Far from being recruited as glorified doormen, Johnny Baylor and Dino Woodard were hired as promotions managers, who Bell knew were steeped in the ways of payola. They frequently carried wads of cash to pay off friendly DJs across the major urban areas and handed out threats to weaker contacts, including the gullible young students of college radio. Years later, when Stax had overreached itself, Baylor was arrested at Memphis airport carrying $129,000 in cash and high-value cheques that could only have been intended either as payola or to disguise taxable income. The court determined that the cash and cheques were ‘fraudulent conveyances’, and Baylor’s arrest triggered the final demise of Stax and its eventual bankruptcy.
Independent soul music on its outer fringes was a criminal subculture, and numerous record labels such as Diamond Jim Riley’s labels in Detroit and George Blackwell’s Smoke Records in Newark were little more than front organisations for criminal activity including drug peddling, prostitution and numbers racketeering. In an interview with a Memphis magazine to promote his authoritative book Respect Yourself, Robert Gordon described Baylor as ‘a pretty brutal man. I think representative of a certain period of business. Especially in distribution . . . distribution of all things. Not just records.’ Writer Rob Bowman, the author of Soulsville U.S.A. concurred: ‘Baylor was a bona fide gangster who wasn’t afraid to use force if he felt it was necessary.’
One of the most notorious companies in the battlegrounds of R&B was the Duke-Peacock label in Houston, Texas, where the owner Don Robey either directly, or under the guise of his pseudonym Deadric Malone, routinely cheated artists. In his exposé, Tell the Truth Until They Bleed, the author Josh Alan Friedman quotes Jerry Leiber of the celebrated songwriting team Leiber and Stoller as saying, ‘Robey was a gangster who managed his various entertainment enterprises using violence, the threat of violence, and murder.’ It was a world that Baylor and Woodard knew well, and which Al Bell understood and had to tolerate. But they weren’t simply gangsters. Baylor in particular harboured a long-standing desire to be a music producer, and by late 1966 he had plans to set up a small independent record label called KoKo Records – the name was supposedly a nod to the boxing term for a knockout, but more accurately was an abbreviation of the contemporary soul brother catchphrase ‘Keep on keeping on’. While flexing their muscles in Harlem, Baylor and Woodard met a frustrated and highly gifted singer Luther Ingram, who had recently released ‘If It’s All The Same To You’, an elegant up-tempo dance record fashioned in the style of Motown. The song had been written and produced in Detroit by local producers Richard Wylie and Robert Bateman and released on Hib Records, a micro-indie based in the basement of a family home at 4862 Parker Street. Local DJs in the St Louis area backed the record, and on the strength of regional success it came to the attention of the Atlantic-owned company ATCO, who gave the song a further boost with national distribution. But again the record failed. Luther Ingram tried one more time with a mid sixties novelty record ‘I Spy (For The F.B.I.)’, again written and produced by Wylie and Bateman out of Detroit, but this time credited to Luther Ingram and the G. Men. It was eventually released by Mercury’s subsidiary Smash Records but yet again Ingram felt short-changed. Despite the obvious commercial potential of the record, Wylie, Bateman and Herman Kelly had simultaneously offered it to a Chicago-based singer Jamo Thomas, who recorded the song several months after Ingram but somehow managed to leapfrog him in the rush for attention and had what turned out to be an international hit.
Bruised, beaten and ready to retire, Luther Ingram considered returning home south to Jackson, Tennessee. Now almost thirty, he appeared as a lonely performer in a bar in Harlem where he met Baylor and Woodard, who convinced him to join them in their plans to set up KoKo. It was a transformational meeting. KoKo became Ingram’s lifeline and the best move he ever made. Within a matter of months the threesome were heading for Memphis, where Baylor and Woodard took on front-office roles as hired enforcers and secured a deal that would take KoKo under Stax’s wing, eventually driving Ingram to unimagined success. Ingram’s great southern soul voice, caressing gospel and blues, found new markets, better distribution and slowly began to have an impact on the charts. Then, after several near misses, his epic single ‘(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don’t Want To Be Right’ took him to the very summit of the Billboard charts, becoming a number one R&B hit and a pop crossover classic. It was a song that with time has come to define southern soul: emotional vocals, illicit love and moral ambiguity brought together into an epic story of adultery. Paradoxically, Ingram was soon to discover that his one-time nemesis Jamo Thomas had hit a recording dead end and was now a promotional manager at Stax, where he worked the radio stations and soul shops in Chicago and Detroit, always one of the most corrupt areas of soul music distribution.
Baylor and Woodard’s arrival on East McLemore coincided with the old certainties of the Stax studio system being torn up by new leadership. The invisible pressure from new and distant owners and the dark aftermath of Martin Luther King’s assassination had sketched a very different landscape, and the last remnants of the one-time family firm were gone for good. According to Chicago-based journalist Aaron Cohen, ‘Dino Woodard and Johnny Baylor had their own degenerative impact on the company, making plays for power and threatening and assaulting musicians.’ During a heated argument over the direction a rehearsal was taking, Baylor threatened to shoot keyboardist Marvell Thomas, the son of Stax’s old trooper Rufus Thomas. Neil Spencer, the former editor of the UK music paper NME, writing for The Guardian, described the era in two action-packed sentences: ‘Harassment of musicians by local thugs ensured that Bell’s solution was Johnny Baylor, an ex-special ops ranger who fixed problems with gun and fist. The harassment stopped but Baylor became a toxic presence, on one occasion hospitalising a musician for ordering too much room service.’ One Stax employee who chose to remain nameless spoke to authorities and claimed that Baylor had boasted about killing people.
Almost without fail, every historian of the Stax story has portrayed Baylor and Woodard in a malign light, focusing on their disruptive influence and their fearless propensity to use guns or their fists. Too many first-hand witnesses independently verify the pair’s violence for it not to be true, but maliciousness is clearly only half the story. It is claimed time and time again that they moved to Memphis to sort out two local hustlers who were intimidating Stax staff. However, it is highly unlikely that two men so deeply immersed in Harlem crime and its self-damaging gun culture would move to Memphis to face up to a couple of neighbourhood thugs. It is even less likely that they would divert their business from New York to take up low-paid work as security officers in Memphis. A much more likely explanation is that they were already negotiating with Al Bell to join the company as producers with the view to grow KoKo Records – and Luther Ingram’s career – under the Stax umbrella. Within a matter of months both Baylor and Woodard were salaried staff working as promotions executives at Stax, and in time Luther Ingram became an opening act for Isaac Hayes’ live shows.
Baylor and Woodard were already well known to Al Bell from the internecine politics of NATRA, the DJs’ union and mouthpiece, where they had emerged noisily as leading figures in the aforementioned New York pressure group the Fair Play Committee. To illustrate its grievances, the committee had drawn up a list of internationally successful records written and recorded by black artists but which had largely benefited the careers of white performers. The so-called British Invasion loomed large in their story. Among its list of exploited records were Arthur Alexander’s ‘You Better Move On’ and the Valentinos’ ‘It’s All Over Now’ – both of which were covered by the Rolling Stones. Bessie Banks’ ‘Go Now’ was covered by the Moody Blues, and even Dionne Warwick’s ‘Anyone Who Had A Heart’ was covered by the Liverpool singer Cilla Black. The accusation was that the original artists had neither been remunerated nor fully acknowledged. The Fair Play Committee also campaigned against the major distribution networks, claiming they wer
e slow to pay or simply discounted records by black artists so heavily that there was nothing left to pay the artists. Although the Fair Play Committee had noble ambitions and a strong case, it went about its business with a reckless and angry demeanour. Frustratingly, they weakened their argument by being over emotional and, like many pressure groups before and since, they were too accusatory and not good at working quietly behind the scenes. Nor was the era of Black Power particularly conducive to quiet diplomacy.
A year on from Martin Luther King’s triumphant appearance at NATRA 1967, the 1968 convention was held in volatile times and ended in ignominious violence, entering the mythology of soul music in ways that business conventions rarely do. The conference was held at the Sheraton Four Ambassadors in Miami after other hotels had refused to host the event. The Marco Polo Hotel asked the organisers for a security bond of $25,000 in advance, which NATRA could not raise in cash. They proposed a compromise set at $10,000 but were rejected and so sued the hotel for discrimination.
Dino Woodard, a keen golfer until his dying days, travelled ahead of the Stax party to the City of Miami Country Club, where the NATRA golf tournament was being held. By Thursday night the convention began in earnest with Barney Ales, Motown’s Sicilian-American head of sales, opening a lavish drinks reception to promote a new super album featuring Motown’s two greatest assets together: the Supremes and the Temptations. Speakers lined up for the convention included the Georgia senator Julian Bond, who had only a few months earlier had to decline a vice-presidential nomination as he was below the constitutional age of thirty-five; and the Reverend Jesse Jackson, representing Operation Breadbasket, and Coretta Scott King both spoke at a dinner sponsored by Brunswick.
Stax staff travelled in numbers to Miami but were upstaged in their efforts by a southern rival SSS International, a group of labels based in Nashville. Label owner Shelby Singleton, a master promoter, hired a DC3 passenger plane and co-ordinated what he called ‘The Soul Lift’, an air service that took southern DJs to Miami. The flight took off from Memphis International and picked up DJs at Nashville, Birmingham and then finally Atlanta, before heading to Miami. SSS International’s top soul singers were also on board, among them the country-soul singer Johnny Adams, award nominees Peggy Scott and Jo Jo Benson, Mickey Murray, who was enjoying brief success with ‘Shout Bamalama’ (imitating Otis Redding), and Danny White, the much travelled vocalist whose song ‘Natural Soul Brother’ was already charting regionally. A wide range of inducements were available on board, including drink, drugs and SSS International giveaways. It was a soft form of payola high in the skies and left DJs feeling either grateful or indebted to Singleton. A year later the Nashville entrepreneur pulled off an even more audacious coup when he bought Sun Records, the legendary Memphis label that had discovered Elvis Presley and pioneered rock ’n’ roll.
The third annual NATRA Awards dinner was the highlight of the convention. It was a black-tie affair at the Bayfront Auditorium, presented by comedian and civil rights activist Bill Cosby and honouring some of the stars of soul music that year: James Brown and Jackie Wilson had tied as Best Male Vocalist; Aretha Franklin retained her crown as Best Female Vocalist; Archie Bell & the Drells were Most Promising Male Vocal Group; the Most Promising Male Vocalist was a close fight with Bobby Womack beating the Philadelphia crooner Fantastic Johnny C.; and the Most Promising Female was Chicago’s Barbara Acklin. The Best Instrumentalist was saxophonist King Curtis and Top Duo was Sam and Dave. The argumentative pair had travelled down from New York with senior people from Atlantic, including Jerry Wexler. A special memorial award was made to celebrate the achievements of Otis Redding and the industry award went to the Atlantic producer and studio innovator Tom Dowd, who in friendlier days had helped to transform Stax’s studio equipment and masterminded the album Otis Blue, recording it over a weekend. But lurking nastily beneath the surface were many unspoken rivalries, not least among them the resentment that still existed between Stax and their one-time partners Atlantic Records of New York.
Supporters of the Fair Play Committee were vocal and boisterous in the key sessions, arguing for a new deal for black artists and a more transparent system of rewards from distributors. Their anger spilled out into the corridors and elevators of the hotel. Violence and intimidation festered, and evenings that had been set aside for networking and social events turned alarmingly sour. Ironically, the first signs of actual violence came at a networking breakfast hosted by one of the industry’s least delicate companies, Don Robey’s Duke/Peacock from Houston, who offered a high-spirited hospitality suite throughout the weekend. Some of those in attendance claim that tables were overturned and guests threatened, and that white owners and producers were targeted by Harlem gangsters supposedly representing the Fair Play Committee. Del Shields, NATRA’s black executive officer, who had drafted the running order for NATRA 68, has since rejected the idea that the attacks were wholly racist, and said that he, too, had been a victim. He claimed that in the run-up to the convention he had been attacked outside his New York office by armed men supporting the Fair Play pressure group. Most subsequent reports have, to a greater or lesser extent, blamed Johnny Baylor and Dino Woodard, but Henry Stone, a local Miami entrepreneur and the owner of the TK group of labels, pointed the finger at another infamous character on the Harlem soul scene, indie producer Joe Robinson, the owner of Sugar Hill Records. Stone claims that the first person to be seriously assaulted at the convention was Marshall Sehorn, the New Orleans producer and co-owner of Allan Toussaint’s Sansu Records. According to Stone, ‘whatever the reasons are, these black mafia dudes from New York tried to muscle in on the record business, y’know, they got a hold of him, this white guy Marshall, and beat the shit out of him in the elevator. Busted his face open with the butt of a pistol or something.’ Whatever the real story, it was clear that a gang of self-appointed black vigilantes had gathered at the convention to intimidate producers who they believed were not being fair to artists. Sehorn had apparently been targeted as he was in dispute with singer Betty Harris, who had recorded ten records with Sehorn’s Sansu Records, among them deep soul ballads and storming up-tempo dance records. Although none were major hits, she had yet to receive a penny in payment. Similarly, the New Orleans funk band the Meters felt cheated, too; they were Sansu’s house band but went unrewarded, although their complaints did not surface until many years after the NATRA convention.
Phil Walden, Otis Redding’s manager, and his brother Alan, claimed that they were also threatened and that they stayed in their rooms locked away rather than walk the convention floor. Alan Walden has since remarked that it was a simple issue of race – black thugs beating up white executives. He also said that he was accused of cheating Redding. That is a highly unlikely scenario, since Redding was seen by the vast majority of people on the soul music scene as an aspirational star cum businessman, who had secured deals in every major market internationally and who generated an unprecedented income from Europe alone. His wealth was visible and admired. He owned a private plane and a luxury ranch in Macon, Georgia, where he bred stud horses. A year earlier, Redding had hosted NATRA 1967’s flagship party at his ranch. The idea that Redding was short-changed goes against the grain of why so many people looked up to him at Stax and within the wider world of black music. The more likely grudge was among smaller and significantly less successful artists. The Walden brothers ran an artists’ agency which was a gateway to southern venues for many aspiring soul singers. The circuit had barely improved from the notorious days of the Chitlin’ Circuit, when venues were decrepit and of poor quality, and artists were routinely shacked up in black-only hotels. Many singers returned to New York having earned a pittance and with hellish tales to tell. It was hardly the fault of the Walden brothers, but they probably had to shoulder some of the blame.
The most high-profile victim of the Fair Play vigilantes was Atlantic’s Jerry Wexler. He attended the convention with his award-winning saxophonist King Curtis, who had narrowl
y beaten Memphis saxophonist Willie Mitchell into second place in the Best Instrumentalist category. Wexler and Curtis were sharing a table at the convention’s Saturday night event – a black-tie affair on the Bayfront – with R&B singer Titus Turner when it is claimed that threats against Wexler escalated. There are mixed versions of events. Some say militants dragged an effigy of Wexler through the hall, but whether that happened or not, Wexler in part blames Bill Cosby, who was there to entertain the delegates. He supposedly told several jokes in support of Black Power and at the expense of white executives in the audience. Wexler has since claimed that Cosby was mixing it and that his comedy routine fired up militants in the audience. ‘Emcee Bill Cosby was a vociferous advocate, whipping it up,’ he wrote in his autobiography. ‘Black Power was on the agenda, and I’m all for it – black political power, black economic power, black management, black ownership, black-run labels. But these shakedown artists had no program: it was just old fashioned, take-what-you-can-get blackmail.’ Wexler’s autobiography lays out the important role he played in pioneering black music on the Atlantic label, and his right to be at the awards ceremony unmolested is self-evident. Yet his remarkable skills as a raconteur hide a lack of self-awareness of the times. His life story contains a photograph of another ceremony in New York, which took place the day before Otis Redding died, in which Wexler is being given an award for Record Executive of the Year (1967). There are thirty-five record executives gathered together to celebrate his achievement, pictured at the awards luncheon, and none of them is black. It was that frustration that the Fair Play Committee were raging against.
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