The unlikely story of an author and music aficionado stepping into a roll shooting music videos, producing records, and ultimately, taking the helm of notable Blues festivals…
by: Alan Swyer
Restless by nature, I doubt that I could have survived months, years, or — perish the thought — decades doing the same task each and every day, whether that was performing surgery, advocating for clients in a court of law, or paving roads.
Despite my parents’ hope that I would be a doctor, lawyer, dentist, or at worst an accountant, I had the good fortune to stumble into show biz. Yet even in that chaotic world, I would never have been satisfied writing sitcom after sitcom, editing show after show, or fighting again and again to direct a new film.
As luck would have it, my career — sometimes ad hoc, occasionally in hock — has been shaped by a series of flukes, coincidences, and, for want of a better term, happy accidents.
I got to direct my first feature-length movie solely because the producer, John Torosian, believed that I, and only I, had come up with a way to breathe life into a putative thriller that, as originally scripted, was far from thrilling. When I said “Thanks, but no thanks,” John asked what it would take to convince me to do the proposed rewrite. “I’ll coin a phrase,” I joked. “Let me direct.” Amazingly, he agreed.
That project opened yet another door when the money to license music for what’s known as a “needle drop” — songs heard in the background from a car radio, or in a store, or in someone’s apartment — disappeared due to financial monkey business. That forced me to beg for favors from friends, including an ex-Ray Charles songwriter named Jimmy Lewis. Thrilled to see and hear an old record of his used in a film, Jimmy asked me to direct a music video to promote his forthcoming release. Practicing full disclosure, I explained that I’d never done one. “You’re somebody I trust,” was Jimmy’s answer. That led to other videos and commercials for Jimmy, then for Mardi Gras Records.
Amazingly, the thriller then led me in another unexpected direction. Knowing that my friend Solomon Burke, the singer for whom the term “Soul Music” was coined, had money troubles, I wrote a part for him as the minister of a Black church. That attracted the attention of his on-and-off-again friend Ike Turner, who asked me to manage him. Ike, not surprisingly, proved to be largely unmanageable. But through my dealings with him I wound up spending time with a couple of his ex-wives (Ike was married thirteen times, prompting me to tease him about being addicted to wedding cake even more than to cocaine). One of them found financing to record an album, then asked me to produce it. That meant not merely choosing the songs, but also putting together a band led by my friend Roosevelt Caldwell, a blind keyboard master originally from Louisiana.
Marrying two skill sets, I then had fun directing a video for one of the songs.
Even more surprising was my ever-increasing involvement in Blues festivals. That began when the promoter of the Chicago Blues Festival, Barry Dolens, called and asked if we could speak off the record. Knowing that I was close to Ray Charles, Barry inquired to see if there was a way to make a festival appearance by Ray extra special, and notably without the band he was using, which was simply guys reading music. I suggested reuniting Ray with members of a particularly great band of his who were still active, though no longer with him. Bringing in Hank Crawford, David “Fathead” Newman, Leroy Cooper, Marcus Belgrave, and Phil Guilbeau, then adding a surprise appearance by former Raelette Mable John, thrilled both Ray and the audience, who heard the most exciting Ray Charles performance in decades.
Though I assumed that would be a one-off, a one-time opportunity in that realm, that wasn’t the case. A friend named Gary Chiachi, who promoted the Long Beach Blues Festival, called one day with a problem. His festival, which took place each year on Labor Day weekend, always kicked off the Sunday lineup with an act doing half-Gospel, then half-secular. Gary’s dilemma was that he was drawing a blank on artists to book. My suggestion was Solomon Burke.
“He’s too big a name to accept being an opening act,” Gary stated.
“Let me handle it,” I replied.
Knowing that Solomon, who among other things had twenty-one kids — leading me to tease that he took the Bible literally when it said “Be fruitful and multiply” — was again in bad shape financially, I drove out to see him.
“This is a special opportunity,” I explained. “White audiences have heard you do “Cry To Me” and “Got To Get You Off Of My Mind.” Black audiences have heard you do Gospel. But never have you had a chance to do both before a huge mixed audience.”
The result was spectacular for Solomon, the crowd, and especially Chiachi, who couldn’t stop expressing his gratitude.
“Can I bug you again some time?” Gary asked.
“Sure,” I replied, not knowing another request would come some months later.
“Who can we fill the Sunday morning spot with?” he wondered when he took me to lunch the next April.
“We?” I joked.
“We killed ’em last time.”
“Remind me who you’ve used in the past.”
Listening to the names he mentioned, a thought came to me. “What about Billy Preston?”
“A guy who played with the Beatles and Stones and had hits on his own? I tried in the past, but his manager laughed.”
“Okay if I give it a shot?”
“Sure.”
Instead of calling Billy, whom I’d also gotten to know through Ray, I drove to his mother’s house, where he was once again living due to to money troubles.
“When was the last time you played a Blues Festival?” I asked.
“Next time’ll be the first,” Billy replied.
“And when was the last time you got to do both Gospel and your hits?”
“Next time’ll the first for that, too. Where’s this headed?”
“When was the last time you had lunch at Harold & Belle’s?” I then asked, mentioning a Creole restaurant that was a special occasion place in the ‘hood.
“Too long. Next question.”
“Will you meet me and my friend from the festival there this Saturday at noon?”
“I can taste the gumbo already,” said Billy with a smile.
“So what’s the catch?” asked Billy when he, Gary Chiachi, and I were seated in a quiet corner at Harold & Belle’s.
“No catch,” I replied. “But two conditions.”
“Now you’re spooking me,” said Billy.
“First, you’re the opening act on Sunday morning.”
“Last I checked,” Billy muttered, “I’m a headliner.”
“And so is Solomon Burke,” I countered.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“That’s the spot he played last year. Instead of opening act, consider it a privileged spot to start churchy, then go Bluesy.”
Billy pondered for a moment, then spoke again. “What’s condition #2?”
“You’re welcome to pay your manager her commission if you’d like –”
“But?”
“If Joyce calls either Gary or me, the deal’s off.”
“You don’t much like her, huh?”
“Can’t put anything past you,” I said with a laugh.
Backed by a killer band, Billy tore it up at the festival, first with sanctified, then with deep soul.
When Spring rolled around again, and Gary asked for another suggestion, I mentioned my friend Mable John.
“But wasn’t she just a back-up singer for Ray?”
“Which one of us is supposed to be the expert on-the-air and running the festival?” I teased. “She was the first female vocalist signed by Berry Gordy, then wound up in the Stax Hall of Fame thanks to songs like “I’m Able Mable” and “Your Good Thing Is About To End.””
“But can she do Gospel?”
“She’s also a minister.”
As we drove to Mable’s house a week later, I got to bust Gary’s chops once again when he reacted strangely to a version of “Fortune Teller” that was playing on a CD I’d burned.”
“Who’s that covering the Stones?” he asked.
“This is the original,” I stated. Written by the great Allen Toussaint for Benny Spellman.”
“Benny who?”
“The guy who sang one of my all-time favorites, “Lipstick Traces,” which was the A-side of this.”
Like Solomon and Billy before her, Mable was a hit at the festival, backed by a band Gary and I put together.
A few weeks later, Gary asked if we could meet at a Cuban place in Culver City. After a few minutes of small talk, he grew serious. “Can I ask a bigger favor this time?”
“Fire away,” I said.
“Think there’s any chance in the world of getting Ray Charles?”
“You’ve tried?”
“Again and again. Each time his agent at William Morris laughed, saying if Ray plays LA in the summer, it’ll be the Greek Theater or the Hollywood Bowl.”
“I can’t promise anything, but maybe.”
“Seriously?”
“Let’s give it a shot.”
Two days later, I called Gary. “Put together two bags of all the swag you can find from the station — CD’s, sweatshirts, hats, whatever.”
“Who are we going to see?”
“Joe Adams, who runs Ray’s professional life.”
On the way to see Joe, I did my best to prep Gary. Explaining that after playing in a high school band with Charles Mingus and Buddy Collette, Joe had started his professional career as LA’s first Black disc jockey, before becoming the first Black with a national radio broadcast, which he did out of Las Vegas. Our best bet, I continued, was to begin the conversation with DJ talk, all the while waiting for Joe to ask the real purpose of our presence.
Sure enough, after ten minutes or so of chit chat, Joe did just that.
“I think Ray ought to play the Long Beach Blues Festival,” I stated.
“Because?”
“First and foremost, it’ll be more fun than playing the Greek or the Bowl for the umpteenth time. Remember how much fun everybody had at that festival in Chicago?”
“It was special,” Joe acknowledged. “But what else?”
“I’ve spoken to Billy Preston, who’d love to join Ray on stage. And to Mable. And to James Ingram. And to Guitar Shorty. They’re all on-board to back him.”
“This is when?” asked Joe.
“Labor Day Weekend.”
Joe thought for a moment, then picked up the phone and pressed a button so that it was on speaker. “Sweetheart,” we heard him say, “get me Don Fischel.”
“Mr. A,” the assistant replied, “he’s probably at lunch.”
“Fuck him! Get him now.”
Gary and I sat silently as, a moment later, the agent picked up.
“Don,” stated Joe, “I’m sitting here with Alan Swyer.”
“I love Alan,” Don forced himself to say, probably wishing he had a voodoo doll with my likeness. “And?”
“Alan thinks Ray should play the Long Beach Blues Festival.”
“Great idea!” gushed Don, still unaware that Gary and I were listening in. “If you’re on-board, we’ll make it happen.”
“If I weren’t on-board, would I have called?” asked Joe.
“Silly me,” mumbled the agent. “Of course not.”
Hanging up, Joe shook his head. “Fucking agents,” he said. Then he turned to me. “Anything else?”
“I think we’re good,” I said happily.
Sadly, there was to be no festival appearance by Ray, whose cancer, which had seemingly been under control, worsened significantly.
“Who can we get?” Gary Chiachi asked me once I broke the news to him.
“Instead of me taking wild guesses,” I said, “tell me who’s still available.”
Upon hearing the short list of names, most of whom were nowhere well enough known to serve as a headliner, the only artist who made even the slightest bit of sense was Jerry Butler. But he, Gary and I discussed, toured with three musicians, plus his sister singing back-up. While that configuration was fine for a small indoor venue, there was no way it could work in an outdoor festival setting.
“What if —” I found myself saying.
“What if what?”
The solution we came up with, which we ran by Jerry’s manager for approval, was to fill the stage. While I, with the help of Roosevelt Caldwell, lined up eleven Black horn players, Gary had an ex-girlfriend assist him in assembling eleven white women on strings. To that, we added Roosevelt on B-3. The result, visually and musically, not only wowed the crowd, but also led to Jerry telling me he hadn’t had so much fun since his early years with the Impressions.
That performance, as it turned out, was my swan song vis-a-vis the festival world. With so many of the artists he and I revered gone, Gary retired as promoter rather presiding over a watered down version.
Not wanting to relinquish my ties to that world, I took my endeavors in a brand new direction, making documentaries about the music I cherish. First came Harlem To Hollywood, about singer-songwriter friend Billy Vera. Next, When Houston Had The Blues, about the great but unheralded scene that produced people like Lightnin’ Hopkins, Big Mama Thornton, and Bobby “Blue” Bland. Searching for a follow-up, I realized that in thinking about music in Los Angeles, people tended to focus on the Beach Boys, the Mamas & the Papas, or the Doors, ignoring that from Central Avenue on, LA had a Black music scene second to none. The result, now in post-production, is When LA Got The Blues, featuring Ray Charles, Sam Cooke, and Etta James, plus others both known and not-so-well known: Louis Jordan, Little Esther, Ornette Coleman, the Chambers Brothers, and many, many more.
Ironically, not only was that the kind of music that my parents believed would lead me astray, it’s also what’s enabled me to live a life on my own terms. And above all, without the monotony I always feared.
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.
