Dr. Feelgood & The Interns, "Don't Tell Me No Dirty" c/w "Where Did You Go," Columbia 4-43615 (rel. 5/1966)
As Dr. Feelgood, veteran pianist-vocalist Willie Perryman had gotten one of his songs covered by The Beatles. Though he didn't write "Mister Moonlight" (his guitarist, Roy Lee Johnson, did), it was a badge of honor that the world's most popular band paid his music tribute. (Liverpool's Merseybeats recorded it over a year before The Beatles.)
1966 is a significant year in Black music. The last traces of the 1950s style eased out of circulation in the mainstream; they'd continue unabated in the hinterlands. The new style, dubbed soul by many, stressed more expression and less effort to appeal to the pop audience--though, thank to the global success of Motown, it did more than ever.
A rawer approach persisted: rougher vocals, stronger instrumentation and a bigger beat. Every region of Black America had its variation; Chicago, LA, New Orleans, Atlanta...even Nashville, where Dr. Feelgood & The Interns made their final single for Columbia Records under the direction of Don Law and Frank Jones, the label's top country producers. These two men helmed all of the group's sessions, which resulted in eight singles and a superb LP. Most were issued on the company's OKeh imprint; the last few came out on Columbia, newly determined to make its mark on the rock 'n' roll world.
Perryman was an old-school barrel-house pianist and singer with a rollicking style that presaged the soul movement. His was an easy fit into this harder-hitting manner; he didn't have to change much. The harder-edged horns and woodwinds, coupled with a more rigid beat, distinguish this final Columbia single from its predecessors. Otherwise, it's business as usual for The Doctor.
"Don't Tell Me No Dirty" is familiar ground. Co-written with group guitarist Curtis Smith, it's a Stax-sounding put-down of an errant amour. It's a 12-bar blues with some soul trappings in the aggressive chord patterns of the horns. Remove those decorations, ease the beat a tad, and this could be a 1956 recording by Perryman as Piano Red.
Not that you'd want to: those horns inspire a feisty, hoarse-voiced performance by Perryman and give the song a sinister edge not felt in the earlier, more vaudevillian singles of Feelgood & Co. Alas, Columbia didn't promote this single. It was done to honor a contract; they were onto rock with a capital R: serious sober stuff. And though Bob Dylan's music of the era rivaled Perryman's in its woozy sound and imagery, and was no doubt inspired by the older man's work, it was a white man's world. This single got no mention in the music trade magazines. Deejays didn't know it existed. This has proven the hardest to find of the band's three Columbia 45s, which suggests one small promotional and retail pressing and no more.
Perryman wasn't after poetry or meaningful expression; he wanted to entertain a crowd and get them on their feet. I would imagine his live shows were exciting and raw. Some of that electricity gets into these studio performances.
What's great about these two songs is that the verses don't repeat. The creative songwriters bothered to write out a story—sort of a beginning, middle and end. Perryman sure loves what he does and it shows. Thanks for the audio of that interview. He sounded like a very articulate fellow.
ReplyDelete