The Lost Treasures of R&B. Nelson George
and/or control hip hop. Edge had provided no material insight into Dwayne’s sad death, but the elder had related tales of paranoid government programs and deadly federal directives that lingered in the younger man’s mind and, to some degree, proved prophetic about the plot against hip hop. Today’s talk was not to be about black blood spilled or anti–civil rights espionage, however, but of music lost that D never knew existed.
“I got a call from London about a month ago,” Edge began, his voice grainy as a dusty LP. “It was from a record collector I knew back when I was still an executive. The man would pay me two or three thousand dollars for acetates of records we’d released. It was, of course, against label policy, but dude was one of those passionate British soul music fans—the kind of guy who knew the order number of singles from the ’50s and who played second guitar on records made forty years ago in a Mississippi outhouse. So I hit him off every now and then and he warmed my pocket. I’d lost contact with him when I got downsized by Sony. Figured I’d never hear from him again. Thought he was downloading music from old-school sites in whatever cave he lived in in Liverpool or Leeds or one of them pale towns in England. Then he called me up at the center. Said he wanted my help finding the rarest soul record ever made.”
“And that would that be . . . ?”
“Well, I’d heard tell of it. I’m not sure it really happened, that it really existed,” Edge said. “Seemed like a tall tale told by two niggas in a bar. But niggas don’t always lie.”
“Sounds like a good story coming. If I had some bourbon I’d pour it, my man. But as you see, I’m all packed up including the complimentary booze.”
“You youngsters just don’t have any sense of hospitality,” Edge said, shaking his head. “Anyway, the record is called ‘Country Boy & City Girl.’ That was the A-side. On the B-side was an instrumental jam called ‘Detroit/Memphis.’”
“Who were the artists?”
“Country Boy and City Girl.”
“Country Boy and City Girl?”
“Otis Redding and Diana Ross.”
“What? That’s a crazy combo.”
“Yeah, so the story goes that in the summer of ’66, the Stax/Volt Revue played the Fox Theatre in downtown Detroit. Sam and Dave. Carla Thomas. Booker T. & the MGs. Otis was the headliner. So a lot of the Funk Brothers—”
“The Motown session cats?”
“Yes, James Jamerson, Earl Van Dyke, and all those guys who cut for Motown went to the Fox gig. Now, because the Stax guys were Memphis born and bred, the Detroit cats didn’t know them but had great admiration for their playing. The Detroit cats were mostly jazz trained. Very sophisticated players cause Detroit was a serious jazz town in the ’40s and ’50s. Black folks had jobs up there and supported that good music. The Memphis players, mostly youngsters, weren’t as musically versed as the Detroit guys, but them country niggers and crackers locked into a groove like a motherfucker.
“After the second show of the night, the Funk Brothers and the MGs hung out, cracked open some bottles, and traded stories. I mean the Detroiters were actually a little jealous of the Memphis musicians cause they got to have a band name—the MGs, the Bar-Kays, and what have you—and the Funk Brothers had no publicity, no press pictures, no photos. The only people who knew they were called the Funk Brothers were folks around Motown. Different companies, different dynamics—you know?
“First everyone went over to the Hotel Pontchartrain and hung at the bar there. Some other Detroit people came over. Marvin Gaye, who drummed some, really wanted to meet Al Jackson, the drummer of the MGs. And it was Marvin’s idea that everyone go over to Hitsville on West Grand and jam. Some of the Funk Brothers thought Berry Gordy and the management wouldn’t like that. Besides, that night they were supposed to be cutting tracks for Little Stevie Wonder. But Marvin knew Berry and the other higher-ups were in Hollywood negotiating a deal for a TV special, so the henhouse was unguarded.
“Once Marvin rolled off to Hitsville with Al Jackson and fine-ass Tammi Terrell, a convoy of cars followed them over. Harvey Fuqua was running the session and Stevie, who shouldn’t even have been up, was laying down harmonica when Marvin and Al barged in followed by the MGs and the Funk Brothers.
“Guitars got pulled from cases. A second trap drum was set up. Bourbon and Black Label got poured into paper cups. A local businessman provided reefer. Stevie’s session got hijacked. My British friend says it was Al Jackson and Benny Benjamin on drums, Jamerson on bass, Steve Cropper and a bunch of guys on guitars, Earl Van Dyke on piano, Booker T. on organ, Little Stevie on harp, Marvin, Tammi, and Otis wailing on vocals.”
“Whoa, that’s a damn soul all-star team,” D said.
“Hell yeah, but it gets better. The Supremes had just got in that night from a gig in Philly. Diana Ross had her driver stop by the studio to pick up lyric sheets for a session the next day. So La Ross sees Carla Thomas sipping a can of Coke on the Hitsville steps and chatting with Gladys Knight, so she knew something was up.
“She goes down into the studio and sees this incredible Motown-meets-Memphis scene, and at the center of it she sees Otis, a big, husky country boy. Not necessarily her type, but the man had sex appeal. Between Harvey, Marvin, and Otis, the idea for something like ‘Tramp’ is concocted and, after playing coy for a while, Ross agrees to participate. The combined band bashes it out a couple of times with Otis laughing his way through it and Diana enjoying it too.
“Now, Motown being Motown, somebody calls Berry Gordy out on the coast and drops a dime. Berry doesn’t make them stop the session, but orders the engineer to embargo the tapes. So after the fun is over, the Stax musicians head back to their hotel. They have a show at the Regal in Chicago the next night and need some sleep before hitting the road. But Otis and Cropper, who are savvy about songwriting and publishing, hang around cause they want a copy of the tapes.
“Harvey Fuqua is now in a tough spot. The engineer has told them Berry’s edict and he wants to follow orders. But he feels they should have a copy. So he calls Berry and Berry tells Harvey to put Otis on the phone.”
“Shit,” D said, “that must have been one interesting phone call.”
“Hell yeah. No one really knows what was said. Harvey told people later that Otis laughed a lot and wrote something on a piece of paper. After Otis hung up he pulled Cropper aside, whispered something, and they left.”
“I assume the tapes never surfaced?”
“Somehow ten copies got pressed up on the Soul label—Berry had been smart enough to actually copyright the word soul—so the copies were on that label,” Edge explained. “It was where Berry put out records like Shorty Long’s ‘Function at the Junction’ and shit that didn’t fit the Motown formula. Somebody with a sense of humor up in Detroit put the words Country Boy & City Girl on the label. So there was some conversation about putting the record out, but I guess the lawyers between the two labels couldn’t reach an agreement. Besides, end of the day, I’m sure the Motown people didn’t think it was the right fit for the Queen of Pop.”
“This was 1966? She hadn’t left the Supremes yet, huh?” D said.
“She broke out in 1970.”
“They had big plans for her.”
“Yup. And Otis didn’t have his pop hit until ‘Dock of the Bay’ after he died in a plane crash. So, inside Motown and the world of R&B, that record became a collector’s item, then a footnote, and then a rumor.”
“So you’re looking for a copy?” D asked.
“And now so are you.” Edge reached into his pinstriped suit and pulled out a stack of euros that he handed to D. “That’s the equivalent of $5,000 American dollars.”
“Why me?”
“Cause you know a lot of people and you were close to Dwayne Robinson, who knew the history. He actually mentions