Little Richard gave him his first job in the music business when he was not long out of high school and had gone AWOL from the navy. Twiggs met the legendary R&B powerhouse at a club in California and told him they were from the same hometown. Twiggs offered his services doing whatever Little Richard needed doing. The story goes that Little Richard gave Twiggs a suitcase full of money and told him to bring it back the next night, and when he did, without a single bill touched, he was hired on the spot.
Duane flat out blew Twiggs’s mind. He almost didn’t have words for the way Duane’s playing made him feel. In his experience, no white musician he had ever heard was able to play with the soulful feeling that Duane conjured. He said that the first ten minutes he spent in Studio B hearing Duane jam made all the bullshit he had been through in the music business thus far well worth it. He made up his mind right then and there that Duane was his way forward. Just hearing him play would be payment enough for whatever Duane’s band would need.
Rick let Duane play with Wilson Pickett. Rick and Pickett had listened to a bunch of songs, demos from sixteen writers out of Memphis and more in Alabama, but they still didn’t have that one song that felt like a hit.
“Pickett was brutal with songs,” Rick explained. “He’d reject them and was apt to throw the guy who wrote it out and whip his ass. That’s why we called him the Wicked Pickett. But he loved me, and he liked Duane.”
It was Duane’s idea that Pickett record “Hey Jude.”
“Would you stop that? That’s the craziest thing I ever heard in my life! That record is number five this week with a bullet and will be number one in the next two weeks and will be there for eight weeks. And we’re going to cover the Beatles with Wilson Pickett in Muscle Shoals, Alabama?” Rick fairly shouted.
“That’s exactly why we need to do it!” Duane said. “We are going to let the world know we’re not afraid to produce anything on anybody. We’ll cover it and it’s going be a big hit!”
Pickett and Rick laughed and told him he was crazy, but then he started to play the riff, and it seemed like a different groove. Pickett warmed up to it and Rick motioned for him to sing along. He sang, “Hey Jew,” and Rick said, “It’s Jude! It’s a name!”
On “Hey Jude,” Duane sounds like he’s being released, clearly excited by the energy radiating from Wilson Pickett. Duane sat on a small amp facing him and they locked in, matching each other’s intensity and driving each other to a fever pitch.
That feeling, of expanding the possibility of a song with his playing, pointed the way forward for Duane. His fierce solo on the end of the cut was the true beginning of his career; everyone who heard it wanted to know who he was. It opened doors for him.
The sessions came one after another after that: Arthur Conley, King Curtis, Soul Survivors, Otis Rush, on and on. And that was just the first month.
FAME Studios ran like a top, clean and even, tight and satisfying. The session players worked regular hours, arriving in the mornings ready to work, and leaving in the evenings, going home to their families. Then Duane blazes through the place, restless and road-worn. Working a routine schedule wasn’t in his nature or his experience. He wanted to jump into sessions, add his own touch, and leave.
Rick wasn’t going to wait around for Duane to find his identity as a solo act. Phil asked Rick what he was going to do with Duane and if he would sell him Duane’s contract.
Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records stayed dialed in to the music that was being made in the South via Phil Walden. Shortly after the song was cut, in the last days of October 1968, Phil played “Hey Jude” for Wexler, who couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Atlantic offered Rick ten thousand dollars for Duane. Rick said, “Write me a check.”
Duane played his final session at FAME in February 1969, and Rick never saw him again. Duane’s continued session work happened in New York or Miami in Atlantic’s studios, or at the studio on Jackson Highway in Sheffield, Alabama, where the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section, also called the Swampers, set up their own shop.
Rick ended his story with a sigh. “Duane was always very up. He was not a downer. He was pleasant, soft, and tender. With me being the reverse of all that, we related well. I had had so many conflicts with tough people, but Duane wanted everybody to be in harmony.”
We walked back downstairs to FAME’s lobby; Johnny was waiting patiently for me. I was wrung out like a rag. Rick had told me the whole story almost without taking a breath.
December 6, 1968
Muscle Shoals, Alabama
Dear Donna,
What do you mean, I might not have been good? If I don’t get no sled, fuck Santa Claus!
I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk to you when you called. I called back but you were gone, so I’ll call you again later.
Things here are going very well. In about a month I’m going to start getting my gigging band together. I can hardly wait. I love working in the studio, and it is very valuable experience, but I know I was born to play for a crowd, and I’m really itching to get started. I’m pretty sure the Duck will be with me, and maybe Paul. I hope to get a couple of black cats, too. They’re definitely good to have.
I received some letter from this band that I was living with for a while, and they want me to produce a record for them. I really want to do it, because it’ll give me a chance to help them out, and myself, too. Man, I’m gonna be some kind of busy.
I should be back from New York by the fifteenth, so shortly after that I want you to come down. I can’t set any exact date because I don’t know what might transpire between now and then, but as soon as it’s possible, I want you to be here with me. Find out how long you’ll be able to stay when you come and tell me. I hope a long time.
I’ll close for now. I love and miss you Skinny, and think of you often—
Love, D
P.S. Last Day of Scorpio (ooooo!)
[mailed December 12, 1968]
Sheffield, Alabama
Last Wednesday
This Year
Dear Skinny,
Thank you for your little letter, I didn’t think it was ugly at all; I loved it.
It’s getting real cold here now. We’re supposed to have snow pretty soon. I can’t wait. I’m gonna get a sled for Christmas; Santa already told me.
I just signed a personal management contract with Phil Walden. He used to manage Otis Redding, and he still manages Arthur Conley, Clarence Carter, Aretha Franklin, and a bunch of other people. I’m going to New York in January to cut Aretha Franklin’s new album. I don’t remember if I told you that or not, but I’m so excited about it, I’ll tell you again. I want you to come up as soon as you can after that, because I’ll have plenty of bread and we’ll be able to do whatever we want.
It looks like I’m going to get some time off for Christmas, but I’ll probably go home to see my mom. I still want you to go with me to Miami to the Pop Festival. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.
I’ll write more later. Remember that I love and miss you and want to see you very much. D Duane began 1969 by writing in the new appointment calendar Rick gave him for Christmas, his name embossed on the cover. He wrote:
This year I will be more thoughtful of my fellow man, exert more effort in each of my endeavors professionally as well as personally, take love wherever I find it, and offer it to everyone who will take it. In this coming year I will seek knowledge from those wiser than me and try to teach those who wish to learn from me. I love being alive and I will be the best man I possibly can—
Duane used his appointment calendar for most of January, and then his notes dwindle down to nothing. The empty pages that follow the last entry speak to how busy his life became. You can already see his frustration with the limits of session work in his entry on January 5, when Rick wouldn’t let Duane change his guitar part. It does contain a few entries that recorded significant moments, like his sessions with Aretha Franklin, and his first meeting with both Jerry Wexler and Tom Dowd, the Atlantic pre
sident and the legendary producer, respectively, who would become two of the most influential men in his life.
JAN. 2: I spent today driving back from Daytona with Mike and Vance. A nice day.
JAN. 3: Clarence Carter Session. Clarence cancelled today. Moved into my lake crib and it’s a gas. Spent the day fixing it a little.
JAN. 4: Clarence Carter Session
JAN. 5: Clarence Carter Session—Leave for New York for Aretha Franklin session
First part of session terrible. Couldn’t get Rick to accept new idea for guitar parts. The other cats said I was learning fast when this happened. What a drag. (make a car payment)
JAN. 6: Begin Aretha Franklin Session—In New York. Aretha wasn’t available to record today, so we cut this girl Donna Weiss from Memphis. She was a really nice chick, but I’m afraid not much of an artist. I met Jerry Wexler. What a good cat. Saw Tom Dowd and met Arif Mardin and all the Atlantic folks. A damn good organization.
JAN. 7: Aretha showed today. We cut some things. Nice session.
JAN. 8–9: etc etc
JAN. 13: Wait for Sally’s call at Fame
JAN. 17: Been busy and haven’t been keeping this book up. Need to get some bread from sessions soon. Session tomorrow. Received 18 sessions in New York.
Duane was flown to New York City to play with Aretha Franklin at Atlantic Studios.
She didn’t make it into the studio the first day, which was a real disappointment, but when she got there the following day, everything pulled together quickly. She was a country girl in many ways, comfortable in her own skin and easy to be with, but she didn’t waste time. She hit her stride, singing and playing piano. Duane and Jerry Jemmott, the bass player who was already legendary for his powerful, fluid, and funky session playing, were set up in front of Aretha’s piano, facing away from her behind baffles to keep their sounds clean.
The songs they were working up were closer to pure blues than any other work Duane had done for Atlantic. He pulled back and let a single note ache, resting on his warm tone and touch. The sound of his slide was well suited to her tone; their interplay was a conversation. Duane was confident enough to echo the feeling and richness of her voice. When he was done with his part of their session, he went out and bought a bottle of wine, returned to the control room, and listened to Aretha sing out for the rest of the night. It was an incredible experience for him.
While he was in New York, he went with Jimmy Johnson, a fellow studio guitarist at FAME, to see Johnny Winter play at the Fillmore East. Johnny was playing great, and Jimmy loved it, but Duane seemed restless and distracted. He leaned in to Jimmy and said, “Just you watch, this time next year it’s going to be me and my band up there on that stage.”
Jackie Avery was a singer and songwriter working at Redwall, a recording studio Phil Walden had built and dedicated to the memory of Otis Redding in Macon, Georgia. Some of his songs made their way to Muscle Shoals. He was hoping a song of his would end up on Duane’s solo album. When Duane heard the demos, there was only one element that stood out—the rhythm of the drummer. Whoever he was, he had a whole other sense of timing. He was moving everything forward without force, but in a kind of shifting changing progression that was both reliable and surprising. Duane couldn’t tell if this cat knew what he was doing and was amazing, or if he was getting into that sweet current accidentally. Either way, that drummer had potential. His name was Jai Johanny Johanson, also known as Jaimoe.
Jai Johanny was from Gulfport, Mississippi, by way of the moon. When he was in high school, he found a buried treasure in the school library and came to believe it was sent there by God just for him, via the U.S. Postal Service: Down Beat magazine. The magazine revealed the wider world: Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, and more. It was filled with sharp-dressed black musicians with goatees and little glasses, berets and Mohawk haircuts, pressed suits and smiles. Jai found himself a pair of clear glasses without prescription lenses and wore them as a talisman, a taste of cool to call his own. He even shaved the sides of his head into a Mohawk.
Jai Johanny played a drum in the marching band. He practiced next to the football field and watched the team run in swerving patterns, tackling each other and sweating, and it felt like he was missing out. He looked down at the still, pocked white circle of his drumhead, and the bandleader, Mr. Willie Sydney Farmer, saw him.
“Go play football if that’s what you feel like doing,” Farmer said.
Jai Johanny lasted three days at football practice and then returned to the band room ready to learn. Football was something he could figure out how to play, but drumming felt like a riddle that kept shifting. Farmer played Charlie Parker albums for Jai Johanny, engaging his ear on a deep level.
A few years later, when Jai Johanny was playing in a nine-piece band fronted by Otis Redding, Otis told him he needed to learn about time. He was rushing the beat, he said. Jai Johanny couldn’t feel it happening. His next gig was playing with Joe Tex, who fired Jai Johanny three times. After the third time, Jai went home and turned the washhouse behind his grandmother’s house into a studio. He set up his kit and a record player and listened to John Coltrane. He played along with the music, five, six, seven hours a day. One afternoon, he was playing and hit the zone. He can’t say what was different or why it happened that day, but he hit a point beyond which everything became clear. He could not make a mistake if he tried, and time as he once chased it disappeared. He was the time. It was in him.
Charles “Honeyboy” Otis played drums with everyone—Lightnin’ Hopkins, John Lee Hooker, so many players a list would be too long—and he took Jai Johanny under his wing. Jai could rely on him and look up to him. He listened carefully to the things Honeyboy told him. When Jackie Avery told Jai that he needed to go hear a white guitar player who was working at FAME Studios, Jai remembered something Honeyboy once said to him. He said if Jai Johanny wanted to make good money, he needed to find some white guys to play with. Instead of heading to New York to play jazz, which was his dream, he decided to head to the Shoals and meet Duane Allman. He could go to New York a little later.
When Jai Johanny Johanson walked into FAME and introduced himself to Duane, it changed both of their lives. Jai was every inch the rebel Duane was, and they recognized each other as kindred spirits before they played a note together. Jai had the physique of a bodybuilder from working out with railroad ties when he couldn’t afford weights. He wore round sunglasses, a string of beads around his neck, and a close-cropped natural haircut. He was a bohemian, tuned in to improvisational jazz, and had spent years holding it down behind some of the best R&B acts in the world.
He and Duane jammed together in Studio B, and Jai Johanny moved into Duane’s cabin by the lake right away. He brought albums by John Coltrane and Miles Davis, and together he and Duane began to explore the universe. Neither of them had ever played the way they were playing together. Each one led, then followed, the music expanding around them like an endless field of play. It was a joyful, powerful experience to play with another man who didn’t impose limits on himself. They improvised, feeding off each other’s energy. From the first time they played together, they were close as brothers.
Duane wanted to get Jaimoe and Berry Oakley together as soon as possible.
He was feeling confined by the daily routines of session work, even though he was playing with some of the most talented musicians in the world. David Hood on bass, Jimmy Johnson on guitar, Roger Hawkins on drums, Barry Beckett and Spooner Oldham on keys: Those session cats were undeniable, and they made the best-sounding records anyone could ever want to hear. The experience of playing beside them had shown Duane what he could handle. He had learned how to get the sound he wanted out of his guitar. His tone was leaps and bounds closer to the sound in his mind. But all those guys were too comfortable. They were living like all the other working stiffs, day in and day out. Duane needed an audience. He needed to move people. He needed to move, period.
The Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section had shown
him that he played best when he played with the best. He wanted to keep that feeling of being driven to the edge of his gifts by the players around him, and the cats in Jacksonville had that ability. When Berry came to jam, their vibe flowed right away, with wild, powerful riffing that scared the other studio players in the building. No one else would pick up their instruments and sit in with them; they were grooving on a whole other level. They followed each other into new musical territory none of them had been able to reach alone.
In January 1969, Donna flew to Alabama to visit Duane. It had been months since they had been together in Nashville and she was nervous. Duane picked her up in the Dogsled, a white two-door Ford with a black hardtop that used to belong to Rick. He traded for it by playing guitar. Duane could talk anyone into anything.
He had to go back to the studio, so Donna waited for Duane in the diner of a motel near FAME Studios, where he was in a session. She sat alone and ordered a cup of tea, feeling like a real lady. When it came, she poured in the milk and squeezed a slice of lemon into her cup and was disgusted to find something was wrong with it. She sent it back and asked for another cup. She did this twice more before the waitress explained that she should choose one, milk or lemon, since both together would curdle.
On the way home, they heard the high moan of a freight train rolling across the narrow road. Duane, Donna, and Jai Johanny were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bench seat of the car. The train’s whistle rose round and clear in the air as if blown through a horn’s brass body. My father asked Jai what key it might be in, that perfect note? He guessed G sharp and the train passed on into the Alabama night. My mother was eighteen years old that winter. This moment stayed with her, proof of Duane’s musician’s ear. He heard the world blowing cool licks all around him. He saved them up and gave them back, streaming freely out of his guitar. She watched it happening, his inspiration forming, and his strength gathering.
Please Be with Me: A Song for My Father, Duane Allman Page 16
