by Alan Swyer

The best thing about being part of Ray Charles’ inner circle – other than spending time with the man justly called “The Genius” – was meeting so many people who were, or at one time or another had been, part of his world. Some, like Solomon Burke, Mable John, and Billy Osborne, became dear friends. Others, such as Little Richard, Ike Turner, and Billy Preston, were people who’ve contributed to the American music I appreciated.

The not-so-good side of being around Ray, was that far too many people reached out to me wanting favors. Some requests were from people I knew well. Others came from folks I only knew in passing. And every once in a while there was a cry for help from callers I simply didn’t want to know.

Many of the “asks” were preposterous. A publicist I knew only casually begged for me to help get Ray to perform at something called the DVD Premiere Awards. “Wouldn’t that mean something to Ray?” he asked. “When was the last time,” I responded, “that Ray said, ‘Not tonight, baby. I’d rather watch a DVD?’”

Others folks were simply naive. A guy I barely knew wanted me to hand Ray some tunes written by his aspiring-songwriter French wife, for whom English was a second language.

But the worst call by far came from a record company executive. “Can I ask a favor?” he said.

I was about to say, “Sure,” when something stopped me. Instead I said, “What?”

He asked if I would help him set up a meeting between Ray and a certain English rock star.

“Why?” I had the presence of mind to ask.

“To apologize.”

“For?”

“Y-you don’t know?” he asked nervously.

At my desk, I quickly searched the internet. What I discovered to my dismay was that one night on the road, when the Brit and his band met up with a group led by Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett, he drunkenly referred to Ray as blind and ignorant, which was bad enough, then worse, called him the n-word.

“Forget it,” I stated with no hesitation. “Not happening.”

“C’mon,” pushed the exec. “Aren’t you and I friends?”

“No,” I told him in no uncertain terms. “We’re two guys who only casually know each other. Ray and I are friends.”

 

Just when I was praying no one else would bother me, a call came that I viewed not as a nuisance, but as an opportunity. The promoter of the Chicago Blues Festival introduced himself, then explained that he would like to book Ray as the headliner at his next event.

“So why do you need me?” I wondered.

“Can we speak off the record?” asked Barry Dolins.

“Sure.”

“I’m not crazy about the band he’s using,” he said hesitantly.

“Mainly guys reading music.”

“What can we do to make it special?”

“How about reuniting Ray with guys from the great band who are still active, though not with him?”

“Such as?”

“Hank Crawford on alto. Fathead Newman on tenor. Leroy Cooper on baritone sax. Marcus Belgrave and Phil Guilbeau on trumpet.”

“That’d be amazing! How can I get ’em?”

“I’ll help, but on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Pay ’em real money.”

 

My entry into Ray’s universe began when I was approached to write an in-depth piece about him. Though thrilled, I stated that I had three conditions. First, to tell the truth. Second, serious access to Ray. Third, help in getting to people in his life who were hard to get to.

Despite my fear that I’d blown it, I received a call asking me to meet with Joe Adams, who ran the professional side of Ray’s life. “Why in the world should Ray and I agree to your conditions?” Joe asked once I was led in to see him.

“Because the last thing you or the world needs is one more puff piece.”

Joe winced. “What do you know about me?”

“You played in a high school band with Charles Mingus and Buddy Collette,”

“Until I got tired of lugging a drum kit. And?”

“First Black DJ in LA. First Black DJ with a national broadcast. Made a Broadway debut opposite Lena Horne in a play called ‘Jamaica’ directed by my friend Bobby Lewis.”

“You did your homework.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

Joe studied me for a moment. “Way back when,” he then said, “if a hip couple – actually then the word was hep – had a choice of seeing Ellington or Lunceford, which would they choose?”

“Jimmy Lunceford,” I responded.

“Because?”

“You could dance.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll get back to you.”

Joe brought me back for a second vetting, then requested a third. But instead of yet another interrogation, he led me into Ray’s office, then left us alone.

“Mother Adams says you know your shit,” Ray promptly stated.

“I know some.”

“Back when I was on the road, what were the three acts you never wanted to follow?”

“Guitar Slim,” I ventured.

Ray nodded. “With that 100-foot cord that let him walk through the crowd. And?”

“Joe Tex.”

Another nod of approval. “With those microphone tricks everybody copped. And?”

At a loss, I pondered, then spoke. “A dancing bear.”

Ray sat motionless for a moment, then laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. “We’re gonna get on!” he said happily. “So who are the people you’ll need help with?”

“Stevie.”

Ray nodded. “With those seventy-five motherfuckers around him. And?”

“Your ex-wife.”

Ray sighed. “Right. And?” “Quincy.”

“Q’s not hard.”

“For you. But not for anyone else.”

“I’ll do it.”

 

Only when the band members from once-upon-a-time were on-board did I break the news to Ray, who beamed. “You coming?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“You don’t go, I don’t go.”

“I was just doing it to help.”

“Then help by being there.”

“Okay, on one condition.”

“More conditions? What now?”

“I get a little crew and film you guys backstage.”

 

Then came another call from Barry Dolins. “To make this really special, who should we get as opening act?”

“As a kid,” I answered, “Ray used to cover Nat Cole and Charles Brown. Cole’s gone, but how about Charles?”

“Great idea!”

Two days later, Barry announced that the deal was done. Ray’s excitement grew as the festival neared. Then Barry Dolins called with bad news. “Charles Brown’s in the hospital,” he said. “Who else can we get to open?” Instead of coming up with a wish list, I asked who was still available. Then I picked the third name he mentioned.

“Why Guitar Shorty?” Barry asked.

“He played with Ray when he was a teenager.”

 

Four of us boarded the red-eye for Chicago: Ray and a lady friend, plus Joe Adams and I.

Given a choice of staying either at their hotel, or at the one housing the Raelets and the band, I chose the one that would be far more fun.

After we dropped our bags at both places, we drove to the park, where the old-timers – plus fill-ins from the contemporary band and the Raelets – were waiting for a run-through.

The result was magical. With Ray energized, and the former band members happily reunited, people strolling through the park got to hear the greatest Ray Charles performance in decades. Then midway through the rehearsal, I surprised Ray when a former Raelet, whom I’d flown in without telling him, stepped onto the stage singing.

“Mable John!” shouted Ray, instantly recognizing her voice. “Give the old man a hug!”

Mable happily did as requested, then joined in as the run-through continued.

 

As evening approached, the glow of the morning began to dissipate as old grudges were remembered. When my video crew arrived, I began conducting one-on-one interviews with the musicians I’d helped reassemble, starting with the most amiable. First up was Hank Crawford, who was thoughtful, well-spoken, and pleased to participate. Next, Leroy Cooper, whose warmth and wisdom were commensurate with his size. But as I approached Marcus Belgrave, who started thanking me for making the event happen, suddenly a loud voice was heard shouting, “Whoa!”

All eyes went to David Newman, who was boiling. “Why you letting the white motherfucker make money off us?”

I started to protest, but stopped when an unmistakable voice erupted. “Goddamnit, Fathead!” yelled Ray.

Everyone turned to see an angry Ray emerging from his private room. “That ain’t no white motherfucker!” Ray snarled. “That’s my friend who made this whole thing happen! This ain’t about money. It’s about legacy. So if you ain’t with us, get your ass out of here.”

For several seconds, no one said another word. Then Marcus Belgrave put his arm around me. “So where were we?” he said to me as Fathead Newman was slinking into a corner.

 

Though an occasional request continued to come my way, I deflected them all until a call came from the CEO of Rhino Records. With a deal to reissue the entire Ray Charles catalog in place – and a sizable sum of money having already changed hands – someone at Rhino had pissed off Joe Adams, who proceeded to stonewall.

I was asked to do diplomacy, which proved successful. The Rhino people expressed their thanks by making me a producer on a compilation of Ray Charles love songs. Then they asked me to write a bunch of introductions and liner notes for CDs, including “Ray Charles & Betty Carter” plus “The 50th Anniversary Of Doo-Wop.”

 

Ray and I remained close, with him coming over for dinner each and every September for a double birthday celebration – his and my older son’s – until his health started to fade.

For years thereafter, I was reminded of the Chicago festival not only by calls from Marcus Belgrave and Hank Crawford, but above all from Guitar Shorty. Whenever our paths crossed – including his appearance in my recent documentary called “When Houston Had The Blues” – he always made a point of thanking me for what he called the best gig of his life.