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Richie Havens Died Today. 4/22/13

I just got a call from my friend Walter, Richie Haven’s longtime guitar player, that Richie died an hour ago. He’d been ill for a while, but it didn’t lessen the shock any. Richie was the first musician I ever admired that I got to open up for, and later became the first big act to ever take a professional interest and extend a hand down to me. That first gig, I was maybe 22; it was at a college in Connecticut. I’d opened for a few acts, but none as important to me. And usually the headliners were out to dinner during my set. I’d assumed it would be the same with Richie, though I secretly prayed I’d at least get to meet him at sound check, I played the living hell out of his records for years. His voice rattled my spirit in a way few did, it was so immediate, so resonant – every syllable mattered, insistently. It demanded a kind of union with the listener. I attended high school in the early 80s and I just hated my own era. I desperately felt I rightly belonged to the 60’s, and I was resentful that I’d been so misplaced in my generation. The Woodstock soundtrack, and Richie’s performance in particular, was a touchstone – it irradiated my longing for more meaningful, connected times.

I did get to meet him at sound check, he was dressed in his uniform – eastern tunic and trousers, every long finger had a large chunky ring, and there were ropes of beads around his neck. He looked like a shaman. I stammered how honored I was, feeling like an ass. He gave me the warmest smile. He was, then – and always – near beatific in countenance. The only people I’ve ever met who have the sort of calm, kindly, yet delighted to be alive presence Richie projected into this world have been elderly Tibetan monks. Richie always walked in what seemed to me to be in the happiest hippie bubble in the world. I wanted to sit at his feet, and he let me – he let everybody.

That first show he sat in the front row during my set, right in front of me. I was terrified when I saw him there. But from the moment I started my first song he listened so intently, nodding his head, eyes closed, his enormous ringed hands pulled together as if in prayer in front of his grey beard, with a huge smile on his face. I felt elevated by his attention. One of your greatest idols thinking you’re any good – well, there is no feeling like it in the world for a musician of any age. I played as well as I ever had until that point, for all my nerves. He made me feel wired into his wavelength. Invited to join him there where the real artists lived.

A couple years later a club owner in DC put me on another bill with him. I hoped he’d remembered me, but the guy toured relentlessly (one of his favorite onstage jokes was to look at his sideman and say ‘we’ve been on tour since, um…. 1966’), had a ton of opening acts in the meanwhile and I assumed he wouldn’t. He greeted me so warmly, embracing me in a great bear hug. His tour manager took me aside before I went onstage and said he’d told her when he saw my name on the bill that I was one of the best openers he’d ever had. I felt anointed. And I was – For the next several years I was invited to join Richie on many shows and tours. I got to know him a little. He loved to tell stories about himself and never tired of being asked. And as you can imagine, the man has some great ones. There are some things I learned about him that downright surprised me. For instance, he loved to gamble; if he saw a highway sign for any shitty casino he’d do his best to charm his tour manager into stopping for a couple of hours. Damned if he wasn’t good at it. Not in terms of card sharkery – his favorite games of chance were almost entirely chance; roulette, slot machines (though he insisted he had a system that when he tried to explain sounded like hippie gibberish to me). It made sense that the games he was drawn to be almost pure chance – he was the luckiest mother on planet earth, and won more than seemed plausible. Even his career making turn at Woodstock came from a bizarre conflation of circumstance. He’d made it upstate early, before the deluge of fest goers completely shut down the interstate. So when a couple of hours after the festival was due to start, he was the only act there. So he opened the damned show. He played for nearly 3 hours (in front of the largest audience in history at the time, mind you) and STILL no other acts made it in yet. He ran out of songs that he knew well and began riffing on a single chord, planning to cull together some spirituals he sang growing up to buy time. Someone from the audience or perhaps just in his head (I’ve heard him describe it both ways) called out the word ‘freedom’ and he started riffing off that. His voice singing the word ‘freedom’ over and over sounded like something being ripped out of a womb. And one of the most riveting, iconic performances of all time was born, and that moment birthed the rest of his impressive career.

He was one of the most generous performers I’ve ever met. I once opened a terribly promoted show with him in Vermont, which given its dense population of old hippies should have been a marketing no-brainer. But his name was misspelled on the marquee; there wasn’t a single ad in a single paper. And the venue was awful – one of that ski-chalet looking places with a big bar in the middle. Most of the shows I played with him were sellouts or close to it, and this dive was maybe a quarter full. But he played for 2 hours, gave the people that came there everything he had, happily. And, like after every show, he changed from his sweat drenched clothes to clean ones, came out to the merch table and gave real time and attention to every fan who wanted some. He always signed every cd and poster, posed for pictures, and pretended to remember every old hippie who reminded him of that joint they shared in 1974. As tired as he was, as much as he ever gave onstage, (and he gave all he had. I never saw him phone it in, ever.) I never saw him skimp on the fans after the show. This is one of the biggest lessons I try to keep with me from those years touring with him – be generous, kind, and grateful to your fans. He never lost sight of how lucky he was, ever. I never once heard him complain. It’s a hard model to try to duplicate, especially when I’m tired, or I don’t feel great about a performance. But his has always been the face that pops in my brain whenever I fail at it.

Every show I ever did with him, he’d come and watch me from side stage at some point, nodding, smiling, eyes closed with pleasure. It made me feel terribly special. Then one show I was opening added a second, unscheduled, opener before me – she was the daughter of one of the promoters, a teenaged budding classical singer. It was wildly inappropriate to spring this on an artist of his stature, not that Richie made a fuss about it – very little ruffled his feathers in a way I could ever see. The girl wasn’t really any good yet, her voice was warbly and more than a little pitchy with nerves and inexperience. And then I spied him watching her from side stage, purposefully in her line of sight. With that nod, the encouraging smile, the warmth. God, he does that for all of us, I thought. And it didn’t make me feel any less special. The man knew what his approval would mean to a young musician, and he made a point of showering it upon whatever of us little seedlings were in his path. It’s humbling to have known such a spirit. We’ve lost a really tremendous artist and man today.

Secret Canon, Vol. 1 – about the songs

by request – here’s some info about the songs on Secret Canon, Vol. 1 – with some links to videos and such for you to check out some of the history. xxdk

Do I Love You – This is a Floyd Dixon song. Born in Texas on the Louisiana border in 1929, he moved to Los Angeles in 1942 and was mentored by Charles Brown and toured with him as well. There was a great post-war west coast scene that both men were central to that wound up being more influential on people like Ray Charles (Floyd is noted as a seminal influence of his) and Sam Cooke than became popular nationwide. It was smooth blues and really early R&B, and it was a pre-cursur to the smoky, blues influenced cocktail jazz of the sort that Peggy Lee, Julie London, Nat King Cole , Ray Charles and scores of other artists made wildly popular a decade later.
Don’t Fuck around with Love – This was originally a single in 1962 called ‘don’t play around with love’ recorded by a Boston acappella doo-wop group called the Blenders. They recorded a blue version with the word ‘fuck’ in the title– as a gag gift for deejays -which has been coveted and passed down for decades among collectors and engineers. It’s adorable, you can hear the band trying not to giggle as they say a bad word. It was 1962 after all. I’m not proud of this, but I curse like a sailor. I’d be much more likely to say ‘don’t fuck around with love’ in ordinary conversation. I changed the word from ‘play’ to ‘mess’ in the radio friendly version we recorded because it sang better.
Not the Only Fool in this Town – the only original on the record. I sometimes write period songs or genre songs as an exercise – I pretend I’m in the Brill building writing for the Ronettes or at Muscle Shoals writing for Aretha. I’d been listening to a favorite singer of mine, one that fell thru the cracks a little –early to mid 60’s Blues/R&B singer Mable John. She was mostly known as being Little Willie John’s sister and as a back-up singer for Ray Charles. She had deals on both Tamla/Motown and later Stax but neither amounted to a whole lot career wise. She’s one of the best singers to ever come out of Detroit in my opinion. Both powerful and effortless, she had beautiful vocal runs that would give Johnny Adams a run for his money. And she was really good at the ‘you done me wrong’ song, so I wanted to write one that I thought she would want to sing.
I’ll Close My Eyes – this Buddy Kaye/Billy Reid gem is the only tune I bent the rules for. It’s been around the block a little more than the others, and it was done by some really grand jazz names. Athan sent me an early Mildred Bailey version, I promptly fell in love and was shocked that this wasn’t already a standard. When I researched a little more after the session, it turned out that both Sarah Vaughn AND Dinah Washington recorded versions as well. Dinah’s version was so stunning I almost kept mine off the record after hearing hers. But further research showed it was (shockingly) never a hit. And I just love this damned song so much. Why it’s not held in the same regard as ‘My Romance’ and ‘In a Sentimental Mood” and accordingly covered by every great singer of the last 50 years is completely beyond me. Very careful ears may notice I choked up a little at the end of the tune a little, thinking about how often I miss my husband on tour (“and thru the years/those moments that we’re apart/ I’ll close my eyes /and see you with my heart”) There was, I confess, a great deal of bourbon in my system at the time.
Sweet Lotus Blossom – this is the oldest tune in the bunch, originally written in the 30’s, it showed up in an early talkie musical as a song called ‘Sweet Marihuana’ (sic), there’s a hilarious clip on youtube. The version I was sent done by Julia Lee in the early 40’s I believe. (soothe me with your caress/sweet lotus blossom, lotus blossom/help me in my distress/sweet lotus blossom/ please do) heroin seemed to be more a drug that would hold you in its arms when your lover won’t, so I slowed the song down to a drowsy nod.
Your Fool Again – Athan Maroulis sent me this, one of my favorites. It matched on all counts; both the song, written by Bill Campbell, and its recording artist, Sarah McLawler, have been sorely neglected by history. Sarah was a bad-ass hammond B3 player from Louisville KY, she made a few singles for the Brunswick label in New York in the 50’s and toured a bit with people on the NY jazz scene. Great musician. And this song is killing, and it hasn’t been covered since.
If Yesterday Could Only Be Tomorrow – this was a tune recorded initially by the King Cole Trio (Nat King Cole’s swing era combo) in the early 40’s. It’s my favorite era of his, and the least well known by the public. I thought this tune was uncovered, but then found out that Tony Bennett found it before me, and did a version for a film in 2002. And he’s Tony Bennett, so of course he totally nailed it to the wall. But the film soundtrack wasn’t a seller, (nor did the film do particularly well), so I felt ok in including this one in an album of lost gems. But I have to give props, Tony B totally got there before me.
Come in Out of the Rain – this was also peformed by the king cole trio, and later by Carmen McRae. I initially thought I might make this a duet, but it sounded rather sweet as a solo. I was surprised that Peggy Lee or any of the kittenish chanteuses of the 50’s didn’t find this one – it so suited that kind of coquettish delivery that I’d pretend that I was one of them. This might have been near the last we recorded on that first long session. I sound really tired and a little drunk to my ears, which I hope works for the song.
Call Me Darling – first version I heard of this tune was on a Josh White (Sr) compilation. Josh White was a great folk blues picker from South Carolina whose career was derailed for having been labelled a Communist in the McCarthy era for his work in civil rights. My old friend, Jack Williams, wrote a beautiful song about Josh’s life and struggles and told me he was a formative influence when Jack was growing up in South Carolina in the 50’s . I pulled this record off the shelf because of that song. And when I heard Josh’s record I understood Jack’s being drawn to him –both men are a mesh of several different roots of american popular music layered over each other– you can hear folk, blues, country, and jazz in both men’s singing and playing. Josh White influenced a lot of great pickers and singers, including Dylan and another one of my mentors, Richie Havens. And Jack Williams influenced me. It felt really good to keep that circle going. I think this song worked well as a duet. And that’s Jack Williams playing the guitar and singing with me live in one take y’all. Jack is another hidden American gem. He tours constantly year round on the folk circuit and is one of the best damn guitar players in every genre he covers on the planet and a world class storyteller in the southern tradition.
Take Me In Your Arms – I found and bought a Laurie Allyn re-issue of her sole release, Paradise, after hearing another on of her songs on WFMU, but fell in love with this song. She was a jazz singer in Chicago in the 50’s, and her label, Mode, fell apart one week after her record came out and her career just died. It’s just a perfectly written ballad from the get go: take me in your arms/before you take your love away. The original version was covered by a handful of artists in the 50’s, most noteably Perry Como and Abbey Lincoln, though Laurie’s version was by far my favorite. No one ever made it a hit, and it never made it as a standard. This was the last song we did during that first marathon session. My voice was going, no doubt about it. There were times that I was tempted to re-take the vocals, as I was a little flat. But I grew to dig how beaten down we all sound, it suits the lyrics.