Post by the Scribe on Dec 27, 2022 8:10:20 GMT
This is an excerpt from an interesting read from:
Patterson Hood
Patterson Hood is a writer, musician, songwriter, and producer living in Portland, Oregon. He is originally from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, and plays in his band Drive-By Truckers as well as being a solo artist.
"On Ajoute Des Choses (no.8)" (2020), by Jason Jägel. Courtesy Gallery 16, San Francisco
ISSUE 111, WINTER 2020
NOVEMBER 10, 2020
I Know a Place
oxfordamerican.org/magazine/issue-111-winter-2020/i-know-a-place
BY PATTERSON HOOD
Growing up Muscle Shoals
I was riding in the backseat of my godmother’s giant Oldsmobile Delta 88 with Sissy, my beloved maternal grandmother, at the wheel and my godmother, Ann Coldiron, in the passenger seat. The radio was on Q107, the 100,000 watt Top 40 station owned by Sam Phillips that blasted my hometown of Florence, Alabama, with all the hits during my childhood (it’s still there, blasting away). The song was “I’ll Take You There,” the No. 1 song in the nation at the time. The song is rightfully adored. Prince covered it many times during his performances. He was not alone. Rolling Stone magazine ranked the song at 281 in their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of all time. It was the nineteenth-biggest-selling song of 1972. That year, I was in second grade.
“I’ll Take You There” sings of a heavenly place where the troubles of its day are swept aside. It’s a simple song structurally. A vamp with the title repeated numerous times over an irresistible groove. A reggae-like bass line (influenced heavily from a song called “Liquidator” by the Harry J Allstars) and a very funky beat. The Staple Singers, a longtime family gospel group who had provided music for rallies and marches for Dr. Martin Luther King, were the vocalists. The song provided them with their first crossover secular No. 1 single. The backing group of musicians consisted of a bunch of Alabama white boys who called themselves the Muscle Shoals Sound Rhythm Section. They later came to be known as the Swampers.
I guess it was Sissy who told me that it was my dad playing bass on that song on the radio. In the car that day, I asked her to turn it up and she did. One minute, fourteen seconds into the song, lead singer Mavis Staples introduces the band during a musical breakdown. Barry Beckett plays a brief but enchanting piano solo as Mavis says, “Barry, Barry, Barry, play your piano now,” followed by a short and tasty guitar solo where she calls out her father, Pops Staples, on lead guitar, even though on that particular recording, the lead guitar was actually played by session guitarist Eddie Hinton (her father would be playing it when they performed live). Then the song seems to transform as the bass player goes up an octave and Mavis calls out, “David. Little David. Easy here, help me now. C’mon Little David. Alright.”
I was eight years old when I realized that Little David was my dad.
My hometown was the kind of deeply conservative place where, upon meeting someone new, often the first question asked was, “What church do you go to?” Most of my classmates had parents significantly older than mine who were culturally of a very different time and place. To all but my very best friends, what my dad did was a secret, best left unsaid.
Not that I knew much about it. I’d occasionally get little hints of who was in town, usually from my mom, but my dad shared few details about his work and the things that were going on at the studio. I can count on my hands the number of days I spent over there during my childhood. There were memorable exceptions. Linda Ronstadt recorded part of her self-titled solo album in Muscle Shoals and ended up coming over to the house one evening. She and my mom hit it off and stayed in touch for many years, including when she was one of the biggest stars in the world. (I came home from sixth grade one afternoon to find Linda sitting in our den, drinking beer with my mom.) When Bob Dylan came to town (the first time) I had a playdate with his son Jesse, who was probably about seven. Another time, my family had dinner with Bob Seger, who recorded many of his biggest hits with my dad and my dad’s partners. Cat Stevens once came by the house to pick up something from my dad.
Patterson Hood
Patterson Hood is a writer, musician, songwriter, and producer living in Portland, Oregon. He is originally from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, and plays in his band Drive-By Truckers as well as being a solo artist.
"On Ajoute Des Choses (no.8)" (2020), by Jason Jägel. Courtesy Gallery 16, San Francisco
ISSUE 111, WINTER 2020
NOVEMBER 10, 2020
I Know a Place
oxfordamerican.org/magazine/issue-111-winter-2020/i-know-a-place
BY PATTERSON HOOD
Growing up Muscle Shoals
I was riding in the backseat of my godmother’s giant Oldsmobile Delta 88 with Sissy, my beloved maternal grandmother, at the wheel and my godmother, Ann Coldiron, in the passenger seat. The radio was on Q107, the 100,000 watt Top 40 station owned by Sam Phillips that blasted my hometown of Florence, Alabama, with all the hits during my childhood (it’s still there, blasting away). The song was “I’ll Take You There,” the No. 1 song in the nation at the time. The song is rightfully adored. Prince covered it many times during his performances. He was not alone. Rolling Stone magazine ranked the song at 281 in their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of all time. It was the nineteenth-biggest-selling song of 1972. That year, I was in second grade.
“I’ll Take You There” sings of a heavenly place where the troubles of its day are swept aside. It’s a simple song structurally. A vamp with the title repeated numerous times over an irresistible groove. A reggae-like bass line (influenced heavily from a song called “Liquidator” by the Harry J Allstars) and a very funky beat. The Staple Singers, a longtime family gospel group who had provided music for rallies and marches for Dr. Martin Luther King, were the vocalists. The song provided them with their first crossover secular No. 1 single. The backing group of musicians consisted of a bunch of Alabama white boys who called themselves the Muscle Shoals Sound Rhythm Section. They later came to be known as the Swampers.
I guess it was Sissy who told me that it was my dad playing bass on that song on the radio. In the car that day, I asked her to turn it up and she did. One minute, fourteen seconds into the song, lead singer Mavis Staples introduces the band during a musical breakdown. Barry Beckett plays a brief but enchanting piano solo as Mavis says, “Barry, Barry, Barry, play your piano now,” followed by a short and tasty guitar solo where she calls out her father, Pops Staples, on lead guitar, even though on that particular recording, the lead guitar was actually played by session guitarist Eddie Hinton (her father would be playing it when they performed live). Then the song seems to transform as the bass player goes up an octave and Mavis calls out, “David. Little David. Easy here, help me now. C’mon Little David. Alright.”
I was eight years old when I realized that Little David was my dad.
My hometown was the kind of deeply conservative place where, upon meeting someone new, often the first question asked was, “What church do you go to?” Most of my classmates had parents significantly older than mine who were culturally of a very different time and place. To all but my very best friends, what my dad did was a secret, best left unsaid.
Not that I knew much about it. I’d occasionally get little hints of who was in town, usually from my mom, but my dad shared few details about his work and the things that were going on at the studio. I can count on my hands the number of days I spent over there during my childhood. There were memorable exceptions. Linda Ronstadt recorded part of her self-titled solo album in Muscle Shoals and ended up coming over to the house one evening. She and my mom hit it off and stayed in touch for many years, including when she was one of the biggest stars in the world. (I came home from sixth grade one afternoon to find Linda sitting in our den, drinking beer with my mom.) When Bob Dylan came to town (the first time) I had a playdate with his son Jesse, who was probably about seven. Another time, my family had dinner with Bob Seger, who recorded many of his biggest hits with my dad and my dad’s partners. Cat Stevens once came by the house to pick up something from my dad.