What's become of soul music? It didn't die with Otis Redding; it didn't stop when Al Green quit; it didn't fade with James Brown's voice--it's been in Los Angeles the entire time, under the astute and faithful stewardship of Solomon Burke. Burke, the King of Rock & Soul, the Bishop, is a big man with an even bigger talent, a revered vocalist whose mastery is unmatched by any other proponent of the style he largely originated. Burke embodies deep soul, with a forty plus year career that's produced a series of records consistently profound in emotional, artistic and spiritual gravity.

Early hits like ""Cry To Me"" and ""Everybody Needs Somebody To Love"" (both covered by the Rolling Stones) are blueprints, soul music essentials, and Otis Redding's choice to re-make Burke's ""Down In The Valley"" points to the man as a powerful influence. As Peter Guralnick noted, Burke has served far too long as ""The King In Exile"" despite a towering reputation among peers and fans alike, and his 2001 induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the singer remains somewhat of a mystifyingly under-appreciated figure. With the release of Don't Give Up On Me, his Fat Possum debut, the widely acknowledged King of Rock & Soul is liable to ascend to a height equal to his glorious 1960s reign at Atlantic Records.

While any exposure to the Burke style guarantees instant and enduring appreciation, the roster of song contributors on this disc are, in and of themselves, a strong testimonial to Burke's implacable spell: Bob Dylan, Brian Wilson, Van Morrison, Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe, Tom Waits, Joe Henry, with key contributions from legendary veteran writers Dan Penn, Mann & Weil, all contributed commercially unreleased original compositions, either specifically custom tailored to, or innately suited for the interpretive genius of this unrivaled singer (In Morrison's case, both songs wound up on his own latest album). Never before has such a cross-section of revered pop talent enthusiastically converged on one album, but there are precious few vocalists on the aerie artistic level of Solomon Burke.

Always put across in an utterly relaxed manner, an ease that veils smoldering intensity, Burke is peerless. Born of secular passion yet informed by his gospel background, just listening to Burke deliver a lyric is mesmerizing. It prompts an almost trancelike state of mind, as if the very tone of voice imparts an electrochemical reaction a psychological transition that once made allows Burke's phrasing and mastery of nuance to envelop and sway you off into a place no other singer can. This transportive quality is born of a rare mix; Burke has led an extraordinary life: born March 21, 1940 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, by age 7 dubbed 'The Wonderboy Preacher', he was a crown and regal robe clad youth sermonizing not just to the congregation attending his family's church, but also to those who tuned in regular broadcasts on WDAS. While still in his teens, he made his first gospel records for East Coast indie Apollo, scoring a million seller with 1954's ""Christmas Presents from Heaven."" In 1960, age 20, he signed with R&B powerhouse Atlantic Records. With fabled record man Jerry Wexler, Burke began crafting a stunning series of classic records. Having raised a flock of 21 children, still active leading his own ministry, he's been summoned by Presidents and Popes, sold over 17 million records, and exhibits no signs whatsoever of slowing. As Wexler has said, ""Burke is the greatest soul singer of them all,"" whose voice is ""an instrument of exquisite sensitivity.""

Don't Give Up On Me was recorded live in the studio over a four day period, with an ensemble anchored by Burke's church organist Brother Rudy Copeland and producer Joe Henry, and features contributions from guests Daniel Lanois and revered gospel outfit The Blind Boys of Alabama. From the opening title track, crafted with the typical genius of Dan Penn (the man responsible for ""Do Right Woman"" and ""Dark End of the Street""), and sung with passionate restraint by Burke, the soul ethic is in full, rich bloom. ""We just went in and did it."" Burke said. ""It was an amazing experience, and one of the first that I've done naturally live since the fifties. With the new technology it's amazing what can be done, but it's also amazing what can't be done, we're goin' back to the roots. It was a pleasure."" On Van Morrison's ""Fast Train"" all Burke's resolute sanctified power is at work, and Tom Waits' ""Diamond In Your Mind"" provides a fine, if unlikely, launching point for Burke's interpretive prowess. Joe Henry's ""Flesh & Blood"" is, as Burke said, ""A great song. He's an exciting young man, a talented gentleman, he has a lot of thought, a lot of vision, and it's very different, very inspirational--he knows exactly what he wants."" The next track, Brian Wilson's ""Soul Searching"" is classic, with a brokenhearted, prowling-the-streets Solomon, working at very the top of his always prodigious form.

Burke's vocals, power undiminished, tempered by decades of performing and recording experience, is nothing less than a force of nature. With a healthy dose of honky-tonk weeper psychology and the clinical reality of his training as a mortician (a business he's still active in), Burke has unique philosophical and physiological insights into the human condition, that infuse the delivery of his songs. This extraordinary mix perfectly suits the nocturnal melancholy of Morrison's ""Only A Dream"" and the agonized finality of Elvis Costello's ""The Judgment,"" (of which Burke said, ""It's like an opera. It takes you back to that time, it takes you back to Europe""). On Bob Dylan's ""Stepchild"" Burke's warm shout and Daniel Lanois' swamp-toned guitar converge for a magnificent case of blues funk atmosphere. The gospel mood of Nick Lowe's reflective lament ""The Other Side of the Coin,"" written specifically for Burke, is a definite highlight. Lowe captures the conflict that a man of God who also happens to be a soul music legend invariably faces, and it's a perfect setup for the near apocalyptic declaration of Mann & Weil's ""None of Us Are Free."" With the Blind Boys of Alabama behind him, this is a heavy duty example of soul music as social conscience, a potent type of message song, equal parts harsh indictment and almost beatific resignation, that's been far too long lacking in pop music (""Ain't that heavy?"" Burke enthused. ""Oh man, that was one I could've done all night, with the Blind Boys on there, just keep on goin' . . ."").

The wistful ""Sit This One Out"" winds down the set with a fine dose of Burke's characteristically dynamic style. From foreboding gloom to jubilant celebration, his phrasing, with the gracefully sculpted melisma of genuine gospel, the gut level impact of raw pain and yearning, his fluid use of intonation, shaping new contours within a single vowel, are so immediately affecting and shot full of artful reality, that it can only be described as a shrewdly crafted mix of day to day experience informed by a wholly metaphysical realm unique to Burke. ""That is really what soul is about: what you put on it, what you make of it, how you spice it up, all the little extras you add to make it work. "" Burke said. ""The entire album was very exciting and it was heartrending to think all these writers, the Bob Dylans, Elvis Costellos, would even think of me. I would characterize these as art, pieces of art, songs that were designed in some way with me in mind, in each one of these writers' minds--all of them are beautiful. I wanted each piece of that art to hang in my own palace. To me, they all belong in a special place. It was remarkable.""


Commentary notes by Joe Henry, Producer

Making a record is like jumping into an ocean: there is inertia already at play. And you may learn to swim with it, gracefully ride its surface on one contraption or another, or it may pull you under; but you are not, by any means, going to control it. You may see yourself as Charlton Heston, raising a mighty staff, but that wave behind you does not recognize you to be anything other than a stone to be tossed and smoothed over. As well, any victory you imagine in these waters will be fleeting, and courtesy of nature's heartless mercy.

When I was invited to produce a new record for Solomon Burke --soul legend, ordained bishop, father of 21, licensed mortician and current Rock and Roll Hall of Fame member-- there was added to this the palpable under-tow of Solomon's long and daunting musical history. And I wondered how we might do something that would prove an extension of that legacy, rather than merely a footnote to it. I needn't have worried. Solomon brought with him not only his own staff, but the roar of his own private ocean. And he made swimmers out of all of us.

We set up camp for four days in the heart of Hollywood, at the old Sunset Sound Factory on the corner of Selma and Cosmo's Alley. The idea was a simple one: to surround Solomon with a small and soulful rhythm section, who would be the ropes and canvas for a prize-fighter of great finesse and surprising reach. I would make myself his corner man, keeping him in fresh towels and free of distraction. Once Solomon and the musicians had taken their places, we would start running down a song --the shape and tone always dictated by Solomon's phrasing and vocal character-- until at last the song stood up like a child's spinning top; a momentary living thing, willfully finding its own path. Sometimes, within the course of three or four takes, a song would radically morph from a swaggering blues into an incandescent meditation, before finally expanding to connect both traditions. It was like watching Louis Armstrong walking a tightrope. In other moments, songs would emerge fully formed almost from the beginning, as if they were being not so much created as discovered --pulled whole, straight out of the earth. My own song ""Flesh and Blood,"" which I had written for Solomon, is an example of that: of Solomon delivering a song from the first take as if there were no other possible way it could be interpreted; and of the band following him like a boat on a dark river. I was standing just three feet away from Solomon as he sang it. It came at the tail end of an intense day, and when I met his gaze several times through the course of this take, I sensed that he was not only digging deep as a gesture to me -- his writer and dutiful foxhole companion-- but that he himself was startled by the riches he came up with.

On the last day of recording, the Blind Boys of Alabama joined us --fresh from their victory at the Grammys the night before. The studio was in a chaos born of exhilaration and exhaustion. The Blind Boys arrived like a visiting baseball team, trailing supporters and admirers. Women from Solomon's church drifted in and out, serving chicken and sweet tea. I ran from room to room, listening as Solomon and The Blind Boys caught up, swapped stories and began honing the song they would sing together. The band listened over headphones from the next room, and (unbeknownst to the singers) started to play along. As a call-to-order and almost in jest (I didn't know who, if anybody, was listening to me), I leaned into Solomon's microphone and counted the beginning of the song, only to have the air sucked out of body, like someone opening the door of a flying airplane. The song lurched into a groove, and Solomon began to sing in a voice that was barely above a whisper. The Blind Boys fell in behind him like someone had dropped the needle on a record left ready and spinning in 1957. Afterward, I don't remember either Solomon or the Blind Boys discussing whether or not this was a ""take."" Everyone simply...departed, leaving the band, the engineer and me to eat what was left of the chicken, and turn off all the lights.

Joe Henry
South Pasadena, CA

None Of Us Are Free

R&B/Soul

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