by Booker T. Jones
I walked through the door on David Porter’s heels, baritone sax in tow, not quite believing I had stepped into the studio. Before I knew it, I had my horn out and I was standing in the middle of a room of musicians. They played a short excerpt of the song, and asked if I could think of an intro. From out of the bell of my horn came the opening notes of “Cause I Love You,” and the rest of the band picked up the opening bars. Rufus and Carla Thomas, who were even further back in the room behind a baffle with a small window, began to sing.
The tape was rolling, and my career as a session musician had begun—in lieu of a morning algebra class at nearby Booker T. Washington High School. That song, “Cause I Love You,” put Stax on the map, and the place became my home away from home.
Years later, the song “Respect Yourself” galvanized a race of people that had tailspun across America in search of validation. A cry for healing, the song rivaled the “Negro National Anthem” for viability as an African-American theme and as a shove toward more self-esteem. The only place it could have been conceived was Stax Records.
“Respect Yourself” became an anthem on Chicago’s South Side, and every other black ghetto in America, like a ship come to save drowning dark-skinned sailors from self-loathing. It is a proper title for this vessel as well. A work of gargantuan proportions, this tome is a labor of love, just as were the efforts of many of the characters that helped create Stax Records. It is lyrical writing about a lyrical subject from a son of Memphis.
I found the book compelling . . . unable to put it down. Many of the mysteries of the company’s operations were clarified for me, its pages were that revealing. During those years, I often spent more time with Stax’s constituents than I did with my own family. My mother’s growing anger and distaste had always indicated there was something amiss in my alternate family. And, as you will discover, there were plenty of reasons to have situations obscured from a cloudy-headed young musical prodigy like me. When I reached the account of Otis Redding’s plane crash, I realized I had arrived at the belly of the book. Emotion brimming, I wanted to call Robert. Not that I had anything in particular to say, I just wanted to hear his voice. But, it was 10:30 P.M. on the West Coast; it would be after midnight in Memphis. So I didn’t call. But I thought he would understand what I was feeling—the sense of loss for the whole world, and for Stax and for Memphis.
Remembering that Sunday morning at the airport with the MGs, the scene at the bar—no one else really able to relate to what we were going through—and reading this account forty-six years later makes me think what a thin veil time can be, because the weight is just as heavy now . . . especially remembering the Bar-Kays or, as we used to call them, “the kids.” But, the older, wiser Booker knows to be thankful for the time spent with them all, and to minimize regrets as much as possible by thinking of happy times, such as when I played harmonica with “the kids” on “Knucklehead”—or when I laughed with Otis in the hall of a Paris hotel late one night.
I know Respect Yourself will mean much to others who may read it, and I must say it has meant a great deal to me—for more reasons than I can list. So much of my life was given to the events in its pages, and I feel the author has been a careful, conscientious caretaker of the story. As a reader, I was transported back—given another view in many instances—of golden years I shared with a professional family, flourishing, toiling, suffering, and eventually graduating from the School of Stax Records in Memphis. It was a precious time for me that defined my life.
The Stax legend is fortunate to have been entrusted to my friend and fellow Memphian, Robert Gordon.
Enjoy,
Booker T. Jones