(Volt)
!!! A+ RECORDING !!!
It was recorded, almost entirely, in the space of a single day; it follows the mid-'60s LP format of a couple of hits filled out by cover versions of popular tracks of the day, seen on so many deservedly forgotten half-assed garage and Motown longplayers of its period. It opens with the most disorienting shapeless groove this side of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling." Its most innovative recording is better known as sung by another artist. Even its nondescript, lazy cover art bears out the generic implications of its tracklist, that this is merely a great artist working on contract. So how does Otis Blue manage to be the definitive album of '60s soul, a genre of rock & roll more revered and spoken of in hushed tones than any other?
Perhaps it's because Otis Redding, as he'd been proving on a long line of killer singles and a spell of increasingly raw and unhinged albums, was the most impassioned, fiery romantic pop music has ever seen. James Brown got down on his knees, of course, but never with Redding's sensuality and the sparks of real pain shredding his voice; Sam Cooke, Redding's hero (three of whose masterpieces get covered on Otis Blue), had the fearless subservience and emotional bareness, but he chose classicist, reflective beauty over tearing himself apart.
Perhaps it's the unstoppably breathtaking performances happening behind Redding, a tour de force from Booker T. and the MG's and the other Stax/Volt players, who are able not only to stake a claim for greater consistency than the Funk Brothers by churning this wildly eclectic mix of material out at such breathless speed and palpable urgency, they directly upstage them by adding a touch of organic energy to then-brand new Motown game-changer "My Girl." Never has the reductive labeling of early soul as "Motown" seemed so damaging. Certainly there are things Motown records could do that this album can't. But there are considerably more of the opposite -- rather than toning down and centralizing the vocalist's emotion, the Stax crew underline, spread, reinforce it. Redding and the band coalesce for what amounts to a half-hour orgasm of pointed, elegant love and distress.
Perhaps it's the strength of the material. In contrast to virtually every non-Beatles non-Dylan non-Night Beat rock record of the first half of the '60s, there is not a single weak cut among these eleven. By approaching the recording of the package as the ultimate desperate rock & soul concert, by clearly assigning each cut major importance, by taking obvious joy in all of them, Redding and his band get beyond most of the filler tendencies. But it must be stated that the caliber of the compositions is what ultimately brings this a cut above Redding's other LPs, which in turn takes it above all other '60s soul LPs in general. The triad of Cooke numbers is astonishing -- "Shake" becomes a Redding signature by default, "Wonderful World" and "A Change Is Gonna Come" operate beautifully despite the vast differences in delivery and impulse between the two singers. Solomon Burke appears with "Down in the Valley," B.B. King with "Rock Me Baby," William Bell with "You Don't Miss Your Water," Jerry Butler as cowriter on "I've Been Loving You Too Long," and of course Smokey Robinson with "My Girl." Then there are Redding's three originals, all among his best. A daunting collection, undeniably, of the distinguished writers of their time.
Perhaps it's the fact, in turn, that Redding -- for all the strength and grace of the original versions of these songs -- is the greatest soul singer of all, that he therefore is a match made in heaven with this music. Seldom will you find a more haunting record than Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come," but as controversial as it may be, Redding strengthens it by sounding closer, more awestruck than Cooke. The agony of "You Don't Miss Your Water" was never so articulate as when he expressed it. And if you still place the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" on a pedestal for some reason, prepare to witness its painful toppling when you introduce yourself to Redding's cover, so manically driven it is genuinely euphoric to listen to. The point being, he is the singer these songs want.
Perhaps it's because of the record's prescience, as a lively but preservationist document, that captures in very little time the complete breadth of black music of its period. Some of this isn't even intentional, but by composing the anthem "Respect" that would quickly be reapproriated and canonized by peer Aretha Franklin, Redding makes a strong enough contribution to the cause to make the record an indispensable piece of history. Luckily, it's far more, and ironically its lesser known cuts attest to its continual value as a source of pleasure and surrender: opener "Ole Man Trouble" is composer Redding pleading up a storm, "Down in the Valley" sears with voodoo glee, and "Wonderful World" gains an unexpected hint of triumph in Otis' hands.
Perhaps its roughness feels more genuine than the pop-end of ground zero soul. This can be extended to Redding's career as a whole; his voice always had a rawness that was more immediately communicative than the artful subtleties of someone like Marvin Gaye -- who laid it all out like Redding, but more obliquely -- or Sam Cooke. The ragtag sound is, of course, misleading; the MGs are tighter than anybody, but the starkness of their sound must surely have been designed to make it as ageless as it's become.
Perhaps it's simply Otis Blue's reinforcement, much like Ray Charles' Modern Sounds, of interpretation as a great force of expression in rock as much as in jazz or blues or pop. Not to dwell on the "canon" idea, but Redding truly does create one here, lathering his gleeful and singular vocals -- as sophisticated at times as the best jazz singing, integrating fascinating rhythmic ideas -- onto the soul standards of the day, creating new ones, ridding non-soul ("Satisfaction") of all its practiced sardonics and converting it into plainspoken, deep-end begging. Redding proves himself a master interpreter, but just as importantly, he brings a composer's eye to his approach to these songs.
Without any of those, Otis Blue wouldn't work. But what glues it together is none of them. The answer, the secret ingredient, the crucial distinction, is heat. That lengthy session that produced every cut except the classic single, the original naked slow-jam "I've Been Loving You Too Long" (featuring what may be Redding's greatest vocal ever), occurred in the middle of a sweltering July. You can hear the sweat, the summertime beat, the unbearable intensity of summer at its height, in these songs. And without that punishing heat, you couldn't have the definitive statement, the definitive representation, the definitive groundwork, of soul music. But there it was, and there it is.
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