Alton Ellis: Rediffusion and Rock Steady on Atlantic Avenue

Posted on by abassford

This is an essay I wrote in 2004 after a rehearsal with Alton and the Kingston Crew, at Courtney Panton’s studio in Brooklyn. I realized that I haven’t posted it before, so I’m doing it now. As we know, Alton has passed and Kingston Crew has been sidelined in favor of New Kingston. But these are other stories for another time. This is Jamaican musical history from the source. Enjoy!

Alton Ellis is a slight, dapper Jamaican man, somewhere in his early sixties, with an oval face, intelligent eyes, and very dark skin. Unless you’re a Jamaican over the age of forty or a diehard reggae fan, you’ve probably never heard of him. He doesn’t cut an overtly dramatic figure, and he’s not someone you would immediately notice on the subway, but Alton Ellis is the original, the stamper from which all reggae singers are cut; Jamaican music’s alpha to its omega of dancehall.

Rehearsal is finished at Kingston Studio on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. It’s about 11:30 P.M. on a Thursday night, it’s wet outside, and Alton has worked the band hard. He and fellow rock steady veterans Ken Boothe and Phyllis Dillon are headlining the Mother’s Day show at Carib-New York, a Jamaican nightclub in New Rochelle and one of the important stops on the reggae circuit outside of Jamaica. Mother’s Day is an important Caribbean holiday, these singers are still very popular among older Jamaicans, and a large turnout is expected.

Although Alton played Central Park last summer for the Jamaica Tourist Board, he doesn’t get to New York much. Like many Jamaican singers who have fought their way out of the indescribable Kingston ghettoes, he now makes his home elsewhere, having lived in England for almost thirty years, and he performs primarily in Europe.

Alton has just returned from Japan, where he is also popular. Although you might expect him to be exhausted after a fifteen hour plane ride, a day doing promotion for the upcoming show on several local reggae radio programs, and a three hour rehearsal, he’s in a mood to talk, and the Kingston Crew, a group I’ve been jamming with this year, are in a mood to listen. These battle-scarred veterans of the New York reggae wars have played with just about everybody; they’re not impressed by celebrity, record deals, or world tours, and their attitude toward most artists is a mixture of polite professionalism and wariness with an undercurrent of urgency. Let’s learn the set fast. Next artist. Time is money; we’re finished; we’re out of here.

But Alton is not just any artist. As Kingston Crew keyboardist Horace James describes him, “Alton is the model for all yard (Jamaican) singers.” His first hit, “Muriel,” which he wrote and recorded in 1959 as part of the duo Alton and Eddie, was also the beginning for the legendary Jamaican record producer Coxsone Dodd, and helped establish his Studio One label. To give some sense of historical perspective, this was three years before both Jamaican independence and the development of ska, commonly considered the beginning of modern Jamaican musical history. Bob Marley was fourteen years old in 1959, Toots Hibbert of the Maytals fifteen or so.

Unlike nearly every other fifties artist, Alton continued his run of hits well into the seventies, and is still writing and recording. But his influence on reggae extends far beyond his remarkable catalog of songs, which have been covered many times by dozens of artists, and “versioned” (used as the blueprints for other reggae tracks) thousands of times more. His classic “Get Ready To Rock Steady” named a whole musical movement, changing the direction of Jamaican music from uptempo ska to the seductive slow burn of rock steady.

Alton’s love of major seventh chords and romantic melodies created the blueprint for lovers’ rock. His voice, soulful, painfully honest, and yearning, proudly Jamaican with little debt to American R&B or gospel styles, was the starting point for hundreds of reggae singers. There are singers with bigger voices and more technique, but no one has ever been more direct or sincere than Alton Ellis. His singing goes straight to the heart.

But perhaps even more than his songs or his vocal style, Alton’s persona shaped the singers who followed him. “Cry Tough”, the title of one of his best songs, captures it in two syllables: the voice of a poor, strong, man whose only valuable earthly possession, and, paradoxically, greatest vulnerability, is the depth of his ability to love. In the brutal world of the ghetto, a man trying to survive with humanity intact clings to the ideal of true love with a death grip. It is the only earthly gift he has to give, a gift limited only by the depths of his soul. Nearly every major male Jamaican singer since—Bob Marley, John Holt, Dennis Brown, Gregory Isaacs, and Freddie McGregor, to name just a few—has absorbed this stance, walking in Alton’s shadow at least part of the way down their own road to artistry.

So when Alton talks, his words carry weight, and even jaded and cynical musicians listen. And he feels like talking tonight. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the relief of a successful rehearsal. Like most reggae artists, Alton does not make enough money to afford his own band, so he has to depend on each show’s promoter to find musicians in the area to play for him, and their competence can vary wildly. When confronted with a weak band, some artists just wince, go through the motions, take the money, and run.

Alton, a bright and sensitive man whose feelings always seem to be pulsing just under his skin, is not very good at doing this. He is particular about how his songs are played, and has very specific ideas for their arrangements. Unlike many singers, Alton is also knowledgeable and articulate enough about music to explain what he wants, and focused enough to insist on getting it. His rehearsals can be long and arduous if the musicians are careless, incompetent, or otherwise not up to his standards. Even good players who know the music have to work hard for him.

But the Kingston Crew are seasoned pros, respect Alton “to the ground,” and have done their homework. Everyone has enjoyed an evening immersed in the classics, and classics they are, properly played and beautifully sung. The set list for the show is nothing but hits, songs that shaped a whole idiom. The rehearsal has been more satisfying than many gigs, it’s still raining outside, and no one is in a hurry to leave.

So Alton, his road manager, the musicians, and a few other people with no obvious function beyond what appears to be an inalienable right to listen, congregate in the front room of Kingston Music to cool out. The space consists of this front area, which opens onto the street, a cramped rehearsal room behind it which doubles as a booth for recording, a small studio control room, and an even tinier office and bathroom way in the back.

During the day, Jah Son, the Kingston Crew’s loyal equipment man and general aide-de-camp, runs a small business selling tapes, CDs, and Rastafarian paraphenalia to passersby during the day, while the recording studio goes full blast behind him, often straight through to the next morning. But now, dimly lit by the lights still burning in the rehearsal room behind us, the posters, display cases, and counters set the stage for Alton and his stories. Somewhat surprisingly for a reggae rehearsal, the air is ganja free. None of the band indulge, and Alton, although a legendary smoker for most of his life, gave up the practice several years ago when he decided it was affecting his voice.

He turns down a proffered spliff and talks about not smoking any more, although he is a Rastafarian. “Me smoke enough fe two lifetimes! Me used to sit down with Bob Marley and Mortimer Planno (Marley’s spiritual mentor), so you know wha gwaan! No man could build a spliff (marijuana cigarette) in a de yard. Pure pipe! Nothing but chalice! Every day de dread dem come from country and drop off ganja fe Planno. Ganja, and Bible reading, and reasoning fe de whole day! Next day, same ting again. But me done with dat now. It was hard fe stop, but me do it. I give thanks every day. I want to last as long as I can in this business. Nuff of us drop out now. Dead, or naa inna it again, or sick.”

One of the band asks him about Japan. “Yes, mon. I very busy now. I just come back from dere. I haf fe give Jah thanks and praise fe de work. Is very few of us left. About fifteen of us. Desmond Dekker, Derrick Morgan, myself, Skatalites, few others. So you find that de likkle work is enough fe go round fe all of us! Give thanks!”

He tells about his tumultuous relationship with Coxsone (“a mudfish”, his road manager mutters) and how Coxsone’s great rival Duke Reid would fire his gun in the studio if he didn’t like how a session was going.

“Me vex wid Duke fe de gun bidness. ‘So Duke, suppose somebody dead?’ me ask him. ‘Wha yu haf fe seh’ bout dat?’ Duke look pon me, smile, and say, ‘Accident.'” Alton remembers when the guns first came to Jamaica through the machinations of the politicians. He remembers the shock of seeing the crates of weapons when they came to Matches Lane in the sixties, and the rude boys’ excitement as they cracked them open, beginning the epidemic of violence which has plagued the country ever since, even spreading with the drug posses throughout the world.

“Gun ting gone on from ever since. Dem wicked politics mon bring dem come, and de guns run dem. Guns run Jamaica now, not politics.” Alton talks about how he sang for so long for so little, before any kind of money was in reggae, before anyone in Jamaica ever suspected the world beyond its 1440 square miles might have any interest in it. Speaking of money, Alton talks about how much the musicians who played on his records—Roland Alphanso, Jackie Jackson, Lloyd Brevett, Aubrey Adams, Carl Malcolm, Lynn Taitt, and the others—contributed to his music, how much it meant to him, and how little money and credit they got.

“Dem man deh get no mention. Nuttin’. Not even dem name pon de jacket. I never get much neither, but I get me picture deh pon de front cover, and I get me name.” He talks about leaving the music business for a while after “Muriel” didn’t make the money he expected, and how his old friend, the late Joe Higgs, inspired him to return.

“Yu stop sing? Alton, me naa stop sing fe nuttin’! Oonu cyaan stop sing!” And then he talks about Rediffusion. He talks about what it was like to be poor, and listening to the Rediffusion from his neighbor’s yard.

“What was Rediffusion?” someone asks. Alton explains: Rediffusion was a radio in a plain wooden box, which could not be bought, only rented, for twelve shillings a month. It had only one station (Rediffusion, of course), and only one knob, which turned the radio on and off and controlled the volume.

“Did you have one?”

Alton laughs. “Twelve shillings was ’nuff money den! Me father could never in life have found twelve shillings a month fe Rediffusion. I used to stay so—” and he arches his whole body and cups an ear to demonstrate. For a moment he is again a teenager in a tenement yard in Kingston, his whole being focused on absorbing the music coming from next door. Alton, like many roots Jamaicans, has real acting skills. You can almost see the zinc fence through which he is listening to the music.

“Was it a big thrill the first time you heard yourself on the radio?” The Kingston Crew is asking Alton questions with unmistakable reverence, as if they were interviewers instead of musicians. This is a part of their history they have never heard. They really want to know.

Alton pauses for a moment before replying, and his answer is surprising.

“Not the biggest. The biggest thrill for me was hearing Higgs and Wilson on the radio, because they had a record before me and they were my friends.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, mon. I never forget the feeling. Never.” He folds his arms, raises his eyes to the ceiling, takes a breath, and speaks as if praying. “I said to myself, a my FRIEND dat. I was so proud. I was so proud that my friend was on the radio and that I knew him.”

The room is silent. All of a sudden I am aware of the sounds of traffic on Atlantic Avenue driving through the rain. It dawns on me what a journey this man has taken. I have lived in Kingston, I have worked in its ghetto studios, I have played on the sessions, been to the dances, performed with the artists and musicians for decades. I have a part in the music’s story myself. But this is the first time I have really understood what limits this man has transcended, the distance he has traveled from the expectations he grew up with.

It seems to strike Alton too. “We come a far way. We come such a far way.” He speaks quietly. “We never dreamed the music would reach so far. None of us. Coxsone, Duke, the Skatalites, meself. None of us imagined. Give thanks again.”

“Was your father proud when he heard you on the radio?” A big smile creases Alton’s face.

“Him? Every morning him out in de yard before him gone a work. Like so.” Alton puts his hands on his hips and turns his head to one side as if listening next door, and for a brief moment he becomes the older Ellis. He looks very different from when he was imitating himself as a youngster. His whole affect changes.

You can see the father’s pride in his son, his vulnerability, his bafflement at the workings of the modern world. After an honest life of hard labor and no expectations beyond payday, church, and Sunday rice and peas, suddenly, with no warning, you hear your son’s voice booming across the yard every day, coming out of a luxury item next door you yourself can’t afford. It is a triumph for the family, the yard, the whole neighborhood. It is an unimaginable success, an undreamed of achievement, a moment of great joy and pride, an unexpected payoff for a lifetime of struggle, but where, pray tell, does it fit in the scheme of things? The world is changing beneath his feet.

Then Alton laughs, snaps out of character, and the vision is gone. “Him dying fe Rediffusion play ‘Muriel’ before him lef a morning. Him never check fe it before, but him love Rediffusion from dem times on.” Now he winds down a little, as if the memory of his father was what he was trying to access. Instruments are packed up; phone numbers are exchanged; and Alton inquires about the time of tomorrow’s rehearsal with Phyllis and Ken. There are three more numbers he thinks he might want to sing. Will the band be able to find time for him?

Yes, of course, Courtney, the bandleader, assures him. If he comes about ten, we will still be there, and the other artists should be finished by then. Alton puts on his dark green and yellow windbreaker, then carefully adjusts his pork pie hat. It suddenly dawns on me that Alton is not just a musical influence. In addition to shaping an idiom, he’s also the guy all the younger ska bands like the Specials and The Mighty Mighty Bosstones are trying to dress like.

His road manager gathers up her notebook and purse and they head down Atlantic Avenue, going toward one more show, one more strange band, and one more night singing the old songs one more time. But he doesn’t look tired or bored; not at all. As he says the music has, indeed, come a far way, and Alton is by no means finished traveling along with it.

Professionalism: Advice To Young Musicians

Posted on by abassford

Now that I am a musician of, shall we say, a certain age, I find that younger musicians and artists ask me for advice fairly regularly. I find this a bit puzzling. Though I’ve been playing music for a very long time, and have been successful at it by my own standards, that hasn’t translated into either money or fame to any significant degree. However, I have learned a few things along the way. These are some principles that have worked for me, and I’m sure they will work for you. A lot of them translate well into other areas of life besides music.

  • If you are working for someone else, be a solution, not a problem. Life is full of problems, try not to add to them. Solutions are what people want.
  • As a working musician, you have three basic assets: your reliability, your ability to get along with people, and your playing ability. In that order. Think about it. If you’re the bandleader, do you want the adequate player who’s there at start time, is polite to everybody, and is happy to be there? Or do you want the genius who shows up half an hour late, gets into an argument with someone at the venue, and acts like he’s doing everybody a favor by playing with them? I live and work in New York City. There are a lot of people who can really play here, and more arrive every day. That doesn’t explain why musician A works and musicians B, C, D, and E don’t, even if they play better than A.
  • If you say you are going to do the gig, do the gig. Don’t cancel at the last minute because someone offers you ten dollars more to be somewhere else. (See #1.) I’ve actually seen people do this. A lot of what people hire you for is reliability. So be reliable. Being a reliable person and a great player is a potent combination. You’ll make up the ten bucks down the road.
  • If you know you are going to absolutely hate the gig, don’t take it! Find some other way to make money. You’ll be happier, and so will everyone else. I recently worked with a world class player who repeatedly made it quite obvious to everyone involved, including the leader, that he was only there for the money. His attitude was so bad that he didn’t even want to stick around to fix his parts at a recording session because he had something of his own happening the next day and was worried about getting enough sleep. I’ll play with this guy again if necessary, though I’d be happy never to see him again. But I will never under any circumstances recommend him. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone else who experienced his behavior feels exactly the same way. Most of your work will come from other musicians. So be someone that people are happy to see on the gig.
  • The vast majority of gigs you will do are not glamorous. (I’ve run into some very well-known musicians in some unlikely situations.) Don’t be dark about it. Deal with it. Find something about your playing that you can work on until it’s over. You can always work on your tone and your time, for example, no matter what the gig is.
  • Excellence is a habit. Every time you play with other people, or in front of people, is a chance to advance your career. Give 100% no matter how lame the situation is. Sooner or later someone will notice your work and the lame situations will start to fall away. Be prepared. Know the material and write yourself charts or notes if necessary. Even when I’m working with artists who don’t read music or send charts (which is most of them), they really like it when they realize I have charts. It sends a message that I care about the gig, which I do. It facilitates rehearsals as well.
  • The great percussionist Larry McDonald is the source of this one: “Communication is the currency of the road.” If you are late, communicate! Unless you are dead or in surgery, there is no reason why you can’t tell the bandleader or client that you are running late. They are going to be upset anyway. Providing either inaccurate or no information about your arrival time isn’t going to make that go away. Be honest about when you will get there. If you give them accurate information in a timely manner, they have options. They can start on time without you. They can call a sub. They can talk to the client and renegotiate the start time. If they have no idea where you are, all they can do is stare at their phone. If you communicate, there is a solution. If you don’t communicate, you make the problem worse.  I see people screw this one up all the time, including a lot of pros who should know better.
  • Don’t play too loud for the room, or the gig. I’ve replaced more than one guitarist who made this mistake. Wouldn’t you rather be working and feeling a bit uncomfortable about your sound than sounding great at home with your amp cranked? I would.
  • Show up with your gear working and your instrument properly intonated and set up. Carry spare strings, batteries, a tuner, cables, a mic, pedals, a music stand, a light, and a backup amp. (In a perfect world I’d carry a backup speaker cab too, but that’s not viable for most things in NYC.) The state of my car trunk is a running joke among people who know me, but when something goes wrong, even for somebody else, I often have a solution in there. If you have a MIDI cable for the keyboardist/bandleader, he’going to remember. I have one, even though I don’t use MIDI for anything. (See #1.) Stuff happens, but try to have an answer ready when it does.
  • We all have opinions about other musicians. Be really careful about where and to whom you express them if they are negative. Word travels fast, and it doesn’t help your career. Don’t blow smoke either. If a compliment is insincere, most people can tell. And don’t spread gossip. The world doesn’t need to know everything you know. When in doubt, lay out!
  • Everyone has an ego, even if you don’t see it. (I have to thank the late B. B. King for this valuable insight.) Behave accordingly.
  • If you have to correct someone’s playing or attitude on the gig, do it as discreetly as possible, ideally one on one during a break. (I’ve worked for people who did the exact opposite, over the microphone, making sure everybody within earshot knew there was a problem. It can be very effective, but it leaves scars and it isn’t necessary.)
  • At some point during your career, someone won’t pay you, or will short you on the money. You have every right to be angry about this. But put a time limit on how long you are going to be angry. Then let it go. Anyone who won’t pay a working person for their labor has much worse problems than you do, whether they know it or not. Why let them live inside your head? Don’t work for them again and focus on the positive things you can do to replace the money you should have made. There are always things you can do to get more work. I know people who are consumed with bitterness over what happened to them in 1966. It doesn’t help.
  • Learn how the music business works. Most musicians aren’t interested in business, including me. I find minor sixth chords, for example, much more interesting than publishing deals. But if you don’t learn where the money is, how it flows, and where your place in the chain is, you’ll get screwed a lot more than necessary. Even if you just play in a band or just play for other people, you are in business and are technically a small business yourself. Be able to find your way around the playing field.
  • Good manners are important. I’m constantly amazed by how far “please” and “thank you” go when applied consistently. There are people out there who think that bad manners convey “attitude,” “street cred,” or “artistic integrity” and are somehow romantic and desirable. Whatever. Admittedly there’s a certain appeal about someone who constantly gets away with being an awful human being and even gets rewarded for it. (See Trump, Donald, or Brown, Chris.) We all have moments when we think that would be fun. But to me there’s nothing sadder than an aging bad boy or bad girl who used to be all that and no longer is. They tend not to work very much either. Folks remember.
  • Develop some sort of financial plan. I dedicate different income streams to different ongoing expenses, including retirement. (I learned this trick from the late Coxsone Dodd, reggae producer extraordinaire.) The vast majority of musicians have little or no money for retirement. So you have to set that up yourself. This is what I do, based on my income sources and expenses. Your plan will probably be different depending on your sources of musical income. Cash payments for gigs go into savings for estimated tax. Cash payments for private lessons and songwriting and publishing royalties go into savings too. These income streams are for retirement, so eventually I take them out of savings and put them into better investments when I get a minute. But in the meantime they are earning interest. Payments to PayPal go to equipment purchase and maintenance. CD and digital music sales go into album promotion. Payments by check (usually the largest sums) go into checking for personal expenses.  If you’re just starting out, it’s a good idea to take a little bit of money out of every musical service you get paid for, no matter how small, and put it in an envelope for retirement. Don’t raid the envelope for anything! Saving for retirement is a habit, just like musical excellence. This seems impossible at times, but when you’re my age you’ll be happy you did something.
  • Declare income, take deductions, and pay taxes. Keep records and save receipts (this is much easier now in the digital world, you can photograph things.) Get an accountant that understands the music business to help you. This will actually save you money; they’ll find things to deduct that wouldn’t occur to you. You’ll get some of it back in Social Security when you retire, too. In the immortal words of Copeland Forbes, legendary reggae manager, “You don’t have to tell the government everything. But you must tell them something.” I tell them everything; I sleep better.
  • Keep up with whatever is going on now in music, especially if you hate it. Don’t get stuck in your era. Admittedly this gets harder as you get older. But it really is good for you, particularly if you do session work. And keep practicing!
  • Have your own project happening, no matter how small, at all times. It could be a band, a recording project, a solo artist project, an experimental jam, whatever. Doing your own thing is good for your mental and emotional health. So consistenly dedicate some time to it. Doing your own thing also helps you learn about the business when you try to get it out there.
  • Be honest in your interpersonal relationships outside of music. I prefer monogamy myself. It’s one less thing for you and your partner to sort out when you get home, particularly if you are touring constantly. But that isn’t for everybody. Some people are fueled by the stimulus, conflict, and excitement of sexual adventure. And there are plenty of opportunities for that in the world of music. If fidelity is not for you, don’t lie to yourself or anybody else and pretend that it is.

The Soul Sisters Six!

Posted on by abassford

Many people have asked me about the Soul Sisters Six, the studio vocal group featured on “The Harder They Strum.” So I thought it was time to devote a post to them.

When I was planning the album, I decided that I wanted a female vocal group to redo the Toots and the Maytals songs from the original recording. The sound I had in mind was a reggae version of one of my favorite groups ever, the amazing Mahotella Queens from South Africa. So I did what I always do when I need advice about vocalists. I called my friend Janice Pendarvis, a NYC session legend who knows everything there is to know about singers. I sent her some Mahotella Queens songs as well as the Toots and the Maytals originals and asked her what was going on and how we could replicate the Mahotella Queens approach in the studio.

Janice said, “It sounds like three part harmonies double or triple tracked.”

I said, “I don’t want to overdub anything. I want to record the singers and the band live in the studio together. What if I hire six singers instead of overdubbing? Will that work?”

Janice answered, “I think it’s a great idea. If you do that, you’ll get the sound you’re looking for.” I was elated. Six is my favorite number, so that made it even more exciting.

So we talked about what singers to call. I had already decided I wanted Kim Miller, Simone Gordon, Magano, and Shae Lawrence in addition to Janice. Janice and Kim have worked together before, so that was a no-brainer. Shae and Magano had worked together as well and sounded great. Janice wasn’t familiar with any of the other singers except Kim, but she was willing to trust my judgement. But we still needed a sixth voice.

I wanted someone that I had a personal connection with and knew could fit in well. But of my top two choices, one lives out of town and the other was MIA at the time of the session. I was stuck. Janice said, “Call Audrey Martells. She has a Caribbean background so she’ll be comfortable with the idiom, she’s great to work with, and she’ll fit in with whoever else is there.” The name was vaguely familiar, but I’d never met Audrey. However, this is why you call Janice Pendarvis: she knows these things. I called Audrey, explained who I was and that Janice had recommended her. Was she available? She was! So the sixth voice was in place.

Janice and I both agreed that a rehearsal was necessary. I had written charts, but I wasn’t sure everybody could read them. So we’d need time to sort that out. Plus, it would take time to decide whose voices sounded best on each part.

Rehearsal was the day before the session. Shae was concerned because she couldn’t find child care for her son Jojo for the weekend. I told her to bring him, that the other ladies would have her back and that he wasn’t going to be in the way. Plus there would be people at the studio while we were recording to keep an eye on him. I’d flown in from a show in Utah the night before and I had a show that night, so time was of the essence.

When rehearsal started, it turned out that some of the ladies read music and some don’t, but I wasn’t worried. I knew that the non-readers would catch on fast, particularly with Janice in charge. I didn’t know who was going to sing what part either, but Kim and Simone are great utility singers that can sing on top, in the middle, or on the bottom. What wasn’t clear yet was what kind of blend or vibe we would get.

We were recording two songs by Toots and the Maytals, a male vocal trio, with female singers…in the same key as the original recording. It’s very common to change keys when your vocal group changes genders, but I was set on sticking to the original key. I was sure the ladies would find a way to make it sound good. Janice had checked my chart beforehand and pronounced it singable. Not all of the SSS are Jamaican, though all of them have done reggae gigs. But Magano is from Clarendon, the same province in Jamaica where Toots was raised, so I had an in-house dialect coach if there was any question about what the lyrics said or how to pronounce them.

What unfolded was magical. I was pretty much a fly on the wall. All I did was play guitar as the ladies worked through the songs and sorted out among themselves who sounded best on what part. Within fifteen minutes it was clear to me that this was going to work. It was incredible to witness the team spirit at work as everybody made suggestions, checked notes, and worked on blending and phrasing. Within an hour they sounded like a group that had been singing together for years.

Jojo was, as I expected he would be, a minor distraction. He’s a music-loving child and he was in the middle of a glorious wash of sound. When he got fussy, someone would pick him up until he calmed down. After a few hours it seemed to both Janice and me that we were ready.

The session next day, at EastSide Studios in Manhattan, was epic. I had Commissioner Gordon (Williams) behind the board. I had an amazing band: Paul Sutton on drums, Derrick Barnett on bass, Mikey Chung on rhythm guitar, Al Street on pick guitar and tenor banjo (on “Sweet And Dandy,” Earl Appleton on organ, Sidney Mills on piano, and Larry McDonald on percussion. The ladies were arranged across the studio from me so I could cue them in and out. The studio people were frantically running around patching in mikes, moving things, and looking worried. Monitors were overloading, plugins were crashing. Gordon was unflappable. While I worked with the musicians and singers, he directed the studio personnel like a general in battle, issuing orders and solving problems while moving faders and setting levels. Afterwards, the studio people confessed that they thought I was out of my mind until they heard the first complete take. We got both songs in one session, completely live. When I heard the playbacks I realized that we’d pulled it off: my dream was now an audio reality.

After the session, I decided that this group needed a feature credit and a name to go with it. So I contacted the ladies to see if they had any suggestions. No one came up with anything I found compelling. Eventually I decided on Soul Sisters Six, as a tribute to the 60s R&B group the Soul Brothers Six and my favorite number. Everybody liked it, though some of them thought we should spell it “Sistas.” But it’s my project, and the proofreader in me couldn’t handle the thought of putting “Sistas” on an album cover. I told them that if they wanted to prounounce it as such, it was fine with me! In my perfect world, the Soul Sisters Six would have their own recording career. I think they are brilliant and hope that we will hear more from them in the future.

So here they are: the Soul Sisters Six!

  • Janice Pendarvis is a permanent A list studio singer, with a list of recording credits that would choke an elephant. I met Janice in Jamaica at Dynamic Studios on a hot summer night in 1981. She had come to Jamaica with Ben Vereen and was standing outside the studio waiting for her turn to sing. I was there for the session after hers. She looked friendly and interesting, so I approached her and introduced myself. We ended up talking for hours about everything under the sun. I didn’t see her again for years. When I moved to New York, we reconnected. Janice is the world’s busiest human but whenever I see her, the conversation resumes until some outside force stops us. I respect Janice as much as anyone I’ve ever met in the business and if I can call her in on a project, I do. In addition to singing, Janice teaches at Berklee and is a union delegate with SAG-AFTRA.
  • Originally from Queens, Kim Miller is one of my best friends. We first met in J. C. Lodge’s backing band, then met again when she was singing with Judy Mowatt. Later she joined my band The Blue People and I discovered what a great person she was as well as a great singer. Then I became godfather to her daughter Kayla. And on it goes! We know way too much about each other, and laugh about it often.
  • Simone Gordon is another one of my best friends. Born in Jamaica, she came to Miami with her mother when she was a year old and grew up there. I ran into her occasionally on different gigs but never really noticed how good she was until she sat in with Derrick Barnett’s band one night. Later we worked in CCB together and bonded over our mutual disinterest in smoking. Simone sings with Talking Dreads and Junior Marvin, has worked with a plethora of Marleys, and does a lot of studio work around NYC. She has a gift for languages (how many reggae singers do you know that speak Russian?) that comes in very handy on tour.
  • A daughter of Clarendon, Jamaica, Andrea (Magano) Sawyers is one of the most interesting people I know, which is saying something. She is a tremendous talent, equally happy fronting the band or singing harmony all night. Magano also has a wonderful sense of fashion and style, and makes and modifies a lot of her own clothes. I work with her regularly in Derrick Barnett’s band and part of the fun of having her on the gig is seeing what she’s going to wear. I’m not very fashionable myself, so I’m fascinated by Magano’s ability to look not only good, but different, night after night. Magano is deeply religious and very involved in her church, but unlike many church people she has no problem performing secular music.
  • Bronx-born of Jamaican parents, Shevon (Shae) Lawrence got her start working with Wayne Smith and does studio work with a variety of reggae and hip hop artists. Shae is the only person I know who can sing reggae and R&B equally convincingly that can also rap and DJ! I met Shae on a Luciano gig; she lived near me in the Bronx at the time and I got drafted into giving her rides to rehearsal. I was impressed by her work ethic as well as her singing, and we’ve been friends ever since. Sometimes I get to babysit her son Jojo!
  • Audrey Martells is the sister I know least about personally. She’s a consummate pro with big ears who can sing just about anything and Audrey is as gracious and charming as she is talented. Her husband, Beldon Bullock, is a world class jazz bassist and her sons are talented dancers and singers. It must be a very interesting household! A few months ago I was going through my cassettes and found one from a recording I’d done for producer and writer Ron Brawer back in the 90s when he was in charge of the music for “Another World.” The cover said: “Lead vocal: Audrey Martells!” So we’d worked together before we worked together! Most mysterious.