THE PRESIDENT OF SOUL

Ray Charles, who died yesterday, was never president of the U.S. of A. No state funeral for him. He was a different kind of president -- "The Genius," as many called him. For me, he was the unforgettable President of Soul.

I still remember a show he did one snowy winter night in 1963 in a dingy old movie palace in downtown Syracuse, N.Y. The audience was sparse. Bitter cold had kept people away. But the great Ray Charles didn't seem to care. He sang his heart out. Turned that hall into the warmest place for miles around.

Nineteen years later, in the spring of 1982, I reviewed a show he did in Chicago at the posh Drury Lane Theater. The place was jammed. "Give me Ray Charles any time, even when he's 52 and going gray," I wrote. The show opened with a driving 17-piece band blasting out a medly of upbeat swing and bop. Tunes like "Road Rat" and "Woody And Boo." There were 13 horns. They hit some gorgeous Miles Davis notes on "Spain" and then left it to the man.

Ray Charles came out in a plaid tuxedo, black patent leather shoes and the black, wrap-around sunglasses he always wore, greeting the crowd with that million-watt, wrap-around smile. Then he was led to a white grand piano, its top off. He began with "Busted" and "Georgia on My Mind," "Be Mine" and "You Don't Know Me." It almost didn't matter what he sang. His direct emotional appeal was that overpowering.

You could hear the blues-shout style of the South, which was the deepest part of him. He knew city bebop as well, and country rhythms. He even put spice into a whitebread tune like "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning." He mixed the foot-stompers with the ballads: "Hit the Road Jack," "I Can't Stop Lovin' You," "Don't Change on Me." He even did a yodel or two.

Ray Charles sang 14 songs. He was gorgeous to watch. He never stopped enjoying himself. His feet never stopped moving. And his cracked voice stirred something beautiful in all of us that night. "Soul music," he once told Ralph Gleason, "is like a cross between church music and modern jazz with a flavor of rhythm 'n' blues mixed in. That's all." That was enough.

Listen to him. (Scroll to "Photos, Audio" and click.)

June 11, 2004 8:43 AM |

Categories:

Me Elsewhere

'WILD SIDE' STILL ROCKS 

Nelson Algren was one of the great American authors of the 20th century, it is no exaggeration to say, and among the most neglected. Consider his underrated classic, "A Walk on the Wild Side." The title -- popularized and co-opted as an idiomatic phrase by Hollywood and Madison Avenue (institutions Algren loathed) -- is familiar to most anyone who speaks English or knows Lou Reed's lyrics. But the novel itself? Hardly.

BUSTER KEATON REVISITED 
Buster Keaton: Tempest in a Flat Hat is not a biography. "This book is merely a fan's notes," Edward McPherson writes in the introduction, although his publisher ignores the disclaimer and calls it a biography on the cover. In fact, the book is a bit of both, a difficult combination to bring off unless you're David Thomson, who set the standard with Rosebud, his penetrating rumination on the life and career of Orson Welles, which was nothing if not a distillation of every obsessive thought he ever had about the myth and the man and all his movies.
LAUREN BACALL, STILL SALTY AT 80 
When Lauren Bacall writes that her singing voice ranges "somewhere between B minus sharp and outer space," she's being candid and funny. It's not every stage star with two Tony Awards for best actress in a musical whose vocal talent offers so little promise. (OK, Harvey Fierstein excepted.) Still less would one admit it.
THE STARS ACCORDING TO BOGDANOVICH 
Peter Bogdanovich's superb collection of movie-star profiles and interviews -- a sequel to Who the Devil Made It, his interviews of top film directors -- begins with an affectionate tale about Orson Welles that reminds us just how intimate the author's connection to Hollywood's greatest has been. But contrary to what we've come to expect from dime-a-dozen celebrities and celebrity interviews not worth two cents, the tale avoids bromidic egotism and journalistic platitudes.
HERMAN WOUK'S LATEST 
It's hard to say which comes off worse in Herman Wouk's latest novel, his first in a decade: the U.S. Congress or the American press. "A Hole in Texas" offers the choice between two emblematic stereotypes: a red-faced opportunist who heads the House Armed Services Committee and a mustachioed investigative reporter for the Washington Post.
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