Bobby Charles

Besides Chess with its subsidiaries Checker and Argo, there were many other independent records labels hovering over New Orleans in the 50s just waiting to swoop down and capture any available talent that already wasn’t under contract to another company. Specialty, under the direction of Art Rupe and located at 311 Venice Boulevard (hence their publishing, Venice Music) in Los Angeles had a roster that could boast of Lloyd “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” Price, Little Richard (Penniman), Larry “Short Fat Fannie” Williams (Price’s valet/hairdresser), and Eddie “Guitar Slim” Jones, who was first to score with the monster blues classic, “Things I Used To Do” in 1952. Aladdin records, operated by the Mesner brothers, Edward and Leo, at 4918 Santa Monica Blvd in L.A. struck it rich with steady sellers - “Feel So Good” and “Let The Good Times Roll”- in Shirley (Goodman) & (Leonard) Lee. Then Ace, a Jackson, MS, concern run by Johnny Vincent (Imbragulio) soon established itself in the Crescent City, corralling the likes of Huey “Piano” Smith, Earl King (after his Specialty period), Frankie “Sea Cruise” Ford, Alvin “Red” Tyler, and the young Dr. John as Mac Rebennack. Bobby Robinson’s Fire/Fury venture headquartered in New York at 271 W. 125^th St. but overseen by Marshall Sehorn in the Big Easy discovered much success with Lee “Ya Ya” Dorsey and Bobby “There Is Something on Your Mind” Marchan, former lead singer of the Clowns who backed the aforementioned Huey Smith. And other Big Apple race labels also made some inroads into the New Orleans music scene, like the R&B giant Atlantic with Tommy “Jam Up” Ridgley, Professor Longhair (Roeland Byrd), and later Wilson “Willie Tee” Turbinton and Benny Spellman. Ike Berman’s Apollo, based at 615 Tenth Ave in Manhattan, managed to land pianist Eddie Bo (Bocage) with his hit, “I’m Wise,” in 1956, while Al Silver’s Herald/Ember at 469 W. Broadway later got on this profitable band wagon with famed engineer Cosimo Matassa’s studio tenor - Lee Allen’s instrumental smash, “Walkin’ With Mr. Lee,” in 1957. Even Newark’s Savoy records headed by Herman Lubinsky attempted to get a little piece of the action, but garnered nary a major hit.

Yes, there was a lot of musical genius to go around in New Orleans during this decade and a bevy of contenders for their artistry, but they all were merely pretenders to the throne of Imperial records founded in 1944 by Lewis Chudd, an erstwhile radio executive in Los Angeles. Undeniably, his ace in the hole in New Orleans was ex-Duke Ellington trumpeter, Dave Bartholomew, who ably served him as an A&R man, arranger, producer, talent scout - you name it. Often cruising for performers with promise at the uptown Hideaway Bar or Frank Pania’s Dewdrop Inn, notorious for its after-hours jam sessions, Bartholomew, with more or less a carte blanche from Chudd, brought an incredible array of future stars into Imperial’s fold, including Fats Domino, Smiley “I Hear You Knocking” Lewis (Overton Lemons), the Spiders (with the Carbo brothers, Chick and Chuck), Bobby “I’m Gonna Be A Wheel Someday” Mitchell, Chris “Sick and Tired” Kenner, Archibald (Leon Gross), Billy Tate, James “Sugarboy” Crawford, Jesse Allen, Roy “Let the Four Winds Blow” Brown, Lester Williams, and Ford “Snooks” Eaglin. These were just a few of the feathers in Dave Bartholomew’s hat. And if their tenure was to expire with other logos, Dave Bartholomew was quick to pounce and sign them exclusively to Imperial in order to further explore their possibilities, like the aforementioned Huey Smith, Frankie Ford, and Earl “Trick Bag” King.

If this quasi-monopoly wasn’t enough, Lewis Chudd in the late 50s agreed to a distribution deal with Joe Banashak of Minit records in the Crescent City - Irma Thomas, Ernie “Mother-In-Law” K-Doe, Aaron Neville, Benny “Lipstick Traces” Spellman, and Jessie “Ooh Poo Pah Doo” Hill - a shrewd business move which would further tighten his noose around the Big Easy’s pool of potential.

By the late 50s, Antoine “Fats” Domino, with his cheerful, warm, “non- threatening” Cajun accent, had already recorded a mind-boggling number of chart making smashes for Imperial--“Goin’ Home,” “Going To the River,” “Ain’t It a Shame,” “Blueberry Hill,” “My Blue Heaven,” “I’m Walkin’,” “Whole Lotta Loving,” “Be My Guest,” “I’m Ready,” “Country Boy,” and “I Want To Walk You Home.” And it was true that many of these efforts became certified million-sellers by crossing over to the pop surveys from the R&B, despite the fact that nearly all were “covered” and thus further sanitized by white pop artists on major labels like Pat Boone and Gale Storm. But as the decade drew to its end, it became abundantly clear that both Bartholomew and Domino were running out of novel ideas and more and more relying on the practice of regurgitating pop chestnuts for public consumption. And it was a formula that met with less and less success. So, Bartholomew began hunting in earnest for fresh grist for his former juggernaut of a music mill.

One such writer, a huge fan of Fats’s, who arrived on the scene from Gulfport, MS, and, unsolicited, proffered him new material was the tragic figure of Jimmy Donley, who seemingly could compose a soulful song on the spot and just as easily toss it away, as if he were a bottomless well of musical invention. During this time frame, in the early 60s, Fats recorded several of Donley’s tunes with modest results as singles,

including “What A Price,” “Rockin’ Bicycle,” “Stop the Clock,” “Nothing New (Same Old Thing),” and also included his “Bad Luck and Trouble” and “I’ve Been Calling” on a 1960 LP. After a brief fling with Huey Meaux’s Houston label, Teardrop, this tortured soul committed suicide in March, 1963, never having earned a penny of royalties (nor given writer’s credit) for any of the gems that he penned.

But during what proved to be a transitional era, there was absolutely no writer who gave Fats’s faltering career a shot in the arm like Bobby Charles. And sneaking a great song past Dave Bartholomew was like throwing a fastball past Hank Aaron. Suffice it to say, that both Dave and Fats recognized a winner when they saw one and Bobby, at the tender age of 20, was claimed for Imperial’s stable.

It seemed that, in the hiatus between his leaving Chess in 1957 and joining up with Imperial the very next year, Bobby had an epiphany of sorts as a songwriter. Maybe it was the decline in touring or the solitude that he craved that caused his creative juices to flow. But for whatever the reason, Bobby began composing enduring melodies at a furious pace.

A friend and former schoolmate of his, the aforementioned Warren Storm, renowned studio drummer for J.D. Miller, who would have been a member of his permanent road band had he not had to serve a tour of duty in the Louisiana National Guard, recently described Bobby’s modus operandi for writing during this period. “When I was out with Bobby, I knew that he could come up with a number at any instant. So, I was prepared and brought a portable tape recorder with me so he could sing into it. Otherwise, he might forget everything before we got home. I knew right then and there that they were exceptional and many of these he later passed on to artists in New Orleans,” he said.

Bobby’s debut as a tunesmith for Fats Domino was to say the least auspicious. In January of 1960 a group of New Orleans session musicians, including Dave Bartholomew, Buddy Hagans and Clarence Ford on saxes, Roy Montrell on guitar, Jimmy Davis on bass, and Cornelius Coleman on drums, gathered around Fats to tape “Before I Grow Too Old (Imp. # 5660)” at Cosimo Matassa’s new 3-track facility at 521-525 Gov. Nicholls St. in the French Quarter. Bobby’s own number and its flip, “Tell Me That You Love Me,” climbed to #51 on Billboard’s Hot 100 in May of that same year.

But no one could have been prepared for the outcome of Bobby’s second gift to Fats, “Walking to New Orleans (#5675),” recorded by the same crew in April, 1960, but, at the insistence of Dave Bartholomew, with the addition of strings. Cosimo Matassa, the affable and very patient engineer, remembered the immense hassle it was to recruit the violin section of the New Orleans Symphony and to synchronize their playing with the vocal/instrumental track in less than state-of-the-art surroundings. “It was like mixing oil and water,” he said. But Cosimo, the self proclaimed “king of the razor blade[tape splicer],” as usual, proved masterful in these uncharted waters and the song rocketed to #6 in the nation, yet another gold disk for the Fat Man, remaining on the survey for three months.

Bobby immediately recognized the significance of the event. “By adding strings, I think the song firmly established Fats as a pop figure to be reckoned with and not just an R&B artist. It was a real breakthrough for him,” said Bobby in all modesty in a recent interview.

Fats was still on a roll and Bobby’s next offering did nothing to tarnish Fats’s reputation as a pop icon - “It Keeps Rainin’(#5753)”--which reached #23 in May, 1961. But by that time the word was definitely out and other New Orleans entertainers were clamoring for his skills as composer, mainly Paul Gayten, to pass on to his then-current protégé, Clarence “Frogman” Henry.

The kindly and jovial singer, Clarence “Frogman” Henry (b.March 19, 1937 in Algiers), backed by Paul Gayten’s outfit, burst into national prominence at #30 in December, 1956, with the novelty item, “Ain’t Got No Home,” for the Chess auxiliary, Argo. Replete with falsetto, croaking, and other vocal gymnastics, this feel-good rocker struck a chord with the buying public. Despite two excellent follow-up releases, including “Lonely Tramp” and “I Found a Home,” Clarence could not duplicate the triumph of his initial single and his career by the late 50s was floundering. But his mentor, Gayten, who himself was recording instrumentals for Argo, came to his rescue with yet another Bobby Charles concoction, a song that would put him back into the national spotlight.

“They must have realized that they had something special because they sure rolled out the best people that New Orleans could muster,” said Bobby, referring to the session at Cosimo’s in August of 1960, which included Allen Toussaint on piano, Dalton Rousseaux on trumpet, Big Boy Myles on trombone, Nat Perrilliat on tenor, Roy Montrell and Justin Adams on guitars, Chuck Badie on bass, and Johnny Boudreaux on drums. The end product of this seance was beyond anyone’s dreams, as “But I Do” shot up to #4 by February, 1961, and culminated in another gold record authored by Bobby.

Needless to say, this phenomenon of a record prompted another countrywide tour by Clarence and an appearance on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, then still in Philadelphia. But Bobby’s relationship with the Frogman was far from over. In fact, three of his next four chart makers had a Bobby Charles connection- “Why Can’t You,” the reverse of “Lonely Street (Argo # 5395, #57, August, 1961),” to “On Bended Knees (Argo# 5401, #64, November, 1961),” the b-side to “Later Alligator,” and finally to Clarence’s last Top 100 entry, Bobby’s “A Little Too Much ( Argo #5408, #77, January, 1962).” Ironically, one of Bobby’s best pieces for Frogman (and his last) was “The Jealous Kind (Argo 5426),” which failed to make a substantial impact then, but years later proved prosperous for Englishman, Joe Cocker.

All the while in the period 1958 to 1960, Bobby himself was recording for Imperial (six single releases in all) without much to show, sales-wise. Perhaps, in order to be mutually beneficial, Bobby and Fats had a reciprocal arrangement. It seemed as though both Fats and Dave Bartholomew encouraged Bobby to sing some of Fats’s own numbers, like “Four Winds (# 5691)” and “What a Party ( #5681),” in hopes that he, too, might cross over to a pop audience. Bobby even recorded to no avail his own, haunting “Those Eyes( #5642),” which he would eventually donate to Fats during his last Imperial session before he jumped ship and signed with the major (like Lloyd Price) ABC-Paramount in 1963. But by being neither fish nor fowl, a white man singing R&B, Bobby was clearly out of his element, especially while being promoted as a squeaky clean teen idol, like fellow label mate, Ricky Nelson, the perennial darling (and bread and butter) of Imperial records well into the 60s.

Nevertheless, it was a moot point, as Lew Chudd, seeing the handwriting on the wall - the shifting musical tastes of America toward rock and roll - abruptly sold Imperial to the major pop label Liberty (Bobby Vee, Gene McDaniels, Timi Yuro, Dick & DeeDee, Jan & Dean) in 1962 and, as a result, left everyone in the lurch to fend for themselves, including Bobby Charles. In fact, there was probably no label ever inaugurated that was so ill-equipped to handle R&B than this West Coast company.

His early 60s New Orleans experience left a bad taste in Bobby’s mouth for years to come. Not only was he dismayed by Chudd’s sudden departure but also the fact that there was much tampering with his royalties. Even though Bobby himself wrote all the songs, both Fats’s name and that of Dave Bartholomew’s would invariably find themselves in the writer’s credits beneath the title. Even Gayten’s name was mysteriously slapped on the blockbuster “But I Do.” For all his labors, Bobby was only being rewarded a relative pittance. “They would change a word or two and that was it. I guess I should be grateful that I received anything at all. But people like Dave Bartholomew can be really intimidating at times,” said Bobby.

The only thing left to do after leaving Imperial in the early 60s was to go home and regroup. “I was determined that my next goal would be that I would be in control as far as the label and copyrights were concerned,” said Bobby, who experimented with the Farie and Tide record labels about this time frame, companies so obscure that they are not even listed in the encyclopedic and exhaustive reference tome, The R&B Indies. Bobby himself could not remember much about these short-lived affairs. “I wish I could help you with more of the details but that was a long time ago,” he added. And it was.

But ironically, his third project to this end in 1963 would not involve his own compositions. He christened this new logo Hub-City after the moniker for Lafayette, LA, and borrowed a tune from local Eddie Futch (now C&W luminary, Eddie Raven) called “Big Boys Cry.” Recorded by Carol Rachou at his La Louisianne studio then at 2823 Johnson St in Lafayette, the Swamp Pop ballad certainly seemed viable hit-wise. But the song withered on the vine because Bobby’s new enterprise lacked the necessary connections - advertising, distribution, and airplay to expose it to a wider market.

Bobby, by the mid-60s, and now armed with a slew of originals (some with a decided country flavor, an easy segue from Swamp Pop), thought he had found the answer to this problem of getting his product out to the public in the person of Stan Lewis.

Lewis was a former talent scout and A&R man (he first introduced Lowell “Reconsider Baby” Fulson to the Chess brothers in 1954) who formed Jewel records and two ancillary labels, Paula and Ronn, out of Shreveport, LA. He was to later add Whit, after buying out Lionel Whitfield Productions. Multi-faceted in scope, Lewis dabbled in soul with the Carter Brothers, Bobby Powell, and the Uniques, C&W with Ben Gabus and Joe “Pop A Top” Stampley, and a whole pantheon of blues demigods, including Buster Benton, Ted Taylor, Lowell Fulson, Joe Turner, Charles Brown, Albert Washington, Little Johnny Taylor, George “Wild Child” Butler, Frank Frost, Ray Agee, Eddie Lang, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Big Mac, and Jerry “Boogie” McCain, just to name a few. But Lewis’s major claim to fame came in 1967 when he released Baton Rouge’s John Fred’s (real name Gourrier) pop novelty invention “Judy in Disguise with Glasses” on Paula, which became a world-wide wonder.

Stan Lewis was well aware of Bobby through his Chess affiliation a few years back and Bobby, knowing that Lewis was savvy about the recording business and familiar with all the networks for distribution, approached him about a deal just as Lewis was about to launch Jewel records in 1964. “We agreed that I was to have half of Jewel records in return for my services as singer and songwriter,” said Bobby.

Bobby, indeed, held up his end of the bargain, cranking out tune after tune for Lewis in the mid-60s - “Everybody’s Laughing (Jewel #728),” “I Hope (#729),” “Preacher’s Daughter (#735),” “Worrying over You (Paula #226),” and his biggest seller, “One More Glass of Wine (Jewel # 740).” Although none of these releases was the smash either envisioned, an agreement was an agreement. And after putting Bobby off time after time, Lewis decided that Jewel would be his exclusively and that Bobby would be cut out of the profits. “When I went up to Shreveport to collect what was owed to me, I discovered to my chagrin that the contract had been rewritten and in my naivete, I was manipulated again,” confessed Bobby.

It is not difficult to imagine how such circumstances might transform any man into a bitter paranoid; and if Bobby Charles at this time held out a ray of hope that any record producer would treat him fairly, he would soon encounter, in the person of Albert Grossman, someone who would administer the final coup de grace to that sentiment.

On the lam from a drug possession charge in Nashville and traveling under an alias, Bobby Charles found himself in the unlikely locale of Woodstock, NY, in the summer of 1972. Seeking a hideout/retreat in the mountains, a real estate agent directed him to a potential refuge, whose tenant, well-respected bassist Jim Colegrove, fortuitously happened to be the conduit to all the legendary musicians who also resided there.

As fate would have it, the late Paul Butterfield lived out back with members of

his Better Days outfit, which included guitarists Geoff Muldaur and Amos Garrett. In nearby Saugerties, the Band (Robbie Robertson, Richard Manuel, Garth Hudson, Rick Danko, and Levon Helm) still shared living quarters in the venerable rock and roll shrine, Big Pink.

Things proceeded slowly at first as Bobby was hesitant to reveal his true identity. Gradually though the two men gained each other’s confidence. It was Colegrove who told Bobby of the famous local, Albert Grossman, the former agent of Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan, and Simon and Garfunkel, who parlayed his earnings in this capacity into an ultra-modern recording studio in Bearsville, just two miles down the road. And this record maven now was in the process of seriously recruiting artists to his new label, which bore the name of the town. Soon the list would include Butterfield, Foghat, and Todd Rundgren (also as a member of Runt). Colegrove also volunteered to introduce Bobby to Grossman.

Albert had heard of Bobby and assured him that he would relieve him of all his legal difficulties, as well as shield him from the law, in exchange for a recording contract. “It sounded too good to be true. But in retrospect, I wish that there was something drawn up to have protected me from Grossman,” claimed Bobby.

After having assented to what he considered a generous proposition, Bobby was eager to go into the studio and record his latest batch of compositions, including the achingly reflective “Tennessee Blues” and “Before I Grow Too Old.” And Grossman, recognizing the artistic import of this undertaking, spared no expense to ensure its success. Not only did he use members of both Butterfield’s Better Days and the Band but also hired noted saxophonist David Sanborn and banished Big Easy pianist Dr. John, the latter obviously no stranger to Bobby’s talent as composer. A great album for its day (Bearsville 2104), this eponymous LP was said to express succinctly the collective yearnings of the many disenfranchised youth of that post-Viet Nam era. Us usual, a single was released, “Small Town Talk”/”Save Me Jesus (Bearsville 0010),” which never charted but, overall, the fruits of this recording session were very encouraging.

For a spell, this situation seemed idyllic for Bobby, continually forming relationships with his fellow transplanted peers (for the most part, the Band was Canadian in origin) and also exchanging musical ideas. From all accounts, he became very handy in the Bearsville studio, especially as a back-up singer, and aided both Paul Butterfield in his subsequent Bearsville endeavors, both in 1973: It All Comes Back (BR 2170) and Paul Butterfield’s Better Days (BR 2199) and folkie Eric Von Schmidt with his Living On the Trail project on Poppy in which Bobby was joined on vocals with Rick Danko, Geoff and Maria “Midnight At the Oasis” Muldaur, and Amos Garrett. As testimony to this bond he forged with the other displaced artists in the Bearsville/Woodstock community, Bobby was invited in 1978 to participate in director Martin Scorsese’s( Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, GoodFellas), The Last Waltz, a quasi-documentary of The Band’s swan song, a Thanksgiving Day farewell concert, joining a whole host of rock luminaries - Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell - on stage for the final performance. In addition, Bobby shared a duet with Dr. John, “Down South in New Orleans,” as part of the soundtrack (Warner Bros. #3146) for the same cinematic release.

Perhaps buoyed by the popular acceptance of Bobby’s first album for Bearsville, Albert Grossman gave Bobby the green light in 1975 or so for a second, which featured songwriter (“I’m Your Puppet,” “Cry Like a Baby,” etc.) and Muscle Shoals, AL, stalwart, Spooner Oldham on piano. But, as events transpired, this worthy labor of love was never to see the light of day.

Taking advantage of his role as mediator in Bobby’s still-precarious legal position, Grossman conveniently rearranged the wording in the original contract papers, assuming that his client would acquiesce. “However, in his haste to redraw the document,” recalled Bobby, “Grossman omitted a crucial detail in the option clause.” And Bobby seized the moment to escape the covenant through a loophole. Now eager to get out of Dodge as they say, Bobby remembered vividly his parting words to the record mogul: “I can’t say that it was good doing business with you, so I’ll just say adios, m—f—r!”

Bobby, by that time, a sadder but wiser man, had finally had it with the music industry and returned to Louisiana where he would lie low for many years. But it would be just a matter of time before his musical muse beckoned. But in this instance, when he did reappear, he vowed to do things differently - completely on his own terms. Larry Benicewicz