This is where we celebrate the induction of Bobby Womack in the Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame! We talk about his work in detail and our favorite recordings etc. Our favorite songs, why we like Womack so much and why we think he never became a household name in the same respect as a Gaye,Mayfield,Brown,Wonder,Green,EWF,

One of my favorite moments has got to be the cover of "Close to you" One of the best song rappers as well how he sets up alot of his songs. Let's talk about Bobby and all his accomplishments and even his recent subpar recordings! I've been meaning to get his bio book as well "Midnight Mover"

Alot to talk about. It's Womagic time!


[Edited 3/23/09 5:49am]
[Edited 3/23/09 5:53am]

I'll try to start it off with HIS rendition of "Close to You":

I love his music. harry hippie, acorss 110th street are nice ones

He isn't already a member of that goofy HoF? That's a fucken shame. Anyways, props to my favorite vocalist and rhythm guitarist of all time.

Bobby's 1998 interview with Goldmine Magazine:

No Holds Barred

Don't Fear The Preacher October 23, 1998
No one experienced or expressed the tensions at the heart of 70's soul more intensely than Bobby Womack. Deeply grounded in the gospel tradition that gave rise to Al Green, Aretha Franklin and his mentor Sam Cooke. Womack understood how soul music spoke to the connections between individuals and communities, between flawed human beings and the healing powers of the Lord. But he also watched as a disturbing number of his friends - Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Sly Stone - fell victim to the pressures of a blues-torn world of casual sex, heavy drugs and a party that earned him the nicknames of "The Preacher," "The Poet," "The Survivor," and, simply, "The Womack".

Womack sums up the basic point simply: "You couldn't mail your voice in. You could either put a song across or you couldn't. The musicians weren't old fashioned, but some things should never change when it comes down to touching the heart. Soul music was at its peak, and all of it goes straight back to gospel."

Both soul and gospel singers honed their appeals in fiercely competitive settings. "The difference between today and the '70's is that people competed against each other." Womack reflects. "I'd love to see Aretha go up against Whitney. Not only would she drop 30 pounds, but you'd hear something that you haven't heard from Aretha in a while because she'd say, 'I don't want this young lady to kick my ass.' She loves her but at the same time she got to show her who's boss."

Womack clearly relishes the combination of aggression and friendship he experienced while touring with gospel based soul luminaries such as Cooke and James Brown.

"They really entertained and became brothers and sisters that loved each other," he says, "But they're saying when I get on that stage you know I'm kicking your ass. We'd sit around backstage and laugh and drink, talk and have fun, play cards whatever. They said, 'Womack, you're on next.' Everything cut, you ain't my friend no more. I'm taking this house. When they leave here they gonna go out saying Womack. I was taught that way. Every time I go out to sing, I go out to fuck an artist up. You wasn't doing it unless you were doing that. I learned it first from gospel. If you can't make them sisters shout, you ain't gonna be comin' back."

Womack traces the heritage to the great gospel vocalists of the '40s and '50s; Claude Jeter of the Swan Silvertones, Ira Tucker of the Dixie Hummingbirds, and R.H. Harris, Cooke's predecessor as lead vocalist of the Soul Stirrers. You can hear a note of sadness in Womack's voice as he observes, "The gospel singers got a hard road to go. They don't get to fly places, they don't stay in the best hotels, they eat whatever somebody cook for 'em. The saddest part about it is that the new gospel singers do not acknowledge the Blind Boys, they don't acknowledge the Soul Stirrers, the Swanee Quartet, the Silvertones. Those are the guys who made the dirt roads the paved roads."

Even as he pays homage to the ancestors, Womack speaks with candor about the stuggles that lead one music industry veteran to comment, "Every time you read about a bad scene in the '70s, it seems like Bobby Womack was there."

"I ain't been a saint," Womack acknowledges. "I went the drug route and craziness along with some crazy people. But I always believed in keeping one foot off the ground. If I got two feet off the ground, then I don't know where I'm at. Ain't no high in the world that good."

Womack pauses when his thoughts turn to his many friends destroyed by the tensions that, somehow, he survived. Womack is particularly distressed by the creative demise of Sly Stone, who played a crucial role in helping Womack reshape his image.

"Sly was different," he says, his rich baritone voice with the distinctive raw edge dropping near a whisper. "He wanted to fly. I said, 'Flying, Sly, ain't meant.' We were born near the same day, but he was just so much different from me," Womack continues. "I was the good pisces, he was the bad pisces. He would always want to be a gangster, beat somebody up, start a fight. And he always was goin' around looking for security people that was real tough. If you were around his camp, you could feel death and danger. I said, 'Man, there's a lotta good in this guy. I just don't wanna live in fear.' Sly heard the 'mmm-mmm' outta 'uhh-uhh.' He was just a bad little boy, always tryin' to do somethin' that had nothing to do with music."

One of Womack's most powerful songs, "Only Survivor," meditates on the things that kept him from going under while it pays tribute to those who, like Sly, didn't make it. Womack credits Ron Wood of the Rolling Stones with inspiring the song.

"Woodie came to my house and he said, 'Damn, Bobby, seems like every picture you got on your wall is somebody that's dead. You gotta change this atmosphere. You're the only survivor left in this room.'"

There were times when he wasn't all that sure he would survive. His 1976 classic "Daylight" captures the weariness that set in on anyone who got too deeply caught up in the cycle of parties and drugs.

"'Daylight' to me was a song about when I used to say, 'Man, I'm sick of partyin'. I'm too tired,'" Womack recalls. "Every night, every time I go to bed, there's not a time after the show I didn't say, 'There ain't nobody comin' back to the room, ain't no party.' But someone'd say, 'Rod [Stewart] is out there.' I say, 'Rod's out there? Okay, he can bring one person.' 'Wilson Pickett's over there.' 'Okay, Pickett can come and hang out with two people.' Before you know it you got ten or twenty people in the room. And we all singin' gettin' high. I say, 'Baby, I ain't lettin' daylight catch me up again.' Before I know it this guy's knockin' on the door and my manager's sayin,' 'Come on Womack, take care of your business, man.' And everybody can disappear so fast. Daylight done caught my ass up again."

But Womack did survive. He has always had a special place in the hearts of black listeners, many of whom share poet Kalamu ya Salaam's feelings that, when things were at their worst, "there were only two people in the world who really understood my predicament. I was one, and Bobby Womack was the other."

In the pop music world, Womack is as well known for his guitar playing and songwriting as for his singing. His songwriting credits included the Rolling Stone's "It's All Over Now," Janis Joplin's "Trust me," George Benson's "Breezin" (originally recorded by Gabor Szabo) and a string of Wilson Pickett hits including "I'm A Midnight Mover" and "I'm In Love," His spare melodic guitar work has graced records by Cooke, Ray Charles, Dusty Springfield, King Curtis, Aretha Franklin and many others.

While Womack's songs deal with the classic tensions at the heart of the blues, he always felt much more at home with styles based more directly on gospel. His awareness of the sources of his ambivalence about the blues crystallized when he met Eric Clapton while playing at a session for Aretha. "Aretha was doing 'Dr Feelgood' and I was playing on that album [I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You]," he says, "I'd played on every song of Aretha's and they got to 'Dr Feelgood.' I knew I couldn't play the blues. I didn't hate the blues, I just didn't want to be no part of no more blues."

"I never played the blues," he continues. "People often ask, why is it that whites support blues more than blacks support their own music. I say it's because blues is poverty to blacks. It was a novelty to whites. They say, 'Let's go hear some blues tonight, let's go hear B.B. King, let's get in the blues mood.' And they go and hear some blues."

In the Cleveland neighborhood where Womack grew up, the blues signified something much more immediate. "When I was coming up as a kid all I heard was 'I ain't got the money, hide the kids, tell the insurance man I ain't home. Tell the rent man Daddy's down the street.' It was always some lie," Womack says. "I remember sometimes my father would say, 'We gonna fast today and thank God for the food we have received.' Only reason we were fasting is there wasn't nothing to eat. And the only thing I could ever hear was Elmore James. 'Hand me down my walkin' cane.' It went right with my life. I said, boy I'm tellin' ya, he's cryin' the blues and I'm livin' the blues."

From Womack's perspective, then, the harsh realities of ghetto life made the blues into a fundamentally black thing. But, Womack admits, "Eric Clapton turned me around."

"Eric walked in to the 'Dr Feelgood' session," Womack continues, "and he says 'Bobby, would you mind me trying out on this cut?' I'm lookin' at this skinny white boy and I'm thinkin' this is the joke of the year. He was very polite. 'Bobby, do you mind if I use your amp?' I said, 'Man you can have my guitar, my pick, my strings, anything.' So he pulled his guitar out of a pillowcase. It was about 30,000 different colors. And he started playin' the blues on 'Doctor Feelgood' and it actually shocked me to a point that I said, 'Not only are white people prejudiced, blacks too.' My father taught me white people don't know nothin' about no blues. I thought all white people had it good and they didn't have no blues. They didn't even die, they didn't go to no funerals. I was always taught that way, thinking we were just living it."

Womack continues to believe that race plays a major part in the music industry. He remembers Sam Cooke telling him that "'James Brown can be the biggest thing in captivity, black. But if he was white, he'd be bigger than Elvis Presley.'" Later, he reports, Sly Stone echoed Cooke's strategic point: "Sly had the same theory, 'Bobby, always sing with a mixed band,' Sly said. 'You know why? Mexicans, Indians, Chinese, Japanese, whites, they all got the same feeling when it comes to music. You get a musician, I don't care what color he is. He may have his style, but if you bring him in, he can play yours,'"

Ultimately, for Womack, the discussion of race and music goes back to one of the most basic lessons of the gospel tradition: that, as Sly wrote in "Everyday People," "we got to live together." Womack concludes: "Sly said, "What it does, it just shows a picture of what the world has gotta be like.' He said you got art and heavy things happening that Mexicans have brought to the country, you got things that blacks have brought to the country. They can't paint a picture that the white man did everything. In many years, it's gonna destroy the country."

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I'll continue with more...

As in many other areas of Womack's life, Sam Cooke played a central role in heightening his awareness of the political impact of his music. "I remember Sam tellin' me, 'You're a hell of a writer, you gotta great instinct," Womack remembers. "But he said, 'Bobby, you don't like to read.' I said, 'When I was in school, everything was about George Washington, there was nothin' about what we did. The only time I ever saw a picture of a black man in the history books, he was holdin' a tray.' So I just didn't believe in history. Sam said, 'Yeah, but it would increase your knowledge so much.' Sam read heavily all the time. Soon as we got in town he wanted to know where the black library was. Or a library period. He'd bring all these books and before the next morning, he'd read 'em all. Then he'd say, 'I gotta start makin' some statements,' So, yeah, I always thought about my music in political terms."

From the beginning, Cooke played a crucial role in Womack's musical education. Bobby had begun performing with a family group alongside his four brothers, one of whom - Cecil - has gone on to forge his own niche in soul history as part of Womack and Womack, which he fronts with his wife (and Cooke's daughter) Linda (who has been both Bobby's step-daughter and sister-in-law.) The Womacks' father, Friendly, was a disciplinarian who commanded his family's love and respect. His father played the guitar and supervised his sons' stage act.

"I ran into several of the Jackson Five at an airport recently." Womack said. "And I said, 'My father was just like your father. He'd kick your ass if you didn't remember something. When he told you to step, you had to step like twins.'"

Cooke's 1952 performance at the Temple Baptist Church in the Womacks' native Cleveland provided the Womack's with their break.

"It was a big church where they brought all of the gospel singers," Womack recalls. "My father walked up to S.R. Crain, who started the Soul Stirrers and he said, 'I got a bunch of young boys, me and my sons. Would you mind lettin' us open up the show.' He said, "When they grow up and get to be teenagers, bring 'em back, we might give 'em a shot.'"

At that point, Cooke walked by. "Sam said, 'What is that about?.'" Womack remembers. "We were all dressed alike as stairsteps. Sam say, 'Doggone right, they gonna open up the show.' Then he said that after we sang, he wanted everybody to march around and before the Soul Stirrers ever hit a note, he wanted to hear some money go into this big purse my mother always carried. They took up something like $83 and that was a lot of money at that time. When we were singin' on stage, singin' a fast tune, we were goin' so fast I didn't know how to stop it. It just kept going' over and over again."

When Cooke founded his own record label, SAR, with the explicit goal of bringing "real gospel" music to the pop charts, the Womacks were one of his first signings. Recording as The Womack brothers, they cut a half dozen sides for SAR in 1960 and 1961, including "Somewhere There's A God" (later reworked in good crossover fashion as "Somewhere There's A Girl"), Bobby's composition "Yield Not To Temptation," and the gospel standard "Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray." While none of the gospel records charted, they demonstrated enough promise to convince Cooke to give the brothers - now renamed the Valentinos - a shot in the secular market. After several unsuccessful releases, "Lookin' For A Love" (#72 pop, #8 R&B) gave the group its first hit in 1962.

With "Lookin' For A Love" riding the charts, Cooke turned his attention to the group's development as performers. In retrospect, Womack understands the wisdom of Cooke's decision to send them on the road backing up James Brown. At the time, however, he thought working for Brown was "like being in Hitler's army. He'd always have these drumsticks and when he'd be takling to you, if you looked outta the way, he'd hit ya upside the head with a stick."

"When we made the switch from gospel to secular music, Sam said, 'I want you to go into the Apollo Theater with James Brown.' And I remember him and his partner laughing. And I wondered why they were laughing and he says, 'I can't be as tough on you as James Brown. James don't know you. Man, I love you guys. You'd think I hated you.'"

Womack recounts Cooke's explanation of the difference between the demands of performing gospel and soul. "Sam said, 'This is a whole different market. You can't call on Jesus every five minutes, but you still gotta communicate. You got a bigger audience and their minds are everywhere. When people come to church, they all come to try to be saved or something.'"

However harsh a teacher Brown may have been, Womack fully appreciates the value of what amounted to a graduate education in the theory and practice of soul. "He taught us that when you step, everybody steps together. If you're an inch before the next guy, it looks rehearsed. He said if you got a cold house there's always somebody that ain't cold that's gonna be jumpin' up. Play off of them to get the other people going. You see one woman runnin' around screaming and hollerin', work with her and before you know it you got the whole audience."

Brown's performances set the standard in a soul scene defined by dynamic performers who consistenly challenged one another to reach higher levels. "In those days, every artist took it up a notch," Womack says. "It wasn't that Wilson Pickett came one week and I came the next week. It'd be Bobby Womack, Wilson Pickett, James Brown, and Jackie Wilson all on one show. Nobody wanted to look bad, everybody wanted to outdo everybody else. People forgot all about how much they were getting paid. They were just worried about 'Jackie took the house. He tore it up.' When the last showdown came between Jackie and James Brown it was like Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier."

Two years after the success of "Lookin' For A Love," the Valentinos appeared to be on the verge of crossover success when Bobby's compostion "It's All Over Now" began receiving airplay on pop stations.

"What happened next," says Womack, "was that the Stones was over here at Chess Records looking for songs. Our record had just come out and it was very big. The Stones heard it and said, 'Man, we got to cut that song.' Sam came to me and said 'Bobby, I got some good news and bad. The Rolling Stones want to cover your song.' And I said, 'Man, when these Pat Boones gonna stop?'"

While Cooke understood Womack's response, he saw things from a different angle. Womack continues: "Sam said, 'Bobby, they'll do more for your career than you'll ever believe. This group is gonna be huge and the longer they live, the bigger they're gonna get. It's a new thing happening, man, and I can see it already.' So I just said, 'I don't want them to sing the song. Tell 'em to get their own song.' Sam says, 'Bobby, they sell tons of records. This is gonna be the first record that breaks for them in the States. You know what that means? You introduced 'em.'"

Womack wasn't convinced. "I'm sayin', 'Oh man, I don't care about all that.' So Sam said 'Well, Bobby, I'm not gonna beg ya no more. I own the publishing. I'm gonna give them the song whether you want to or not.' They came out with 'It's All Over Now' so quick and I was laughin' because some of the words they thought we said, we didn't say. Mick said something totally different. I said, 'This is how a black person talk, the English sound different.' We were laughing, but I was still furious. They took our song and everybody thinks it's their song, never mind Sam talking about it's gonna make me a legend and all that. But I remember the first check I received, it was about $400,000. I been chasing 'em ever since tryin' to get 'em to do one of my songs."

Increasingly in the mid-60s, Bobby focused his personal and creative attention on his mentor. "I was so close to Sam, brothers don't even know." he says, the sense of loss unmistakable in his voice more than three decades after Cooke's senseless death in a shooting at a Los Angeles motel. Beginning in 1964, Bobby was a regular member of Cooke's road band, occasionally playing on studio recordings of songs like the soulful "That's Where It's At."

One of Womack's last memories of Cooke concerns the gospel soul classic "A Change Is Gonna Come." "Sam called me about eleven or twelve o'clock and said he was driving to my house cause he wanted me to hear something." Womack says. "He said, 'I want you to tell me what you think of this.' When he played the song for me, it scared the shit out of me, man. I thought I'd dreamed it or heard it on somebody else's record. I said, 'The song sounds like death.' He said, 'Death?' and I said. 'Yeah, sounds like something terrible's happened or something terrible's going to happen.' And he said, 'That's exactly what I felt.' I said, "It's a beautiful song, it's just kind of scary.' And he said, 'Yeah, that's why it ain't comin' out.' And then two or three weeks later, he got killed."

Cooke’s death shattered his young protegee emotionally and, as things worked out, professionally. The professional problem concerned Bobby’s marriage to Cooke’s widow Barbara, which took place less than three months after Sam’s death. Many viewed the “romance” as an attempt to take over Sam’s creative legacy and financial estate. Womack dismisses the charges with contempt: “Sam’s death just killed me. The first thing I wanted to do was protect his family because I know how cold this business is. Some people, I can’t mention names, were ridin’ in the limo to the funeral. All of the close people I thought were his friends are there sayin’ Sam told me he was gonna give me this, he was gonna buy me a club, he gonna build me a gas station. ‘I said, ‘None of these niggers liked Sam.’ And I loved him. They were tellin’ me, ‘Why don’t you shut up all that noise ‘cause I was cryin.’”

“When it came down to me marrying his wife, I never knew his wife.” Womack continues. “She was just so hurt and outdone that he had went out that way. She was ready to tackle the first thing that was the closest thing to him, that he liked. And that was me. And I was ready to be there because I knew she needed guidance. I knew if I put myself in there, a lot of people were gonna hate me. But if I don’t marry this woman, this womans’s gonna do something crazy, and she may not be able to get out of it.”

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Continued...

Whatever Womack’s motivations, the soul music world closed ranks against him, delaying the start of his solo recording career by several years. Rumors persist that DJs at black radio stations simply threw away the records he made for Chess, Keymen, Him, and Atlantic. Womack remembers the years following Cooke’s death as an extremely difficult period.

“People started writin’ hate letters about me and Sam’s wife. His brothers jumped on me and beat me up pretty bad. That’s when I started wearin’ dark glasses. I could see out but they couldn’t see in, couldn’t see how scared I am. It’s a different thing to step into a king’s place and you’re supposed to be as bad as he is to be there.”

Unable to break out as a solo artist, Womack fell back on his guitar to make a living, a decision that ultimately lead him to Memphis and Muscle Shoals. “When Sam died, Ray Charles offered me a job to come play with him.. Back then I was gettin’ such a bad rap as a little hustler, a little pimp. But I was learning.”

In retrospect, Womack views the delay in his singing career as a blessing in disguise. “I wasn’t ready to jump out on my own until I had learned from some of the pros.”

If Cooke and James Brown provided Womack with his education in live performance, Chips Moman played an equivalent role in the studio. “I tell you what,” Womack laughs, ‘if I was after the money, I had no reason to go to Memphis. Memphis was coming out with some great stuff. You had Stax and then you had the Memphis sound of Chips Moman. There were two studios there and they were producing some incredible stuff and basically it was that there wasn’t a lot of gimmicks going on.”

"I went to Memphis and I stayed at a place called the Trumpet Motel," Womack continues. "My wife Barbara said, 'What is wrong with you? You got a mansion out here and you gonna move into this little dumpy place?' Man, I had to get roach spray to kill the roaches and I put my food in there. So I went down there to [Momon's] American [studio] and asked if I could play with the studio band. I just loved playin' with these different guys. Everytime, it was someone new. Tomorrow it's gonna be Aretha Franklin, the next night it's gonna be Ronnie Milsap. Next time, 'we're caught in a trap' ["Suspicious Minds"] with Elvis Presley. I said, 'Man, this just blows me out. How you guys can turn and transcend into somebody else's sound and sound just like their records.' It was phenomenal."

Memphis finally provided Womack with his solo breakthrough when his l968 cover of "Fly Me To The Moon," produced by Moman, was released on Minit (#18 R&B, #54 pop). On first glance, it seems surprising that his breakthrough and its two follow-ups ("California Dreamin", #20 R&B, #43 pop; and "I Left My Heart In San Francisco," #48 R&B) were covers of other people's material. Ironically, the explanation involves the high quality of the songs Womack had written since Cooke's death, all of which wound up being recorded by Wilson Pickett, then one of the biggest stars in Southern Soul.

"I went down to Memphis to record all the songs I gave to Pickett. But Pickett and them was sittin' around the studio, they didn't have no songs. They were just sittin' there sayin' 'Hey, man, let's try to re-do this song.' And someone else say, 'Nah, there ain't nothin' in it.' So I said, 'Hey man, I got a whole bag fulla songs here.' I was waitin' for him to leave cause I was gonna record after that. But when Pickett left, he left with every song I had for my album of songs."

Pickett recorded a total of seventeen Womack compositions including the top-20 R&B hits "I'm In Love," "Jealous Love," "I'm A Midnight Mover," and "I Found A True Love," Womack never regretted givng the material to Pickett.

"Pickett was a star then. I admired him and I was just glad he was recordin' my songs. I wasn't even thinkin' about the money. Hell, these people don't think I got no talent. They's just mad at me cause they're tryin' to compare me with Sam Cooke 'cause I married his wife. But when they keep seein' my name on all of these artists, they're gonna say, 'This boy's got talent.'"

"That's how I ended up cuttin' 'Fly me To The Moon,' "Womack continues. "Pickett was runnin' around sayin' 'Ooo boy, I got smashes. Boy, you can write your ass off.' But I started thinkin' that I gotta do somethin' for my label. They knew I had hits cause I'd played 'em for 'em. I said, 'Man, if I don't go back there with some hits, them guys are gonna kill me.' Pickett had taken all my songs, everything I knew. So I was runnin' around the studio and I just started singin' 'Fly Me To The Moon' with the guitar. So the guys started wakin' up one by one going to their instruments, sayin' 'What the hell was that?' I said, 'Man, you know the Tony Bennett version of 'Fly Me To The Moon?' Can you imagine somebody flyin' to the moon SLOW? Man, he's talkin' about flyin', you'd think he'd be in a hurry. So I'm just gonna take that song up tempo.'"

"I cut 'California Dreamin'. I cut 'I Left My Heart In San Francisco.' I was scufflin' for things to do," Womack concludes. "And the funny thing is 'Fly Me To The Moon' turned out just fine. But Liberty was sayin' 'What happened to them other songs you played for us when you came in.' I said, 'That's them' and they said, 'Well, they sound different.'"

Womack's final Minit singles, "How I Miss You Baby" (#14 R&B) and "More Than I Can Stand" (#23 R&B), maintained his presence on the R&B charts, but he was beginning to immerse himself in the praty culture that would provide the ambiguous backdrop of his '70s success. Sly Stone and Janis Joplin were among his new friends.

Although he knew Joplin only briefly, Womack remembers her as "the sweetest lady I ever met. But there was nobody to show her the way or give her inspiration. She was tellin' me 'bout how she was always the ugliest girl in school. 'They always called me that,' she told me. 'They always laughed at me. Honey, let me tell ya somethin',' she said. 'I quit school and went to New Orleans and sung around bars and that's when I started drinkin' and whatever.'" Womack pauses. "She lived a rough life."

Womack and Joplin met when she approached him about the possibility of recording one of his songs. "She called me and said, 'Everybody's done one of your songs, I just wanna say I did one.' I didn't think it was her until (Joplin's producer) Paul Rothschild came on and said it was," Womack says. "So I go down there and she told me, 'This the way we gonna work this Mr. Womack. When I ding the bell, that means I don't like it.' So I'd hit the intro on a song and she'd ding the bell. She didn't even give me a chance to finish it. This goes on and on, she's pullin' my leg. So I went into 'Trust In Me' and she didn't ding the bell. She said, 'I love it, let's record it now.' Just like that."

Womack remembers having been with Joplin the evening that she died from what was reported as an accidental heroin overdose. The two had discussed their respective places in the interracial music scene.

"She told me the thing she resented the most in her whole career was people tellin' her she tried to sing like Tina Turner," Womack says. "She said, 'I was scufflin' in New Orleans trying to get paid to sing before I ever heard of Tina Turner.' I said to her, 'Ya know I have a problem gittin' my records on white stations. Why don't we do a tour together.' She said, 'Yeah that'd be cool.' I said,'What I'll do is go out on stage and say this woman don't sound like Tina Turner. I'll tell my black people, I'll tell 'em this Janis Joplin, y'all listen to her as Janis Joplin. Then you introduce me to your people.' She was crackin' up, about ready to fall out. I said, 'That'd be cool. You got a problem, I got a problem. I'm tryin' to cross over and you're tryin' to cross over.' She said, 'Nah, I just don't want them to think I'm tryin' to sing like Tina.'"

Womack’s voice takes on a meditative undertone as he considers his own fate in relation to those of Marvin Gaye, Janis, and Sly. “There’s more to entertainers than that,” he observes. “They entertain but on the other side there’s another person. That’s why they end up like that. Some of them escape and some of them don’t. Man, it coulda been me up on the night shift instead of Marvin.

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Continued...

I escaped in part because I always stayed married. There was always someone there to say. ‘Bobby, don’t do that. Don’t even go there. Let’s go out and see a movie. Or let’s have a drink.’ Or they would sit with me and they knew I wouldn’t mess with nothin’ ‘cept coke.”

Womack’s popularity soared once he signed with United Artists in 1971. The series of albums Womack released beginning with “Communication” (1971) and “Understanding” (1972) and extending through “Looking For A Love Again” (1975) rank alongside those of Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, and Aretha Franklin as high points of ’70s deep soul. “That’s The Way I Feel About Cha” (#2 R7B, #27 pop) initiated a string of a dozen top-20 R&B hits, nine of which also made the pop charts. Most of the songs chart the ups and downs of male-female relationships, among them “Woman’s Gotta Have it” (#1 R&B, #60 pop); Womack’s solo remake of the Valentinos’ “Lookin’ for a Love” (#1 R&B, #10 pop) ; “You’re Welcome, Stop On By” (#5 R&B, #59 pop); and “Check It Out” (#6 R&B, #91 pop).

Several other ‘70s hits reflect Womack’s interest in broader social issues. “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out” (#2 R&B, #29 pop) speaks to the feelings of isolation behind the good times party scene; “Across 110th Street” confronts the killing tension between life in the ghetto and in a mainstream which is no less vicious; “Arkansas State Prison” presents a stark vision of incarceration as modern day slavery. “Harry Hippie” (#8 R&B, #31 pop) comments with gentle irony on the aimless lifestyle of many in the counterculture, including Womack’s brother Harry, who was found murdered in Bobby’s home in 1974. (A girlfriend was later arrested in the stabbing.)

Although Womack’s UA records mark a high point in his career, his relationship with the company was never smooth. Womack remembers feeling particularly frustrated by the company’s reluctance to assign him a movie soundtrack. “’Across 110th Street’ came about because I was always fighting with my record company,” he states. ‘I said, ‘I can’t understand why you all would go outside of the company and let other artists score movies. Curtis Mayfield, Isaac Hayes. I mean they’re good, but I got the same talent, why don’t ya’ll do it here?’ ‘Bobby,’ they said, ‘You never scored a movie before.’ I said, ‘Right, and I never had a hit record before I had one.’”

Ultimately, Womack presented UA with an ultimatum. “I told ‘em, ‘You know what, if you don’t let me have the score this time, every time I cut an album, I’m just gonna cut somethin’ real silly. “Jingle Bells,” anything.’ And I was serious. I said I’d burn the tapes. They said, ‘Okay, you start on tour in a week. You gonna come by today and look at the movie.’ There was no music there, so I looked at the music and I taped the dialog. Every night after the show I would write. When I got a break, I ran down to Muscle Shoals and in four days, we had the whole album cut.”

Womack attributes the success of the sound track to the similarity between the movie and his life. “You know what’s strange about that movie? I lived there all my life. When you talk about the ghetto, I can write that blindfolded. I knew what that was about. I started writing my life story.” Womack pauses and recites the first verse of “Across 110th Street,” which focuses on the third of five brothers trying to survive life in the ghetto. ‘It’s about what you do when you’re put under pressure. I was sayin’ that because of what I wrote and how fast I did it,” he concludes. ‘I’d say, ‘Across 110th Street was a hell of a test’ because bein’ in the ghetto couldn’t have been no harder than that.”

While the hits and his friendships with highly visible stars such as the Rolling Stones and Sly established Womack's place in the '70s scene, his legendary status among soul fans came as much from the extended album cuts and live performances where he drew more directly on his gospel roots. His closing monolgue on "Jealous Love," for example, echoes the classic gospel lines, "I went to the rock to hide my face/the rock cried out no hiding place." Almost every UA album includes at least one long cut built around the intimate monologues that earned him the nickname, "The Preacher." Womack's cover of the Carpenters' "Close To You" incorporates a meditation on the unchanging nature of soul music; "Facts Of Life/He'll Be There When The Sun Comes Down" touches the places where you can't really tell gospel from the blues. The live recording of "laughing and Clowning" (on which Womack is joined by the pioneer R&B songwriter Percy Mayfield) and "The Preacher/More Than I Can Stand" ring with an immediacy straight out of the Temple Baptist Church.

The beginning of Womack's UA period coincided with a marked change in his public image. The covers of his Minit and Liberty albums present Womack smiling and well-dressed, an update of Sam Cooke's crossover style. According to Womack, Sly Stone was responsible for his switch to the funkier, distinctly "black," style that became Bobby's seventies trademark. "Communication, Understanding," he says, thinking back on the beginning of his glory years. "Man, when I'm ridin' in the car and I hear one of those songs, someone say, 'Why are you trippin'?' I said, 'I'm back to the day when we was in the studio.' Sly asked me to stay at his house. When he heard "Communication," he was tellin' me, 'Man, you're too funky to be walkin' around with a briefcase and a suit and tie on. You're too funky man, take that shit off."

Following through on his fashion critique, Sly set about transforming Womack's image. The immediate result was the cover of the "Communication" album, on which Womack gazes out from behind dark glasses in which the viewer sees a reflected image of his band. "Sly gave me some of his clothes. He said, 'man, let your beard grow out, don't go gettin' no shave,'" Womack says. "Sly said, 'Tell the photographer to come on up to my house. Bring your band up here. Have the guy shoot the band in your glasses.' It was at his pool table. He had a lotta creative ideas. I thought, man, I woulda never took a picture before. Hair wasn't combed, I hadn't shave in four days, I looked out if it and I was out of it. I laugh about a lotta things he said and I cry about a lot of the things he said and thought."

Contemplating the temptations that threatened to take him down with his friend - Womack reflects: "It seems like everybody comes out here [to L.A.], for some reason they get fucked up. But I can understand how it happens 'cause even the closest people around you, even your parents, become fans. The money becomes the main objective. It's crazy when its like that. You don't have nowhere else to turn cause everybody's tellin' ya the baddest things that have happened and you surround yourself with people who tell you your shit don't stink. Sometimes you can believe it."

Womack continues: "We go back to the hotel and I'm sittin' up tootin' coke and I think she may have tooted some with me. She said, 'I'm waitin' on my thing.' I keep sayin' 'Why you do that stuff?' She said, 'You don't like heroin?' I said, 'Nah, I had that slipped on me one time. You asleep, I don't want to be asleep. You just nod out and all that. Man, I wanna be up.' She said, 'I don't like to be speedy.' We were just talkin' about which drug was best. Anyway, someone called and she was cryin' cause Jimi had died. She said, 'Ya know what? I woulda killed myself, but if I'd did it at the same time he did, I wouldn't a got the publicity.'"

"After I left I called Paul Rothschild," Womack continues. "And I said, 'Paul, this girl is really hurtin.' She's sick. She needs some help.' He said, 'Bobby, you just met her. You don't know her. She's drinkin' Southern Comfort, isn't she? She cries the same fuckin' blues every time she drinks.' I said, 'But not to get high. I get high to escape, I think I'm escaping. I think she needs somebody to really listen to her.' Anyway, about two, three o'clock that morning, we was sittin' there playin' my record. We'd been talkin' but she said, 'Hey, you're gonna have to go now cause this person's comin' and I don't want you to see them.' I said, 'Well, hell, I don't wanna see them either.' But I was sorta curious to who it was. I heard him comin' up the steps, but I went down the elevator, so I never did see who that person was. Paul Rothschild called me about seven o'clock that morning and said, 'Janis is dead.' And I said, 'See, I told you.' And he said, 'I knew you was gonna say that.' I said, 'She deliberately killed herself. She was a very broken woman and everybody wanted her to do one thing: draw an audience so they could make some money. That's all they cared about."

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Continued...

During the later half of the '70s, several forces conspired to undercut Womack's mainstream success. On one hand, he acknowledges that the fast living described in "Daylight" (#5 R&B) had begun to wear him down, often contributing to dubious decisions. But it was also true that the hey day of deep soul was coming to an end. Disco, soft rock and arena acts like Queen and Kiss commanded the attention of huge audiences, and the music industry began to resegregate. By the time disco faded from the scene in the early-80s, most soul artists were left with little following outside the black community. Bobby Womack would never again place a record higher than number 90 on the pop charts.

The commercial decline began when Womack moved from UA to Columbia, which released two albums, “Home Is Where The Heart Is” and “Pieces”, neither of which charted. Womack attributes UA’s willingness to sell his contract to a variety of factors, including his insistence on making the album ultimately released as “Bobby Womack Goes Country & Western”.

“I wanted to cut a country and western album and UA was sayin,’ ‘Man, you been around Sly too long, you flipped out,’” Womack says. “I said, ‘No, it’s not that man, I just don’t want you tryin’ to keep me in one vein. I wanted to cut a jazz album playin’ nothin’ but my guitar. You didn’t want me to do that. Kept tellin’ me cut another song like ‘Woman’s Gotta Have It.’ I started givin’ ‘em the songs that way, but I never was really happy. So I just broke loose and said, ‘I’m cuttin’ this country and western album, that’s my next release.’”

UA’s response was predictably tepid. “They said, ‘You’re fuckin’ crazy, we’ll never get it played. Country and western’s not even happenin’. ‘Womack continues. “I said, ‘Man, country and western music’s gonna be the biggest music and ya know why? It’s so true. It ain’t no sugar coatin’ it. The lyrics are there, the music’s simplicity. Country and western’s gonna take over.’ So they said, ‘What are you gonna call the album?’” Womack pauses and laughs. “I wanted to call the album Step Aside Charley Pride, Give Another Nigger A Try. The drugs were taking over.”

Womack continues, “They Said, ‘What? Aw fuck no, you’ll never come out with that.’ They kept tellin’ me that and I kept sayin’, ‘There’s room for another one.’ I rented these horses, went out to the stables and said I was goin’ through with it. So they called Columbia and said, ‘Hey, you want this guy?’” So they sold thecontract to Columbia. But when I got to Columbia, they did not know me. And the business was changin’ then. I cut some stuff for them, but they thought I was just a guy who’d flipped out. They wouldn’t take me serious on anything I did.”

In 1976, Columbia attempted to resuscitate Womack’s career by sending him back to Muscle Shoals and experimenting with semi-disco production, but he never felt comfortable. Although he produced several strong cuts - notably his duet with the Temptations’ David Ruffin on “Trust Your Heart” and the sultry soul rap “One More Chance On Love” - he never received Columbia’s trust. “They’d say, ‘Bobby, this guy’s gonna deal with you when you go into the studio. He’s gonna watch the budget and make sure everything’s cool. You can’t have Sly and those guys comin’ around.’ I could see right then, UA’s told ‘em, ‘He’s crazy, he’s just slipped,’ Womack continues. “They’re thinkin’ bring me back, but first they gotta learn what the problem is. There was no problem. The talent was there. Hey, man, trust me enough to go out and bring in the music. Tell me to go out and bring in two albums, I’ll bring in two albums. But you tell me to go out there and sin a song just like the other one, that’s not where I’m at. Once I’ve sung that song, that happened that day and I’m goin’ on with life. I ain’t stayin’ there too long. That music was just unreal. They didn’t understand that, they said, ‘We want hits. Why do you fuckin’ want to do that? Why don’t you fuckin’ want to do this? Man, this is what got you here.’”

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Continued...

Womack’s response is to the point. “I said, ‘What got me here is me, knowing what I wanted to do, not being controlled by a contract. They got a guy sayin’ ‘We need to get more Womack outta there, tell him to rap more on this one.’ Had a black guy said, ‘That’s the only way he can communicate with the audience.’ It got to be no fun anymore. They was sellin’ me around like a piece of meat. They didn’t even see me as a person.”

The commercial failure of the Columbia material and a final ‘70s album, “Roads Of Life” (released on Arista), combined with Womack’s need for a time of serious personal reflection, lead to a period of withdrawal.

“I took off the road, stopped recording, stopped makin’ music and playin’ the guitar for about five years,” he says. “I hate to use the word burned out, but I was burned out cause I was goin’ from company to company and they kept sayin’ ‘you got any more of them hits?’ I said, ‘Man, I’m tired of showin’ these people I got hits.’ When do you stop havin’ to have hits?.”

For the next several years, Womack’s recorded work was limited to providing the lead vocals on Jazz Crusader Wilton Felder’s single “Inherit The Wind” (#35 R&B) Womack would later reunite with Felder on the 1985 album “Secrets” (#91), singing on the number two R&B single “(No Matter How High I Get) I’ll Still Be Lookin’ Up To You.”

Personally and creatively rejuvenated in large part because of a new marriage, Womack made a triumphant return to music with two of the classic ’80s soul albums, “The Poet” and “The Poet II”, the latter of which features a series of brilliant duets between Womack and Patti LaBelle. Both albums were recorded on the Beverly Glen Label, founded by long-time black industry professional Otis Smith. “With ’The Poet’ album I had really resurfaced, mentally, spiritually and everything.” Womack says. “I was happy and I said to Otis Smith, man if you’re ready, I got so much to prove. I got a good wife, I got a family, I love being home with my kids.”

“I’d just done the guest shot with Wilton Felder. Otis was promoting the Crusaders’ record and he said, ’Who is he signed with?’ And they said, ’He ain’t signed with nobody.’ So Otis came in and he said, ’Hey man, the white man been takin’ the money from us long enough. They promised I was gonna be the next president of Motown, then they promised me I was gonna be the next president of NBC. So I got me my own label. Man, you can be part of this. All we gotta do is distribute. You can sell records, I can get out there and promote it.’ And he did.

Despite the success of “The Poet” albums, Womack’s relationship with Smith soured. An extended legal batle over royalties lead to a courtroom showdown during which Womack reportedly attempted to punch Smith. “the Poet II” was released on Motown and a third compilation of material from the Beverly Glen sessions, orginally titled “Someday We’ll All Be Free” after Womack’s stirring cover of Donny Hathaway’s gospel soul anthem, was released without Womack’s consent. Womack comments tersely on his break with Smith.

“He looked at me as a worn out junkie, somebody who had talent but didn’t know who they were. He disrespected me that way.”

Nonetheless, “The Poet” albums include some of Womack’s very best songs: the lovely “So Many Sides Of You;” “Secrets” (#55 R&B); “Where Do We Go From Here?” (#26 R&B); and the heart-breakingly beautiful “Just My Imagination,” which invokes without copying the Temptations’ classic. As consistent as any albums since “Communication” and “Understanding”, “The Poet” albums were highlighted by “Love Has Finally Come At Last,” which features LaBelle, and “If You Think You’re Lonely Now,” both of which reached number three on the R&B charts.

----
Finished...

A repost of something I put up some time ago (Bobby Womack - The Guitarist).

Here's an article from Vintage Guitar (January 2002).
He discusses his guitar playing stlye and his associations with Jimi Hendrix, Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin & Sly Stone.

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Bobby Womack - Playin’ with Soul

By Oscar Jordan


If James Brown is the Godfather of Soul, then Bobby Womack is the Emperor. Gifted with the most enviable voice a male singer could ever want, Womack has the down-home grit of Wilson Pickett and the melodic range of Sam Cooke. He can caress you with a beautiful melody, then scream harder than James Brown.

His career started in gospel in the early ’50s as a member of The Womack Brothers, and he later became the protegé of Sam Cooke, who gave him his first record deal with The Valentinos. He toured the chitlin’ circuit with a young Jimi Hendrix on R&B package tours supporting Jackie Wilson and Sam Cooke. His first R&B hit was “Lookin’ For A Love” (which was later covered by The J. Geils Band), then the Rolling Stones took notice of his writing talents and covered “It’s All Over Now.” In addition, he wrote for Janis Joplin, and eventually, 17 songs for Wilson Pickett.

As an in-demand session guitarist, Womack played sultry rhythms and melodies on albums by Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Joe Tex, King Curtis, Gabor Szabo, George Benson, and Sly and The Family Stone. In 1972, he wrote the score for the film Across 110th Street, which is widely considered a classic in the “blaxploitation” genre.

Womack is a true soul survivor with the wisdom of the ages. He has a catalog of albums and singles that would make even B.B. King sit up straight, and in his latest endeavor, he has returned to gospel with Back To My Roots.

Vintage Guitar: What inspired you to pick up the guitar?
Bobby Womack: To make a little extra money, my father cut hair. One day, a guy came to him with a guitar and said, “Womack, if you give me some free haircuts, I’ll give you this guitar.” I didn’t even know my father could play, and he told my brothers and I to never touch it. I guess he figured we’d tear it up.

Anyway, he’d go to work in the steel mill, so that was my chance. I didn’t even discover that I had it upside down. I was left-handed. I kept learning so much that we would do a thing where we would put the radio on and take turns seeing who could play whatever song came on.

Did someone ever sit down with you and say, “Here’s a C chord, here’s a G chord?”
We stayed a couple of miles from The Majestic Hotel, where groups like the Cadillacs, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, and The Dominoes would stay. Every weekend, I’d go to the hotel and ask the groups where their guitar player was. I’d find out who it was, and go knock on his door – I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, and I had my father’s guitar. I’d ask him to show me a chord, so he’d get his guitar and show me a chord. I’d walk all the way back home with my hand in that position (laughing)! When I got home I’d say to my brothers, “I got something new! Listen to this!” My brother would say, “Aw, man! That’s great!”

What kind of guitar was it, by the way?
A Kalamazoo acoustic. A few years later, a group called The Five Blind Boys came to Cleveland and they didn’t have a guitar player. They had heard about me, and wanted to know if I could play onstage. That was a big thing for me to play onstage with them.

How old were you?
Must’ve been about 13. They asked my father if they could take me to Chicago. Because they were blind, my father felt sorry for them. But those guys were hip – they were as fast as anybody! They said they’d take care of me. Plus, I was the only guy who could see, so I drove the bus. I was their leader.

I stayed with them for two or three weeks until my father had the police looking for me; I was a minor driving around with these guys, and I was in seventh heaven!

I learned so much playing with them, but then they took home.

When did you meet Jimi Hendrix?
In the early ’60s. I was playin’ with Sam Cooke at the time and I was also opening the show with my brothers, The Valentinos. Jimi was playing guitar for a guy named Gorgeous George O’Dell.

George would come out and open the show, and I remember Jimi would always steal the show. Blacks thought he was crazy! They use to call him a beatnick – this is before hippie. They’d say, “Man, this boy is weird.” Especially when he took out the lighter fluid and set his guitar on fire. He only had one guitar! So he’d run backstage, get a big ol’ blanket, and put it out.

So he was doing this way back then?
Yeah! And when you talk about soul concerts, they didn’t understand rock, or nothin’ like that. George would be onstage singing and taking off his shirt, and the women would be screaming – but they’d be screaming for Jimi! I remember George telling him, “Next time you take that guitar and put it in yo’ mouth and start trying to play with your teeth, you gonna be eatin’ it!

Did you ever swap licks with Jimi?
We use to sit in a big room backstage and play between shows. That’s how we became friends. I’d listen to him, but I couldn’t take him seriously because I couldn’t play like that with Sam. Curtis Mayfield would play for the artist – Jimi would overpower the artist. He was a leader, and he heard things in a different way.

A lot of people believe Jimi Hendrix didn’t start setting his guitar on fire until after joining The Experience.
No, no, no! I used to laugh at him because I thought his guitar looked like a piece of barbecue. George eventually gave it to me.

Is it a Silvertone?
I don’t know what it is – there’s no name on it, and he broke the head off. George said, “Jimi busted it up and tried to nail it back together for a gig.” George’s grandmother gave it to him – Jimi used to stay with her. I got it 25 or 30 years ago.

What kind of guitars were you using back then?
I was using the Cadillac of guitars – a big Gibson L-5 hollowbody. And sometimes a Gretsch. They were both perfect for what I did with Sam. Sam would do “You Send Me,” or “Twistin’ The Night Away.”

I was a rhythm guitar player. Eventually, I started getting into Strats and Telecasters. For amps I always used a Fender Twin. My favorite guitar, to this day, is a 65-year-old Guild acoustic.

But when I played with Sam, all you needed was a big, full, clean sound. Jimi used to tell me, “Man, you play some beautiful chords!” I said, “There’s a country western piano player by the name of Floyd Cramer who I got my style from.” Jimi said, “But he’s a piano player!” I said, “Yeah, but imagine me hittin’ the same notes on the guitar, playin’ what you’d hear on a piano. It’s different.”

So when Jimi played rhythm, he used to listen to me and Curtis Mayfield doing these riffs.

Did you honestly like his playing?
To be honest, what he was doing was foreign enough for me to say that he could never have played with James Brown. It wouldn’t work – he’d get fired. Plus, nobody could understand why a guy would love his guitar, then all of a sudden turn around and try to destroy it. He was just different.

You’re left-handed. Do you flip your stings so the low E is at the top?
Jimi would say, “You know, me and you are the only left-handed guitar players. You’re worse than me! Yo’ **** is ****ed up! Look at yo’ strings!” He used to flip his strings over, but I didn’t. I could tell what he was doing on the guitar, but he couldn’t tell what I was doing. I’ve always played this way.

What guitar players influenced your style?
Clif White, who played rhythm for Sam before me. He played rhythm, and I played all the cute stuff – the fills. He use to be with The Mills Brothers, and he could play show tunes inside and out. That cat was awesome!

Anyway, that’s who I wanted to be like, and he later told me that he was jealous of my playing because while he was spending so much time learning and reading the music, he’d see me come up and feel it. I didn’t know what I was playing, but I knew when it felt good and when it sounded good. He said everything he learned that was technical took away from what he could’ve had.

How did you make the leap from Sam Cooke to session work?
Everybody would notice a guy. I was with Sam Cooke, plus playing those songs on the record... and I was left-handed. Those cats would say, “He plays with his strings upside down! He just turns the guitar upside down!” It was like a joke. “All his chords are unorthodox! He made ’em up himself! And... he’s black!” (laughing).

Which songs did they hear that made them say, “I want this guy on my record.”
“Bring It On Home To Me,” “Having A Party,” that kind of stuff. Wilson Pickett called and said, “I want you to play on my album!” So I went to Memphis. He’d say, “Give me an intro.” And that was the thing – coming up with intros or something that would make the song happen.

You played on Aretha Franklin’s “Doctor Feelgood.”
Me and Aretha were real close. She wanted me to play blues... I never could play no blues. I was tryin’. She said, “Bobby, you ain’t feelin’ the blues enough for me.” I was playin’ what I used to play with Sam, but it didn’t work for a blues song. So she brought this white guy in and asked if he could have a shot. I’ll never forget it... he started playin’ the guitar and it freaked me out because I didn’t think no white guy could play no blues. What do they know about the blues? And it was embarrassing because Bernard Purdie and those guys were laughing. They were like, “Damn, Womack! You let that white boy come in here and kick yo’ ass? He come in here and teach you how to play the blues in yo’ own house?”

They was crackin’ up! But he was wearin’ that guitar out. I was shocked. I wasn’t crying, but I was lookin’ at him so hard that water came to my eyes. He said his name was Eric Clapton, and he was with a band called Cream.

Did you end up playing any blues on it?
No. The blues is just not my style. Can you imagine Curtis Mayfield tryin’ to play the blues? His style is just his style. I never liked blues, even when I had the blues. I remember when I use to hear blues when I was a kid. The blues was bad. I wanted to get far away from the blues.

You played some mean blues on “Laughin’ And Clownin’.”
That was the only time! The only time!

I am one of the strongest rhythm guitar players you’ll find anywhere. When I wrote “Breezin’” it was just a rhythm. I wrote the entire song, but it started with just rhythm. It even had lyrics. When George Benson wanted to do that song, and he wanted me on guitar, he said, “I think the magic of it is in your rhythm.” He played the lead part and I played the rhythm.

You also worked on Sly Stone’s “There’s A Riot Goin’ On.”
With Sly it was a whole different vibe. Sly liked the way I played and said, “Bobby, play what you feel.” That was the most fun you could ever have. There was so much going on in his life at the time. And I was going through a divorce with Sam Cooke’s widow, so Sly’s home studio was a nice place to hang my head. Everybody was on marijuana and coke. Sly would stay up all night, and just play, play, play. One time I came in, and he was laying on the piano asleep. I woke him up, and he looked at me, and started singing (in a sleepy voice), “One child grows up to be, somebody that just loves to learn.”

I played wah-wah all over that album, and he ran tape the whole time.

But he taught me a lot about freedom. I also learned I couldn’t mix getting high with making music!

Any advice to guitar players who want to find their own style?
Don’t go to school (laughing). When you go to school, they teach you the correct way. But what’s the correct way for you? Some people hold their guitars differently. You may make up a chord, and a teacher will tell you to play it a certain way. You lose the richness of what you originally came up with. Then you sound like everybody else. The best thing you could do is learn how to read music.

When you write, do you pick a time to work, or do you wait until the feeling hits you?
It’s best to write when the night is still. When it spiritually hits me. I know it’s got to be very frightening for any artist, but sometimes nothing’s there. You feel like all these materialistic things took your talent away – you have nothing to talk about.

I’ve talked about how I’ve been divorced three times... that’s just in and out of love. Hard times, up and downs, losing someone. Then, after awhile it gets to a point where it becomes small. But there’s always something that will hit you hard enough – when you see it through somebody else.

http://www.vintageguitar....asp?ID=162
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tA

Tribal Disorder

http://www.soundclick.com...dID=182431

More than I Can Stand (1970):


[Edited 3/23/09 14:47pm]

Always loved the feel of this tune...



...Lookin' For A Love



tA

Tribal Disorder

http://www.soundclick.com...dID=182431

One of my favorite BW tunes:

Thanks for the info guys. However, one should post a Youtube video of his best song ever: "That's The Way I Feel About 'Cha."

chuckaducci said:

Your wish is granted!

...Woman's Gotta Have It




...Stop On By (covered by Chaka Khan)




...It's All Over Now (cover by The Rolling Stones)



tA

Tribal Disorder

http://www.soundclick.com...dID=182431

I Can Understand It

Timmy84 said:

You just made my day, homie.

This song encapsulates all that is great about Womack: the preaching tidbit in the beginning, the gritty vocals and the measured histrionics, the understated and expert yet singular guitar work...the guy is incredible.

Thanks!

Long overdue and well deserved. He should have been in there a LONG time ago.
My mama's so happy!

chuckaducci said:

You're welcome!

SPYZFAN1 said:

The problem with artists like Womack is the lists of political inductions ahead of him. Someone must have lobbied extra hard to get Womack in before he passed.
But do I believe in fate? His birthplace is Cleveland. So the timing was right as it often is.

I guess there is a lesson we can all learn. Maybe we as listeners should start the lobbying for artists that we want to see be inducted into the hall of fame before they pass. There is probably a huge list of what artists we can come up with. You know I think we just stumbled onto a cool little research project. Can we get artists on the induction list that we love & admire?

Trickology said:

Oh yes we can. I want y'all to add people like Mary Wells and Gene Chandler to the list. These artists made a huge impact to pop music in the sixties but they're ignored for whatever reason. Hell if these people trying to get KISS, Rush and Chicago in, we should do the same for Mary & Gene and probably the Marvelettes and other groups/acts.

Timmy84 said:

I think I know who we have to bring into the equation. Bob Davis at SoulPatrol. Can we give this man props for his dedication for that much research on artists of the past in all of Black Music? The feature that he did on Mandrill? Yo, Bob Davis should have been signed to XM/Sirius years ago. SoulPatrol should literally have a channel on Satellite radio. He would help us on getting the word out of Lobbying the artists we want to see in Hall of Fame.

Timmy84 said:[quote]

Trickology said:

BTW, thanks for the posting of that GoldMine interview. I was looking for that for a long long time. Joe Henry should produce Womack's next record.
Hopefully he will play the guitar and tear the house down. I think he's underrated as a lead guitarist as well. Womack knows how to bend notes like the best of them.

Trickology said:

Yeah it'll be lucky if you can contact him. I saw his blog about how he was upset Billy Griffin and Marv Tarplin of The Miracles were snubbed for Hollywood Walk of Fame stars and had to e-mail him that Billy was there and he got his star.

Trickology said:[quote]

Timmy84 said:

You're welcome. It was a good read.

I just realized Womack hasnt released a studio album in 10 years. (Not counting a Xmas album) His last one was that Subpar "Back to my roots" which had the worst production. I remember when I bought it and put the cd on and my reaction was, "What? Bobby, what the hell is this crap? I cant recommend this to anyone." "Back to my Roots" was worse than "Resurrection"

Womack needs to come up with Rick Rubin or Joe Henry and produce one final epic comeback album. Because that is no way to end a catalog.

Oh yea, one of the coolest albums was that Bobby does C&W

theAudience said:

*****

You played on Aretha Franklin’s “Doctor Feelgood.”
Me and Aretha were real close. She wanted me to play blues... I never could play no blues. I was tryin’. She said, “Bobby, you ain’t feelin’ the blues enough for me.” I was playin’ what I used to play with Sam, but it didn’t work for a blues song. So she brought this white guy in and asked if he could have a shot. I’ll never forget it... he started playin’ the guitar and it freaked me out because I didn’t think no white guy could play no blues. What do they know about the blues? And it was embarrassing because Bernard Purdie and those guys were laughing. They were like, “Damn, Womack! You let that white boy come in here and kick yo’ ass? He come in here and teach you how to play the blues in yo’ own house?”

They was crackin’ up! But he was wearin’ that guitar out. I was shocked. I wasn’t crying, but I was lookin’ at him so hard that water came to my eyes. He said his name was Eric Clapton, and he was with a band called Cream.

BOBBY NEED TO GET HIS FACTS RIGHT OR THE INTERVIEWER...ERIC CLAPTON PLAYED ON "BE AS GOOD TO ME AS I AM TO YOU" FROM THE LADY SOUL ALBUM, NOT ON "DR. FEELGOOD' FROM THE I NEVER LOVED A MAN THE WAY I LOVED YOU ALBUM.
I HATE MISINFORMATION!