The jury deliberated only about three hours before determining that Baylor was given the money “with the actual intent to hinder, delay or defraud the creditors of Stax.” The Stax trustee was entitled to over $2.5 million, and Baylor was forced to turn over what Stax money remained—$300,000 in treasury bills “traceable” to the $1 million payment, and $500,000 associated with IRS money returned to Baylor.
Why would Al Bell turn over so much money to Johnny Baylor on behalf of Stax? Only two people really know. Al Bell says it was money earned. Johnny Baylor died in 1986; the official diagnosis was stomach cancer, but word on the street was that a girlfriend had been, for years, putting ground glass into his food.
“Even though he was a rough, tough dude, people ended up loving him,” says Dino. “He cared about people. He suggested to the secretaries that they should speak to Al about the hourly wages. They got a raise. Regardless of the negative things, a lot of good came through him.”
“He didn’t go around all the time with his gun cocked,” says Deanie Parker. “Johnny allowed us to view him from time to time as an everyday guy who liked to have fun, who enjoyed laughing, who had a heart. If he knew someone was in a hardship situation, he would reach in his pocket and pull out money to help. But he could be just the opposite too.”
“He helped me a great deal,” says Willie Hall. “He gave me a chance to produce when I knew nothing about producing. He gave money to people in need. Now that other side—he did have a talent for whooping people.”
No one can deny Baylor’s effectiveness at getting records played, though the legality, morality, and civility of his means were dubious. If, as he claims, he was responsible for the success of “Theme from Shaft,” of “I’ll Take You There,” of “If Loving You Is Wrong,” and the other hits of the period—when those records were selling, Stax was grossing $10-15 million a year. Can one man be worth one quarter of the company’s gross, one half, perhaps, of its profit? What Baylor was paid in this nine-month period was more than Stax’s staggering annual payroll for two hundred employees.
According to the US Court of Appeals’ 1981 ruling against Baylor, “Baylor’s flat $1 million promotional fee compares to industry norms of $60,000 to $70,000 per year.” Rumors abound—blackmail, extortion, a Swiss bank account. Baylor was ruthless, and however he threatened his cohorts, whatever incriminating information he carried (if any) appears to have as much force a quarter century after his death as it did when the former Ranger walked the earth. No one’s talking.
Union Planters National Bank achieved its financial goal, reclaiming slightly more than the $10 million it set out to get on the more than $16 million it was owed by its debtors and swindlers. In the non-Stax Harwell bond claim, the bank was awarded $4.5 million, and the other bond claims were settled at $6.3 million, the bank collecting from its insurance companies. Through novel accounting, that $6.3 million was not taxable. In 1977, Union Planters became one of the largest banks in Tennessee.
Stax’s other nemesis, CBS, managed quite well. It signed the Emotions, the Soul Children, and, most notably, Johnnie Taylor, releasing his “Disco Lady.” The single’s success was so big that the industry had to create a new designation: the platinum record, honoring two million copies sold. (The producer: Don Davis.) CBS was no more accustomed to the workings of the soul circuit than Johnnie was to the corporate record world, and there was a period of adjustment for both parties. Bruce Lundvall, who had become president of CBS Records, was at a company convention, Johnnie’s band onstage vamping, but star attraction Johnnie Taylor was nowhere in sight. Rushing backstage, Lundvall was told that Johnnie wasn’t performing until he got paid. “I ran upstairs,” says Lundvall, “said, ‘Johnnie, get onstage willya!’ He said, ‘I don’t go on until I get paid.’” It took some convincing and, reportedly with no money changing hands, Taylor appeared, winning over the audience and helping build the momentum that brought him the biggest success of his career. Stax was always strong at making money for others.
Memphis often treats its true heroes the way it treats its glorious history. T.O. Jones, the onetime union navy yard worker who tenaciously held to his sense of right and wrong and brought union representation to Memphis’s Department of Public Works, did not fare so well. He never regained control of Local 1733, though he did find employment with the national office through most of the 1970s. By 1976, AFSCME had become the largest union in the state, with the Memphis local led by a longtime sanitation crew chief who’d worked with Jones’s efforts since 1964. Jones retired in the late 1970s, then suffered a series of heart attacks. This man among men spent his last years living impoverished in public housing, surviving on the support of labor leaders who gave him food and money. He died in 1989. As a younger man, he’d brought dignity and respect—humanity, really—to the city’s despised and neglected.
Mayor Loeb did not seek reelection in 1972, and after deciding against a run for the governorship of Tennessee, he retired to Forrest City, Arkansas, where he ran a business selling agricultural equipment. Memphis elected its first African-American mayor, Willie Herenton, in 1991, and he served for eighteen years. Harold Ford served twenty-two years in the House of Representatives and was succeeded by his son, Harold Ford Jr.
Schools in Memphis have never been the same since busing began in 1973. Enrollment in private schools peaked the next year, the number of students and the number of private schools having just about doubled in three years. Private school attendance has held well over the years (census figures showed a dwindling school-age population), but many facilities merged or closed. The Neighborhood Schools of Memphis, run by Citizens Against Busing, had a very short run, failing to reopen in 1974. By 1975, whites in the public schools accounted for less than 30 percent, and their numbers today are about 10 percent. Many whites left the city for the county, and as Memphis has annexed those areas, the nearby towns in Mississippi have grown. At the time of this writing, the public schools are in renewed turmoil, a conflict between rural and urban dwellers, resulting from the redundant, race-based establishment of separate city and county governments.
Poor Isaac Hayes. He’d picked cotton before picking up an Academy Award. Money fell on him like rain, and then the money evaporated. He lost more than everything, because ultimately he lost his copyrights—the right to collect future money for the art he’d created.
Hayes’s downfall was tied to Stax’s inability to fulfill his contract. In January of 1976, after the label had been declared bankrupt, he sued the company and its trustees for $3 million; they were supposed to have given him all his copyrights and master tapes, but they hadn’t, nor had they distributed to him his BMI and ASCAP money—funds the company had received for his radio airplay. Meanwhile, Isaac was missing alimony and child-support payments, and his ex-wife was hitting him with lawsuits. The security firm that protected his studio and his house sued him for $15,000. His clothier sued for $11,000. The IRS seized his Hot Buttered Soul studio, and after his lawyers worked out a deal on the $6 million that he owed, he couldn’t make the first $100,000 payment in July. On November 11, 1976, he filed for bankruptcy. His largest debt among the more than three hundred creditors was to Union Planters National Bank for more than $1.75 million. Others owed included hotels and motels from New York to California, credit cards and department stores—ten grand to Saks Fifth Avenue in Beverly Hills, another ten to the Saks in Washington, DC. Flower shops, doctors, ex-wives, airlines. His half-million-dollar home was sold on the courthouse steps, scooped up by Union Planters for one hundred grand less than he’d paid for it two years earlier. “Be careful when you take my picture,” he warned journalists on his way into court, referring to the glittering initials “IH” on the corner of his sunglasses. “I don’t want people to think these are diamonds.” Rhinestones. They glitter like real jewelry, but precious they’re not.
Never short of ideas, Isaac released three albums in 1977, two in 1978 (one was archival), and one each in 1979, 1980, and 1981. He could k
eep the money he earned after the bankruptcy—from a recurring appearance on the TV show The Rockford Files and his other acting work, from the royalties for his collaboration with Dionne Warwick, 1977’s A Man and a Woman, and from his gold-selling album Don’t Let Go, from 1979. When music sales petered out, he became a respected character actor, then regained a place in popular consciousness when he joined the cast of the animated cartoon South Park in 1997 (he’d returned to recording two years earlier . . . with two new albums). His role as Chef on the series proved immensely popular, resulting in an album, Chef Aid: The South Park Album, with several tracks sung by Hayes; one, “Chocolate Salty Balls,” went to number one in the UK. He quit the show in 2005, unhappy over its mockery of the Church of Scientology, of which he was a prominent member.
In 1992, Hayes was made an honorary king of Ghana, in recognition of his efforts to advance civil rights and to honor the African traditions of African-Americans. As king, he was renamed Nene Katey Ocansey the First. Joining him at his coronation were Chuck D. and Flavor Flav from the hip-hop group Public Enemy; they performed together while in Africa. Isaac helped develop the eastern district of Ada, on the Atlantic. His fourth wife, Adjowa, was from there; she had his twelfth child.
Hayes was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2002, and had recently signed to the revived Stax label when he suffered a stroke in 2006. He recovered well enough to resume touring and working up new material. But in August 2008, while exercising at home on a treadmill, he died of a heart attack. His debts were more than his assets, leaving his estate bankrupt; his million-dollar, seven-thousand-square-foot home was sold at foreclosure. One ray of hope: Recent copyright extension acts may allow his estate to soon regain control of his publishing.
Many of Stax’s artists enjoyed continued careers as singers, entertainers, performers, and producers. Few surpassed their Stax success; in addition to Johnnie Taylor, the Staple Singers had a number-one hit after leaving Stax, “Do It Again.” Rufus Thomas continued performing, always inviting fans onstage to do “The Funky Chicken” with him. Daughter Carla makes occasional appearances, and her long-unreleased cabaret album, Live at the Bohemian Caverns, came out forty years after its 1967 recording, welcome and bittersweet. Marvell Thomas has continued to record and perform, working at various times with Isaac Hayes, William Bell, the Hi Rhythm Section, Peabo Bryson, and the Temptations.
Booker T. & the MG’s have occasionally regrouped since Al Jackson’s murder, initially with Willie Hall on drums, later with Anton Fig, Steve Jordan, and then Memphian Steve Potts (“the Smiling Drummer”). Along the way, Booker, Steve, and Duck joined Levon Helm for his RCO All-Stars band, and Cropper and Dunn were part of the Blues Brothers band (which also featured drummer Willie Hall). The Blues Brothers’ big hit was “Soul Man,” and the album went to number one, introducing a new generation to Stax players and songs. In 1986, Jerry Wexler asked the surviving MG’s to be the house band at Atlantic’s fortieth anniversary celebration. That led to gigging as the house band at Bob Dylan’s Madison Square Garden “Bob-Fest,” which in turn led to them backing Neil Young. With their profile high, the band renewed its own touring and recorded a new album, 1994’s That’s the Way It Should Be. In 2007, they were given a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Grammys. Booker and Steve have reignited successful solo careers (Booker has recently taken home two Grammy Awards for Best Pop Instrumental Album; Steve has enjoyed recent nominations).
Rufus Thomas, the World’s Oldest Teenager, had his own parking spot on Beale Street, and a park in Porretta Terme, Italy, is named for him. (University of Memphis Libraries/Special Collections)
Duck Dunn, who recorded with Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, John Prine, and many others after Stax, continued to work with Neil Young after the MG’s tour; he called his Florida home “the house that Neil built.” “Stax was the greatest thing that ever happened to anybody who worked there,” Duck said. “Jim Stewart, I’d love to hug his neck today. He gave me a lot of grief up there in the control room, but he also gave me my life.” One night after a gig in May 2012, while touring with Steve Cropper in Japan, Duck Dunn went to sleep and didn’t wake up. He was seventy years young, full of energy, respectful, irreverent, and funny—all of which was reflected in his playing.
Al Jackson’s murder remains an open case, and police will not comment on it.
Wayne Jackson and Andrew Love worked hard as the Memphis Horns for many years after leaving the Stax payroll, joining the Doobie Brothers, Steve Winwood, Sting, and U2. Their stamp is all over pop music. “Stax was a cosmic happening,” Wayne says. “Little sparks hitting, the fires starting, those records being made. Other people might spout philosophy about being white, being black, but when you saw Wayne and Andrew onstage, you couldn’t imagine that anyone had any trouble down South, ’cause we had so much fun. And we sounded so good together. Between us, we raised six children, put them all through school. The more I lived in that environment of magic happening, the more I believed in it.” The Memphis Horns were given a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award in 2012, one of the few backing groups to be so honored. Wayne still keeps his trumpet shined. Andrew Love died in 2012 after a long battle with Alzheimer’s.
The Bar-Kays have enjoyed a very successful career. By 1976, within their first year of leaving Stax, they were on the pop and soul charts with “Shake Your Rump to the Funk.” From then, well into the 1980s, they were fixtures on the soul charts, occasionally crossing over to pop (“Freak Show on the Dance Floor” comes to mind) and continuing their tradition of wild clothes, energized shows, and party-popping pleasures. James Alexander and vocalist Larry Dodson are the group’s mainstays; Ben Cauley sometimes sits in. Their 2012 single “Grown Folks” captures them in fine form, and they played the 2013 inauguration of President Obama. In 2007, on the fortieth anniversary of the plane crash, Ben Cauley returned for the first time to the lake near Madison, Wisconsin, where his friends died in the waters. At a ceremony commemorating the tragedy, he played his trumpet and sang “Try a Little Tenderness” and “The Dock of the Bay” for the several hundred people who’d gathered. In his sleep, Cauley says, he sometimes still hears the final cries of his friends.
In 1981, on a mid-October day with the weight of winter bearing down, Jim Stewart sipped coffee at his kitchen table while a stream of people he did not know gathered on his fifty-six-acre estate, milling about in preparation for the auction of everything that he owned. The bank was collecting on every last bit of Jim’s personal guaranty. A reporter approached Jim and asked the reason for the sale. “It’s just a real estate sale,” he said. “Why does anyone sell his property? I’m just a private citizen and I have no comment.” Most of the goods would be gone by day’s end. Not long after, the IRS evicted Jim, his wife, and three children during the night.
Jim Stewart’s house, and its contents, about to be auctioned. (University of Memphis Libraries/Special Collections)
In hindsight, it’s easy to say that Jim bet all his chips on a color not on the roulette wheel. The company’s shaky foundation seems obvious, the constant borrowing to finance the next hit—neither the hits nor the borrowing could last. But the stable of artists was still strong, and if Jim gave them the attention they needed, why shouldn’t they resume the hits? What had Jim done for years but produce hits from that studio, with many of those same artists? In the moment, the gamble was not as long as it appears in retrospect. He bet on what he’d built. “The only excuse I can give is that I loved the company,” he told Peter Guralnick. “I thought it was worth saving.”
Epic heroes make epic mistakes. Jim had never done the expected. He’d been told it was unwise to have blacks in the studio, that it was stupid to leave banking. Jim acted from the contradictory heart of humanity: People do things romantic and heroic and regrettable. There may be no sense to it, but the act itself is powerful, emotional, and unforgettable. Jim’s bet turned out wrong, but what if he’d been right? What profound belief he’d expressed! In 1974, he was
in the catbird seat, and when he leapt out—a beautiful swan dive—he reserved nothing for his family. He lost all that was his. All the savings, all the future income from his sale of the company. He lost the home, the land, the cars, the furnishings. “By early 1974, I was putting money back into the company to protect my investment,” says Jim. “And that’s what destroyed me. I was wealthy. I had Gulf & Western stock which I had retained from their buyout. I got rid of that and I never cut my losses. I just lost everything.” Slowly, with his wife and kids, he reestablished himself, although he avoided the public eye. With some holdings in his wife’s name, the family’s hard fall had some cushion. A Stax guitarist, Bobby Manuel, would coax Jim into a midtown Memphis recording studio. Manuel, with whom Al and Duck re-formed the MG’s, continued to record Stax alumni and newer artists who retained the grit and authenticity that made Stax great. The music was solid, but the distribution less so.
When the world was saying no, Jim and Estelle said yes. They opened their studio the way they opened their hearts, creating opportunity, embracing possibility. A spirit imbues the Stax songs and performances. It is music with soul. “To know that after forty years people still want to hear Otis and still hear Booker T. & the MG’s, it’s gratifying, very gratifying,” Jim says. “I’m just thankful I was blessed to be a part of that. Stax was a family affair, and I don’t mean me and my sister. That close relationship of struggling brought us together. None of us had any money. All we had was the desire and the will and the ability to make it happen—which we did. At Stax, there was a lot of soul, the inner soul that’s part of all of us. We all gained by sharing that, by respecting our fellow man.”
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