Jim’s sister Estelle is the only owner who made any money at Stax. “Lots of people think life ends at thirty,” she says. “I started in records at forty. I have to say that my life has been very, very interesting since I was forty.” After Packy’s death, Estelle forged on with Fretone. “I depended on him,” she says. “I almost gave up two or three times. But being around young people, it keeps you thinking.” Estelle, after the death of her beloved son, after what she considered a betrayal by her only brother, renewed herself yet again, thinking her young self back into one of the most successful records to ever come from Memphis, “Disco Duck.” Created by a popular Memphis disc jockey, Rick Dees (along with producer Bobby Manuel and a convenience-store employee who did the duck voice), the song took off on her label. She was familiar with records getting too hot to handle and she flew to California to cut a deal with RSO Records, a label that had remade the careers of both Eric Clapton and the Bee Gees. Within months of its release, “Disco Duck” went gold, then quickly platinum, selling more than two million copies. As Stax was withering, Estelle was again blossoming. “I got back in the business,” she says, “because I had to prove to myself that I knew a little bit more about music than I’d ever been given credit for.”
Estelle continued to do it her way. “She spent all her money chasing that hit,” says her daughter Doris. Then with a new fortune, she spent it how she wanted. “She blew it,” says Doris, describing spending sprees on clothes and home furnishings. “She bought furs.” She sold the apartment complex, and Everett died of pancreatic cancer in 1984. When the money was gone, Estelle worked as a cashier in a cafeteria, ringing up Salisbury steaks, Jell-O molds, and corn-kernel bowls, greeting all the customers as if they were stars. She died at age eighty-five in 2004. “You didn’t feel any back-off from her, no differentiation that you were black and she was white,” Isaac Hayes said at the time of her death. “Being in a town where that attitude was plentiful, she just made you feel secure. She was like a mother to us all.” Her grave site features a shaded bench in memory of “Lady A,” hospitable and open long after she’s left this world.
Memphis didn’t appreciate its musical heritage until Elvis Presley died in 1977. And then it wasn’t the heritage or the music it appreciated, just the money that could be made off it. Elvis had brought blues and soul to white society. When he died, Memphis was flooded with tourists from around the world. Phone lines to the city overloaded and service crashed. Florists completely sold out. Locals were shocked by this response, our provincialism laid bare. Memphis experienced a blues awakening like what W.C. Handy describes in his autobiography. At a rural “dance program” around 1903, Handy’s sophisticated band was asked to allow “a local colored band” to play some of the local music. Handy expresses disdain for the trio’s “disturbing monotony” and was amazed when they finished that “a rain of silver dollars began to fall . . . [There] lay more money than my nine musicians were being paid for the entire engagement. Then I saw the beauty of primitive music. They had the stuff the people wanted.”
What the people wanted. Elvis died and money rushed Memphis. Stax died two years before Memphis’s rain of silver. The Stax building sat empty and shuttered. In 1981, Union Planters sold it to the Church of God in Christ for ten dollars, inserting a clause in the deed that dictated the building’s usage as only for “nonprofit, religious, charitable, educational, scientific, cultural and/or civic purposes.” If the property were used otherwise, ownership reverted to the bank. The church long claimed it was going to build a community center there—what had Stax been other than the greatest possible community center?—and in 1989, the church began tearing down the building. There was community protest, enough that a stop-work order was issued (there was also report of a gas leak, which may have influenced the order). But, in Jim’s words, it was too little too late, and the demolition proceeded, the ending seemingly sealed on this modern-day Greek tragedy. Ben Cauley stood outside the hurricane fence and played a requiem on his trumpet.
June 1991, dedication of historical marker at the Stax site. Ben Cauley remembers what was. (Commercial Appeal/Photograph by Dave Darnell)
“After the close of Stax, and after some time had passed, several years, I would drive back to Memphis, Tennessee, and park across the street from 926 East McLemore, and look at that vacant lot where our hearts once dwelled and see the weeds there, the building gone,” says Al Bell. “I’d see beer cans and what have you on that lot, and ultimately, the historic marker that had been placed there. And I would cry. The tears would run profusely, for it was quite painful to know that all that we had worked for and lived for, there was not even a symbol of that in place. It’s like someone had tried to wipe all of that off the face of the earth. Never to be remembered and never to be recognized.”
The lot stood empty. The movie theater lobby’s tile floor showed through the accumulated dirt, and black-and-white photos of the second Bar-Kays would occasionally blow with the breeze. Visitors rummaged through the detritus looking for souvenirs. One local entrepreneur advertised bricks from Stax, shipping them around the world.
As the millennium turned, an idea began taking hold: Stax had assumed its place in the world, now it was Soulsville’s opportunity. The sound of Soulsville, and the power of Soulsville, had gripped a post–Jim Crow generation in Memphis. Several burgeoning community leaders saw that around the Stax lot, an infrastructure languished: An African-American college, LeMoyne-Owen, was around the corner, and many of the neighborhood’s original, well-built homes still stood. Reaching out to some former Stax leaders, an alliance formed, young and old, white and black, private money and public money. A goal was set: to resurrect not just Stax but all of the neighborhood, Soulsville, with a rebuilt Stax as its beacon. The plan was tri-pronged: A museum to attract outsiders; an academy for neighborhood kids where, after school, they could get homework help and free tutoring; and a neighborhood revitalization plan to remove the blight and strengthen what remained. Stax’s longtime publicist Deanie Parker was hired to helm the project.
The Stax Academy opened in July 2000, three years before the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, demonstrating the project’s emphasis on community. Rufus and Carla Thomas, the label’s seminal hitmakers, were among the first alumni to participate in the academy’s summer music camp. Isaac Hayes, Wayne Jackson, Mavis Staples—numerous alumni have returned to inspire the kids.
The Stax Museum of American Soul Music was built on the Stax lot to the specifications of the original building, using the original blueprints. When you stand outside the Stax Museum, you are standing before a replica of the original building. Inside, it’s different (take a nap at the original Stax and the layout would be changed before you woke), but Studio A is like the original, and the gift shop is where Estelle’s record store was after it moved from the concession stand in the lobby. Inside, the Stax story begins in a transplanted rural church, and as Stax and soul music develop, so does the context of soul music nationally. There are about twenty short films, lots of music and outlandish clothes, plus Isaac’s refurbished gold-plated Cadillac (and the razor kit he used to keep his pate gleaming). The Stax Museum even has a dance floor—now that’s a museum that grooves.
Now, as then, Stax is anchoring a neighborhood. The blight has greatly diminished, there are many newly built homes, and the Stax campus has grown, creating a steady flow of workers and students. Incomes in Soulsville remain low, and there’s more crime there than in some other parts of town. It’s a work in progress, but the signs of progress are clear, and are everywhere. The Stax Academy proved such a thriving entity that in 2005 the Soulsville Charter School was established. It began with sixty sixth graders, adding a grade each year until it became a middle and senior high school that now pulsates the neighborhood. In its early years, to get into the school, students had to be failing or expelled from their regular program; unfortunately, there were plenty of applicants. The school days are long, and part of the reward for good work
is getting to make music; suspension from music rehearsal is a punishment. I saw sixth and seventh graders who’d never known that a cello existed playing symphonic arrangements of Stax hits—“Theme from Shaft,” “Knock on Wood,” and others—and it was one of the most moving musical performances I’ve ever experienced. The first two classes have now graduated, with 100 percent of each going to college, including one Ivy League recruit.
When the oasis seemed to have become just a mirage, vitality bloomed again from the site. “One day,” Al Bell continues, “I turned the corner out on McLemore, looked up and saw that marquee. And it impacted me so much until I stumbled off the curb into the streets. And as I looked at that marquee, I began to cry once again. But this time, they were tears of joy. For not only had the original building been replicated and placed there on that corner, but the most important part of the spirit of Stax Records was embodied there in the Stax Music Academy, for everything about Stax as it relates to creativity, as it relates to administrative experiences and knowledge, was all about teaching.
“It was Booker T. & the MG’s that taught these little shoeshine boys called the Bar-Kays how to play music. And it was one artist teaching another. It was one writer teaching another. There were open doors there all the time, where, no matter who you were or what you were, you could walk through those doors and realize an opportunity. Whether you had just been released from jail, or whether someone called you an alcoholic, or whatever the case might be—you could walk in there and somebody cared enough to take you by your hand and teach you and help you. And I saw that there—glorified there—in the Stax Music Academy. And I have not, until this very moment, stopped feeling good about that day and what I experienced in feeling on that day. Because I realized a part of it is still alive. Like Dr. King said, truth crushed to the earth shall rise again.”
Lives were made by Stax, and some lives ruined. The tales and fates of these individuals are, like life, diverse and illogical. The Stax story captures our excitement and fears about change, about race and power, about the struggle to find a voice. But the company’s results—not just its music, but also its social and spiritual achievements, the camaraderie, the rejection of hatred, the unprecedented successes—are life-affirming. Stax is the story of opportunity, the strides that people will make when given the chance, the growth a community can achieve when closed doors open, when closed hearts open. Had Jim, Estelle, and Al listened to the laws of Memphis and the laws of Tennessee, souls in harmony would never have sung. The beautiful music is something that raises us beyond our confines, that invites the spiritual, that takes us there.
Acknowledgments
The Stax story is complicated, and after years of my own work, I collaborated with Mark Crosby and Morgan Neville on the documentary Respect Yourself: The Stax Records Story. Mark and Morgan and I immersed ourselves in Stax, understanding its architecture, parsing its legends, and discovering the story. This book grew from the numerous interviews we did for that documentary, and from many long conversations we had about the label, its characters, its music.
I befriended Deanie Parker through my involvement with the creation of the Stax Museum of American Soul Music. She has been a great sounding board for the documentary and the book, and a great friend. When I told her I was embarking on this book, her look told me that, despite my optimism, she was bracing for another long and involved project; she was right, and she was always resourceful and open with her wealth of material and knowledge, giving me her perspective even after swearing she never wanted to talk about it again.
Peter Guralnick has been this writer’s best writing friend. He gives unstintingly of himself, offering opportunities, encouragement, and inspiration. His generosity illuminates everything around him. If you’ve not read his Sweet Soul Music, run now to the nearest bookstore and buy two (you’ll love it so much that you’ll give one away). It covers a wider musical context—more on Atlantic and Wexler and Ray Charles, more on Rick Hall and the various Muscle Shoals stories, and more on Memphis, including American Studios and Hi Records. Beautifully written, full of personality and personalities, it’s a musical story of freedom coming to America (www.peterguralnick.com).
Any contemporary pursuit on Stax is done in the wake of work by Rob Bowman. His exhaustively researched book, Soulsville U.S.A.: The Story of Stax Records, is an encyclopedic history and discography of the label. Rob was an early champion of Stax’s importance. He was a force behind the three Stax singles box sets, and those include chart information on which I relied.
In his book Say It One Time for the Broken Hearted, Barney Hoskyns travels through the South’s musical meccas, taking us deeper into the place where this music grows wild. (Shout-out to his Rock’s Back Pages—www.rocksbackpages.com—an archive of music writing and a great resource for me.)
My first book, It Came from Memphis, will take you deeper into Memphis music and culture without taking you to the obvious places; it’s rich reading, and fun.
Living in Memphis, I found myself often at the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, and it proved endlessly informative and exciting. Every visit brought new revelations. The staff there was always supportive and interested in my work. I’m especially grateful to Lisa Allen, archivist Levon Williams, Henry Nelson, Tim Sampson, and Mark Wender.
I’m grateful to my waves of readers, the early ones who slogged through a fat and repetitive manuscript and helped me see the good parts despite the bad, and the latter who took a much cleaner version and made me say what I meant, scolded me for avoiding the hard stuff, and prodded me to rethink what I’d come to accept. All were a big help: Tara McAdams, John Hubbell, Melissa Dunn, Henry Nelson, Joy Tremewan Corcoran, Tamar Cantora, Ross Johnson, Tim Prudhomme, Dan Bullard, Laura Helper-Ferris, and Deanie Parker.
The Memphis-Shelby County Public Library and Information Center is always a great resource, especially its Memphis Room in the History Department, and, within that trove, the goldmine that is the clippings files. Thanks to G. Wayne Dowdy and the History Department staff who lugged many a file to a desk for me. Thanks to Chris Ratliff at the University of Memphis Library’s Special Collections desk for his diligent photo research.
Thanks to Trey Harrison and Doug Easley for musical consultation and guidance; to Bob Mehr for leads, collusion, and lunch; to John “J-Dog” Shaw for making me think about Mayor Ingram; to Frank Inman Jr. and William Boyd for their memories of the neighborhood before Stax arrived; Bruce Feldbaum and Mark Cantora for help with legal documents; Robert Smith, Marc Morgenstern, Joel Amsterdam, and Bill Belmont at Concord Records; Anna Esquivel, Tanya Teglo, Drew Paslay, and Lisa Sikkink for additional research; Jonathan Gould, working on an Otis Redding biography, with whom I enjoyed exchanging information and ideas; Will Georgantas copy editor, who had good suggestions; my parents Alvin and Elaine Gordon for their unflagging support and encouragement; and Nancy Morrow, Reba Russell, Richard Pearce, David Leonard, Iddo Patt, Steve Berkowitz, and Jessica Jones.
There are worlds of people essential to Stax and its day-to-day operations, and many great artists who deserve whole books to themselves. I am sorry I was unable to include all the staff and all the bands and all the Stax supporters and friends in this telling. I thank them all for their music, and for their work with and for the label.
Kathy Belden is from the grand old school of the sharpened pencil. Publishing still pulses because of editors like her. Her input, gentle prodding, and give-and-take did what a great editor does: She helped me tell my story. My agent David Dunton knew where to land the deal, and he helped at each step of the way.
My wife, Tara McAdams, read this book over and over in many forms. Every time, she made it better. She, with our kids Lila and Esther, endured the agony, frustration, and depression that most any book entails, reviving me when my energy flagged, slowing me when I rushed to judgment, and helping me see possibilities when I defaulted to the conventional. I’m lucky that Tara’s my wife, and anyone who enjoys this book is lucky that she�
��s a reader and a writer. As usual, all my favorite lines in this book shimmer with her touch.
A Wrap-up of Other Key Players
As the work at Stax sputtered and stalled, the music industry in Memphis began circling the drain. “One thing about the banks and the general business community in Memphis, none of those people understood anything about the music business or about the value of a company like Stax to Memphis,” says John Fry, owner of Ardent Studios, where Isaac Hayes and the Staple Singers recorded hits, and many Stax artists worked regularly. “The effect of Stax closing was profound and it was widespread. A lot of vendors—studios, photographers, graphic designers, printers, manufacturers, you name it—depended on Stax as a major customer. Many people had to leave town to find work in the industry.” Memphis survived as a home for recording studios but not for record labels. There have been start-ups and pop-ups, with forecasts for old school vigor occasionally wafting through. But since Stax’s fall, things ain’t like what was.
Under Bill Matthews, Union Planters National Bank earned record profits. But by 1984 the bank was again on the skids, and he was relieved of duties that autumn. He joined a cattle-breeding operation, traveling the world selling bull semen and frozen cattle embryos. “He used to say,” says guitarist and computer whiz Rick Ireland, “‘The banking business is becoming these bits of ones and zeros flying through the sky, and all we want to do is grab some of them every once in a while and then we’ll be rich.’” Matthews joined a credit-card processing facility in Arkansas, but it was underfunded and dissolved under a shady cloud. He moved to California, where he died of a heart attack in 1994, age sixty-one.
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