Lou Johnson, "It Ain't No Use" c/w "This Night," Hilltop 551 (rel. 1/1964)

Lou Johnson’s story was one of the 1960s’ saddest: superb vocalist, great style, given top-flight material and productions on records that got no further than #49 on the mainstream pop charts. (That was for the debut version of “There’s Always Something There to Remind Me,” one of several Burt Bacharach/Hal David songs Johnson was given first crack at performing.)

Johnson would later be hailed as one of the icons of the UK-based Northern Soul movement; his chart flops were audience favorites at Wigan Casino, The Twisted Wheel and other clubs where this fervent scene developed.

There are always Lou Johnsons on the music scene: obvious talent and appeal without the X factor that makes one a star. By now, his records have been revered far longer than they sat unnoticed—the world has caught up to them.

One of his least-acclaimed singles, when new, was issued at the start of 1964—mere days before the first visit to American soil of The Beatles, four young men from a Northern port town whose music, behavior and fashion sense would change the world. As this single began its spin through the play cycle, “I Want to Hold Your Hand” happened and all eyes were on these four harbingers of the future. Johnson was in good company; there’s a teetering stack of five-star records given a one-star response by the fickle public of early 1964.

The crestfallen conclusion—that your best is, all at once, not worth anything—was a massive blow to the hearts (and egos) of many American performers. Some were stunned; others picked up on the new sound and tried to incorporate. Others dug in and insisted their way was superior to these upstarts; this has worked for me for years. Why should I be forced to change? By year’s end, the playing field was more level, which an abundance of American performers in the Top 40. Those who rose to the challenge and were inspired to transcend the norm were rewarded. The old guard got older, colder and embittered. Some quit music and took day jobs.

This is the atmosphere that greeted “It Ain’t No Use,” the strongest song Johnson recorded that wasn’t Bacharach-David material. It came from Bill Giant, Bernie Baum and Florence Kaye (who penned one of last Sunday’s soul songs). Bacharach arranged this moody, powerful song and the blend of sensibilities created a one-shot of bleak magnificence.

The introduction is all Bacharach’s. The melodic intervals of the electric organ are all his; its exotic notes play over elegant chords as acoustic bass and staccato guitar breaks the silence. Johnson’s voice enters this stark nightscape. He plays the brooding lover who knows his beloved is going and has to go. Bacharach’s attachments to this minor-key blues are distinctive: the sudden flush of background vocals, strings and a small symphony orchestra as the song goes to its second theme. (The backup singers are the Sweet Inspirations; Dionne and Dee Dee Warwick and Cissy Houston.)

The drama here has no resolution; the camera back away as Johnson, under a lone spotlight, wrestles with his insecurity and regret. There’s a lot to take in here; it’s impossible to glean it all from one hearing. This, in hindsight, may have caused its failure. Pop hits of 1964 are all on the surface. You hear a song once and you take some or all of it with you. The hooks stick in your head; the chorus nags at you and a line of two remains.

“It Ain’t No Use” is akin to an Impressionist painting. You don’t get it all at once. Your patience and curiosity lead to a longer examination. You get down into its layers and see what doesn’t show until you’re ready to experience it. That’s what this recording—one of 1964’s artistic triumphs—achieves in its two minutes and 45 seconds. It’s worth hearing more than once. Alas, it didn’t get that chance when new.

 

Despite the staggering beauty of "It Ain't No Use," it died at #117; it was misfortune to compete with the fresh onslaught of the first British invaders.

“This Night,” co-written by Johnson and Tony Bruno, an Italian-American music-smith who penned fine r&b/soul material in the 1960s, plays like a show-tune with a touch of gospel. It’s a philosophical item in the mode of “That’s Life” and its familiar, reassuring musical vibe is a comfort after the anguish of “It Ain’t No Use.”

If further proof of Johnson’s ability as a singer’s singer is needed, this side suffices. His lyrics feel personal and add to the song’s after-hours allure.

A must-have item is Kent Soul’s 2010 compilation Incomparable Soul Vocalist (CDKEND 333). Its 25 tracks cover this potent period in Johnson’s career and offer one great song after another. Its booklet gives a solid account of Johnson’s life and work. I’m glad he lived to see its release. He passed on in 2019 at the record-appropriate age of 78.

Tomorrow: Nolan Strong and The Diablos shake things up for Monday. Plus—a new episode of the podcast, at long last!