initially, the prospect of having to come up with appropriate, and appropriately concise, language to accompany every photo seemed daunting. What enabled me to get started was to put aside literary aspirations. Instead I decided that with each photo I would try to imagine what I would tell Ray if he were to ask me what it conveyed.
I was making serious progress when I got a call from a woman in Florida. Introducing herself as Mr. Troupe’s attorney, she informed me that she’d be the one negotiating any publishing deal.
“Not the way I understand it,” I stated.
“We’re talking about Mr. Troupe’s intellectual property.”
“Which was sitting idle until he called me.”
“Which is why you’re being offered a token percentage.”
“Define token.”
“As high as twenty percent.”
“Vernon’s okay with that?”
“Extremely comfortable.”
“Though he and I agreed to fifty-fifty?”
“I’m not aware of that.”
“That makes us even,” I said.
“Even how?”
“I wasn’t aware of you.”
Instead of blasting Vernon, I drove to a nearby playground and blew off steam by shooting baskets for a while.
Only then did I call him.
“My main man!” Vernon said upon answering. “What’s shaking?”
“An interesting conversation,” I replied.
“About?”
“Percentages. As in twenty.”
Vernon sighed. “Think of it as kind of an opening bid.”
“After you suggested fifty-fifty?”
“Did I say that?”
“Maybe my memory’s failing,” I said. “Or my command of English.”
“Hey, look. A man’s gotta maximize.”
“Then you know what? You can have the maximum.”
“What’s that mean?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Whoa! Ain’t we partners? Ain’t we friends?”
“Friends and partners don’t pull this shit.”
“But what about the agent? What about a publishing deal?”
“Ask that lawyer in Florida.”
“C’mon—”
“Didn’t God send her to you?” I blurted before hanging up.
I stewed for a couple of days, then drove to Ray’s offices. After examining the copies of the photos I brought, Joe Adams shook his head. “That motherfucker claimed he shot these?”
When I nodded, Joe grimaced. “I shot at least half,” he declared. “The rest he shot while working for us, which means that technically they belong to Ray Charles Enterprises. You know, I’m assuming, that before Ray passed I fired Vernon’s ass.”
When I shook my head, Joe grimaced. “It was for pulling shit like this,” he said angrily.
Over the years that followed, I constantly searched for an appropriate way to honor Ray. That opportunity came when, having made a documentary called When Houston Had The Blues, I started on a follow-up about the great, but largely unheralded, Black music scene in LA from World War II on. In addition to artists like Nat King Cole, T-Bone Walker, Sam Cooke, and Etta James, at long last I was able to pay tribute to my friend who was justly known as The Genius. Ray, deservedly, is one of the key figures in the film.
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.
