Candi Staton
< author: g booker > |
Candi Staton His Hands Label: Astralwerks |
What is Soul? Like the term Indie, it means many things to many people, and the proposed definitions and parameters often contradict themselves. Such is the flaw of genrefication, especially when it branches out to non-musical realms such as fashion, culture and society. Terms become weighed down and overused as journalists, opinion makers, and Relative Theory bloggers throw them around as shorthand to evoke something not quantitatively defined.
Soul, like today’s Urban, used to be a euphamism to mean Black, or at least the popular perception of such. It was also applied to non-Black entities who either emulated Black-associated formulas or embodied qualities that were generalized to Black artists. Those qualities are generally linked to the general concept of a “soul” as a non-physical embodiment of a human’s essence, where any music with raw honesty and feeling becomes “Soulful.” Of course, then the term “Soul” becomes a lazy writer’s device to unimpeachably say something is good (“it has Soul”) or not (“it doesn’t”). Generally, as a genre, “Soul” refers to the Black rhythm and blues music of the mid to late twentieth century, and further music in that idiom.
By most of these vague definitions, Candi Staton’s “His Hands” is soulful as fuck. I knew Staton’s name from DJ’s Records and Video, where she had a fat little section of the “Gospel” racks. She also had a few discs in the main section, which looked to be tacky 80s R&B efforts (sound unheard). This wasn’t uncommon, as until recently it was common for Gospel artists to cross over into secular Soul, and unfashionable and/or saved Soul artists to convert, including such luminaries as Sam Cooke, Solomon Burke, Bobby Womack, and Al Green. This extends into the great sex versus god conflict that often makes the most titillating, emotional music, as in the work of Marvin Gaye, Prince or R. Kelly. Is the dawn an orgasm or a conversion? You tell me.
Candi Staton’s return to secular music, after several years in the Christian wilderness/subculture, was helmed by as unlikely a source as Mark Nevers of Lambchop. It joins secular returns such as Burke’s “Don’t Give Up On Me” (curated by Joe Henry and featuring songwriting contributions from Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, and Nick Lowe, among others) and Al Green’s “I Can’t Stop” (a reuinion of Green and producer/solo artist/HI Records mastermind Willie Mitchell) as wonderful new millenium returns to old soul. It also evokes Jack White’s work with Loretta Lynn on “Van Lear Rose.” In the olden days, country and soul, race aside, shared a great deal (though soul had the benefit of rhythm). In any case, despite disparate histories and fan bases, country and soul from the south shared a great deal, not the least a lyrical focus on poverty, pain, sex, and drinking.
Perhaps this explains Nevers’ compulsion to dig up Staton and do a record with her. “His Hands” is unabashedly country inflected when it wants to be. It turns out Staton was a southern soul star with Arethaish potential as far back as the 60s, and this inspiration has been unearthed for this set. Perhaps it is depressing that most of these songs were written for her by white men (she only wrote 3 of the tunes), but I’ll be damned if they don’t write perfectly for her country-tinged delivery. Mr. Palace himself, Will Oldham, actually contributes the best track, the title cut (running the gamut from the pains of domestic violence to the euphoria of true love). Towards the end, the production overextends itself and the tracks feel a bit overblown and generic, but Staton keeps it on track with her amazing voice. The album saves itself by closing with the utterly charming “When Will I?” This is another indication that most Indie players would better serve the world if they spent their time rediscovering, producing, and writing songs for forgotten Soul virtuosos.