CRATE-DIG DUSTY: The Everyman Blues of Johnnie Taylor

Mama reminds me every year when my birthday rolls around that my father skipped out on my birth to see Johnnie Taylor in concert. I was born early Friday evening in Hot Springs, Ar., July 15, 1977, the night Johnnie was scheduled to appear about 40 minutes away in Little Rock. Months before, the Arkansas soul star had topped the pop charts with "Disco Lady," the first single certified platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America. Johnnie had been one of the biggest names in soul for more than a decade. But in the summer of '77, the pop world had finally caught up with Johnnie's warm, bluesy wonder.

Being a die-hard fan, Daddy wasn't going to miss the show. He stopped by the hospital to see if I had all my fingers and toes, said "see ya later" to my aching mother and split. "I shoulda named you Johnnie Taylor," Mama tells me, still sounding a little perturbed after all these years.

Decades later, I grew to appreciate Johnnie Taylor. Couldn't help it: His music (and Aretha's gospel-fired wails) were constant at home. His testifying style, steeped in Southern gospel and spiced with uptown blues, powered classics such as "Who's Makin' Love," "I Believe In You (You Believe In Me)," "Jody's Got Your Girl and Gone," "Cheaper to Keep Her" and many others. Although he was one of the biggest stars of Memphis' storied Stax label, Johnnie seems to be largely forgotten by pop lovers. Even "Disco Lady," which really isn't a disco song per se, is rarely heard these days.  But to soul aficionados, especially lovers of the Southern style, Johnnie Taylor is royalty. He wasn't as flamboyant (or as innovative) as his contemporary, James Brown. He didn't perform with the body-shaking sanctification of Otis Redding or the Afrocentric theatrics of Isaac Hayes.

Johnnie was handsome, always clean-cut and dapper. He was always engaging, singing everyman's blues. There was a certain knowingness about his music. It was deeply, irrevocably black, speaking directly to the people who supported his shows and faithfully bought his records. That audience was mostly middle-class and working class blacks, the same ones who bought Redd Foxx, Rudy Ray Moore and Millie Jackson albums and hid them from the kids. The same down-home, regimented folks who worked hard for somebody else during the week, ate fried fish with hot sauce on Friday, drank good liquor (and maybe acted a fool) on Saturday night and was certainly in church come Sunday morning.

Johnnie was billed as the "soul philosopher" during his heyday at Stax, as his music offered sage, sometimes humorous advice about keeping the home fires burning: "Take care of your homework, fellas/If you don't, somebody will." Or "When you get through starin' that judge in the face/You're gonna wanna cuss the whole human race/That's why it's cheaper to keep her." Or "I'm going home to get my love bones/If I were you, I'd get mine too." 

I was priveleged to meet and interview Johnnie in his lovely Dallas home during the summer of 1999. I was an arts and music critic intern at the Dallas Morning News. Johnnie was just too cool in his shades and a short-sleeved, crushed velvet (yes, crushed velvet in the summer time) shirt. Chunky diamond rings glimmered on his manicured hands. His smile was wide. It was like talking to a hip older uncle. He took me around the neighborhood in his new SUV. About 10 months later, Johnnie died suddenly of a heart attack. He was 63.

He had scored his biggest hit in years just three years earlier with the sleek "Good Love." Even in the hip-hopped '90s, there was room for Johnnie's well-worn, always brilliant style. It never dies.

allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405">

COMMENTS ADVISORY: Users are solely responsible for opinions they post here; comments do not reflect the views of The Virginian-Pilot or its websites. Users must follow agreed-upon rules: Be civil, be clean, be on topic; don't attack private individuals, other users or classes of people. Read the full rules here.
- Comments are automatically checked for inappropriate language, but readers might find some comments offensive or inaccurate. If you believe a comment violates our rules, click the report violation link below it.