The artists on the recently released set, The Soul of Designer Records, are true voices in the shadows. They’re the “little people,” in the phrase that Boston record store entrepreneur Skippy White (“Mass. Records: Home of the Blues”) once used to describe the underheralded underclass of ‘60s soul singers. The “little people” who recorded for the Memphis, Tennessee, Designer label, were church singers, locals from the Memphis area or pilgrims from Cincinnati, Detroit or South Carolina, who came to one-time Jerry Lee Lewis guitarist Roland Janes’ Sonic Studio to record a 45 rpm record, something to sell on the weekend programs that they played in churches, auditoriums, wherever they might find a venue for their music.
“New talent needed all the time!” read the opening of a Designer Records ad, and new talent was the thirst for Designer owner Jesse Corbett Graham, who opened shop in 1964, fishing for hits in the rockabilly and country pond. He christened himself J.C. Wooten first, and spontaneously nicknamed himself “Style”….Style Wooten, a jack of all trades who soon, with the help of Roland Janes, found his calling in black gospel music.
Style’s concept was cash and carry. For $469 (or less depending on circumstances), a custom record was pressed, usually 25 or 50 copies, with Janes providing the studio and as often as not most of the musicians. As the ad stated, “We furnish our recording staff…" Once word got out, Sonic Studio became a hotbed of Designer gospel sessions. As Janes is quoted in the liner notes, "See, these gospel guys, man, were doing it for the love of what they were doing. They used to get in their cars – maybe two or three carloads of them, say, from Detroit – and they’d come down south and work down here all Friday night and Saturday and Sunday, they might miss a day’s work, probably two days. They were doing it ‘cause they loved it, man.” As for Style: "He felt that he was performing a service, and he was…He didn’t cheat nobody, he treated everybody right.”
The Soul of Designer Records is four CDs of custom 45s, 101 songs, packaged in a record-album gatefold. Some of the artists, like the Soul Superiors of Detroit or the Shaw Singers, used Designer as a springboard for other records and further career advancement. Most of these artists disappeared back home to the local church, with a box or two of records as a physical document of faith, a moment of glory for the parish to hear.
My favorite moments here come out of unexpected borrowings from radio hits of the day: James Brown, Dyke and the Blazers, Ollie and the Nightingales are each annexed, as are Tyrone Davis (the Foster Brothers crib the unmistakable guitar line from “Can I Change My Mind”) and Little Junior Parker (the Dynamic Hughes Gospel Singers neatly graft the opening guitar notes of “Mystery Train” as the hook for “Beautiful City”). There’s an emotional, uptempo cover of the Staple Singers’ “Why Am I Treated So Bad” by the Spiritual Harmonizers of Senatobia, Mississippi, and even a crude but highly compelling Jimi Hendrix guitar nod by Elgie Brown. The real standout for me, though, is a pair of songs by Joe Townsend, recorded with solo guitar, and, it seems, live in church. Townsend, who must be from Mississippi, with a few changes in words, could very well be taken for an early label mate of Muddy Waters at Aristocrat Records. The guitar is thick, the voice empowered, and the line between gospel and blues blurred.
The Soul of Designer Records is the music of Skippy White’s “little people.” But the power of voice, soul and inspiration, recorded by Roland Janes and given a home by Style Wooten on Designer, is as big as it gets: a heart full of love and a forever shout through the universe.
The first time I heard Eli play, he was doing impassioned versions of Elmore James songs, with wild slide guitar and heartfelt (but very young – he was only 18 or 19) vocals.
The next time I saw him, his playing was just as impassioned, but his singing was of an entirely different order. He explained how it had happened. After serving an apprenticeship in the Chicago church (various Chicago churches), he had come under the influence of Roscoe Robinson.
I had known Roscoe for almost a decade at that point. I had met him when I first started working on my Sam Cooke biography. He and Sam had been fast friends and rivals in competing teen gospel quartets, and Roscoe was as full of pep nearly fifty years later as I imagined he and Sam must have been when they first met. Today, at 85, I don’t think Roscoe has lost a step, and Roscoe and Eli have been performing together off and on for the last five or six years. Well, look, let Eli tell you about it. But don’t miss the incredible performance at the end – Roscoe singing, Eli playing, and the whole world spinning on its axis.
Just remember one thing: ROSCOE ROBINSON BELONGS IN THE ALABAMA MUSIC HALL OF FAME. Vote early and often.
ELI REED:
Roscoe Robinson is sitting on my living room couch in Allston, Massachusetts. He has been there for a few hours and it isn’t getting any more comfortable for me, or for him. The night before, we played our first show together at the club Johnny D’s Uptown, in Somerville, Massachusetts, and it went remarkably well. Now we are supposed to be on our way to Brooklyn for the next show; the only problem, my band is late. Very late. One hour goes by, then two, then three, and the band has still not arrived. I am nervous, and he can tell. Roscoe takes this time, not to be frustrated with me (though it’s clear that he is) but to impart some wisdom on my young mind: “You got to learn to control your people, otherwise they’ll never respect you,” he says, and I try to take it in, but really I just want to get the hell out of there.
The previous day, I had met Roscoe Robinson for the first time. There aren’t too many singers out there who have his sort of pedigree. He’s sung with both sets of Blind Boys (Alabama and Mississippi), recorded for Trumpet, Chess, Wand and Sound Stage Seven just to name a few of the legendary labels, and has been making records for more than SIXTY years. He was the hand-picked successor to Archie Brownlee, perhaps the greatest Gospel shouter in history. He’s a legend in the world of both Gospel and Soul. I was a little nervous.
At the time, I was barely 23 years old, and I fancied myself a Soul singer. I had done my time in some juke joints in Mississippi and some churches in Chicago, but I thought I knew a whole lot more about singing than I actually did. A friend had arranged for me and my band, The True Loves, to back up Roscoe at some shows he had put together, first in Boston and New York and then in Chicago the following week. I decided to build a tour around these shows; we would play the first two shows with Roscoe, then tour our way out to Chicago and meet Roscoe there for the final show. This would be the first time that we would play outside of the northeast.
After thinking long and hard about what music I should play in the car (I settled on the Swanee Quintet), I went to pick up Roscoe at the airport. He was dressed immaculately in a bright blue, double-breasted suit (I learned later on to expect that) and, at 79, he carried his own bag and had no one helping him.
Hearing the Gospel music playing in the car surprised him; he seemed slightly incredulous of me, this young white kid, and how I might know about this music. Roscoe is a keen observer, and he’s certainly not one to show all of his cards right away. It took me a while to realize that he liked me from the start. Later that day he led a rehearsal with my band, carefully correcting everyone’s parts and making sure they did things the way he wanted. He was all business, and because of that, the show went well.
The next day, while we were STILL waiting for the band to arrive, I decided to sit at the piano and sing some Gospel tunes, and that’s when we really started to get along. He laughed and shouted and joined in as I fumbled my way through Alex Bradford and James Cleveland tunes, and after a few minutes, we both forgot about how late the band was and we got the spirit. It was the beginning of a friendship that I cherish to this day.
The show in Brooklyn was great (though the drive was harrowing, with Roscoe critiquing my driving the whole way), and so was the one a few days later in Chicago. Each time we performed with Roscoe, I learned more about how to work a crowd, how to create dynamics within a song and how to build to a climax, only to bring it down to a whisper seconds later. Roscoe’s singing ranged from powerful Gospel fire (“Leave You in the Arms of Another Man”) to smooth R&B crooning (“A Thousand Rivers”) to stomping Soul-for-the-dance-floor (“That’s Enough”), his status as an elder statesmen shining through it all.
I may have learned more, though, just sitting and talking with him in the dressing rooms. We talked about music, of course, but also about how to be a good manager, how to maintain a relationship while on the road, how to keep your voice healthy and how to keep your shoes from getting scuffed in your suitcase (put them inside your socks!)
After we finished that tour, Roscoe and I kept in touch, speaking over the phone regularly and continuing our conversations about music, life, and love. I brought him up to Brooklyn again for our first annual Brooklyn Soul Festival (he killed as usual), and when the band and I were traveling through Birmingham we brought him on stage as a special guest and he brought the house down. The morning after that show he picked me up in his own car (still driving at 83) and took me out to breakfast.
In the summer of 2012, I asked my longtime girlfriend to marry me and, unbelievably, she said yes. One of my first calls was to Roscoe to tell him the good news. He immediately said, “I’m coming!” and I certainly couldn’t refuse him. While planning the wedding, we got the idea to have Roscoe sing a song during the ceremony.
When the big day came in September of 2013, Roscoe arrived, dressed as sharp as ever (upstaging me as usual). The song we chose for him to sing was one he had written during his time with The Blind Boys of Mississippi, “Sending up My Timber.”
photo by Clean Plate Pictures
There’s a dream that I dream Of my heavenly home And I know, that I’m going there some day That’s why I’m sending up my timber, everyday.
The song is about how you need to live a good life to “send up your timber” and build yourself a home in heaven, but my wife and I felt that it could be applied to how to build a successful marriage and a “heavenly” home together.
It meant the world to me that Roscoe, the man who taught me so much, not just about my craft but about how to be a better man, was the one singing those words on the happiest day of my life. After the ceremony was over, Roscoe found my wife and me in a quiet moment and attempted to thank us for having him there, but I stopped him. Before he could thank us, I had to thank him, for everything that he had done for me and for being a part of such a momentous occasion. I am proud to call Roscoe Robinson my mentor and my friend, and I can’t wait for the next time we sing together.
