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Liner Notes
Ray Charles: Genius & Soul – The 50th Anniversary Collection
$69.98
A MEETING WITH THE MAN
I rode in an freight elevator once with Ray Charles. It was several years ago in San Francisco, where an odd variety of artists from Lou Rawls to Ed McMahon to George Burns to my band at the time, The Blasters, were performing at some beer company convention. The only other person in the elevator was Ray's road manager, who nodded his head silently as I got on. His serious, businesslike demeanor seemed to say, "That's right, kid, you're standing next to THE RAY CHARLES, and he doesn't care to hear or make any small talk, because he's only here to sing "America The Beautiful," get paid, and split. So be cool and we'll let you ride with us, and you can tell your grandkids about it when you get old."
Awestruck, I stood staring at Ray, who was smiling and softly humming a melody to himself. I tried to think of something original to say, but what could I possibly tell him that he'd never heard before? "Gee, Mister Charles, I'm your biggest fan!" or "Hey, Brother Ray, what's shakin' baby?" I don't think so.
Maybe I could've told Ray about when I was 14 in 1970 and the corner drugstore was selling cut-outs of his old ABC albums for 69 cents, and how I bought two or three a week until I owned them all. No, nobody wants to hear about their records being in cutout bins, but maybe I should've told him how much I learned about American music and songwriting from listening to his records and reading the writer's credits. How he made me see that the same tough blue soul in a song written by Percy "the Poet of the Blues" Mayfield could be found in one by country singer Buck Owens or by Broadway's Harold Arlen. How, more than anyone else in the history of American pop music, he had bulldozed the walls separating blues, gospel, country, jazz, R&B, Tin Pan Alley, and show tunes (what other artist could claim to have made records with Milt Jackson and Betty Carter as well as George Jones?). And he did it without changing his unique vocal style, which was based as much in the church as in the juke joint. Would he really care that I based my approach to songwriting on his eclectic philosophy and how much solace I got from his example when people tried to pin me down to playing or writing in only one style?
Did Ray Charles really need some stranger in an elevator telling him how much of a revolutionary he's been in a country so musically, culturally, and racially segregated? Or how his music represents everything many of us believe America is ideally supposed to be: open-minded, compassionate, independent, adventurous -- willing to explore the new without discarding what was good in the old. I just kept my mouth shut and listened to Ray's humming.
Should I have told him about driving my family and neighbors crazy on my student tenor sax, honking and screeching, trying to learn the alto sax intro to "(Night Time Is) The Right Time"? Maybe he'd relate to how I sat up until sunrise night after heartbroken adolescent night listening to "I Can't Stop Loving You" over and over after my first girlfriend dumped me? What difference would it make to him that when I turned 21 and walked into an air-conditioned bar on a miserably hot afternoon the first thing I did after buying my first legal drink was play his version of "Ruby" on the jukebox and make a silent toast to adulthood and to Ray for being there to initiate me?
The elevator doors opened and, before I'd said a word, Ray and his road manager were out the door. I followed them out watching as they were immediately surrounded by smiling faces and out-stretched hands, everyone saying things like "Mister Charles, I'm your biggest fan." I still kick myself for not saying anything to him, but I also like to think that Ray knows and understands what he's meant to me, what he's meant to all of us, and, oh yeah, I'll definitely tell my grandkids.
-- Dave Alvin
