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Introduction

This book is the product of an oral history project begun by Aaron Beam at the beginning of the 1990s. As a music lover and club owner, Beam had made friends with the bands that played his venues, and he became interested in Birmingham’s rock ’n’ roll history as he listened to their stories. Southern musicians are essentially storytellers, and to tell a good story well is to perform. These recollections can cover the rise to fame of a group of musicians, the rags-to-riches stories that are at the heart of rock ’n’ roll mythology, and the corresponding, but no less dramatic, fall from grace. There are creation stories about bands, the writing of a great song, and the early years of a local musician who went on to become famous. Many of these rise-and-fall stories have a moral: the dangers of hubris, the pitfalls of sudden wealth, and the consequences of forgetting one’s friends. Every working musician can be relied on to recount at least one notable adventure of the road, or in a performance in the kind of place one only sees in the movies. The stories often begin: “I remember one night we were playing …” and then, acknowledging a comrade, “He tells it better than I do.” Longtime session man Roger Clark, looking back on forty years in the business, said: “I got a lot of stories. Some of ’em I can’t tell you about … I’d have to leave home … I can tell you a lot of stories, and some of them I wasn’t there.”

Giving interviews to journalists or historians could be taken as merely another performance. I have heard the same stories wonderfully recounted by authors like Peter Guralnick and Robert Gordon in their books duplicated more or less word by word by the same storytellers, at different times and different places. I have also heard the same story told by several different respondents in which the leading role had been appropriated by whoever was telling the story. No matter; these are good stories, and Aaron Beam heard so many of them that he thought it was a shame that no one had ever collected them and written them down. What Beam envisaged was a history of the leading rock bands that played in Birmingham in the 1970s and 1980s based on the recollections of the musicians.

This oral history project was initiated at a significant time in the city’s music scene. The growing popularity of indie, postpunk rock had broken down the barriers of geographic location and business infrastructure that had hindered Alabama musicians’ breakout into the national scene in previous decades. It had also inspired a wave of indie bands, attracting the attention of talent agents and record companies. So at this point in Birmingham’s musical history, optimism was widespread about the possibility of a breakthrough — a national hit on a major label — that would propel a local band into the center of America’s popular music scene and reflect well on their city’s cultural reputation. Several Birmingham bands had just snagged the all-important record contract with a major record company, and several seemed on the cusp of doing so, and this drove local pride and gave hope that a local band would make it big, thus validating both the city and its music, as it had done recently to other cities in the New South, such as Austin and Athens. Aaron Beam and his many friends in the Birmingham music scene agreed that this was the right time to uncover the history of Birmingham’s leading rock bands, make it part of the permanent record of popular music in the South, and give credit where credit was due. It was, in Beam’s words, giving “proper recognition” to a music scene and local musicians.

The first step of this project was to identify these bands. The people who compiled the list of musicians to be interviewed based those decisions on how inspired or impressed they had been by each band’s performances. The oral histories were not intended to provide a complete and unbiased narrative of rock music in Birmingham, nor were they intended as a hagiography of those successful musicians who had left Birmingham for greener pastures; it was more a compendium of everyone’s favorite local bands. Aaron Beam said, “The focus of the book is more about the music scene in Birmingham and the people, and I personally want to have a lot about the people who are still here.” The history gathered was essentially a narrative about who formed these bands, and their performances, recordings, and personnel changes. In this way the project was to be as much taxonomy as history: following the convoluted paths of musicians joining and leaving bands turned out to be a major endeavor, one that took up most of the time of interpreting the transcriptions of the interviews. Interviewing musicians began as a means to identify what bands they had played in and then use this data to build up a picture of where the major bands came from and how they evolved over time. The final product was intended to be a guide, organized by bands and containing their individual histories and vital information. This sort of approach had been pioneered by record collectors who had built up their own histories of their favorite bands based on the recordings they made. There were also books like C. S. Fuqua’s informative Alabama Musicians: Musical Heritage from the Heart of Dixie, which comprises short biographies of musicians listed alphabetically.¹ Aaron Beam’s project aimed at covering bands from more than one genre within rock ’n’ roll (the record collectors histories had been largely confined to 1960s garage bands) and building up a flow chart that chronicled the birth, death, and resurrection of the important bands. At the very beginning of this ambitious project we agreed that it would be impossible to interview everybody, and as the pile of interviews grew larger and larger, we discovered that, as Aaron said, “the universe of what we don’t know is getting smaller.”

Aaron Beam agreed with many of his colleagues and customers that the city of Birmingham had not received its due as a center of southern music. They were all convinced that Birmingham was undervalued as a cultural center in the New South and that there was a need to set the record straight and put Birmingham up there on the pantheon of southern music, perhaps not as high as Memphis, New Orleans, and Nashville, but definitely up there with cities like Atlanta and Chattanooga. Beam’s associates in the music business (who tended to be mobile as well as entrepreneurial) believed that Birmingham had not only produced great musicians but also had a local music scene as good as anything in the New South. Birmingham’s bar bands had cultivated a loyal audience who were convinced that the music they heard every weekend was as authentic and virtuosic southern rock ’n’ roll as one could hear anywhere. There was a consensus that Birmingham’s music scene was on the rise and that it deserved some sort of written record. A better understanding of the musical history of the city would also be useful in the continual comparison of Birmingham with other cities of the New South, a process that covered culture as well as politics, the economy, traffic, food, and lifestyles.

The sense of being overlooked and undervalued fit in perfectly with the overall mind-set of a city with an inferiority complex. Birmingham was only one of the new cities in the New South, but it was known as the “Magic City” because of its rapid growth, and expectations that it would be the greatest city of the New South were always unreasonably high. Its inhabitants were always mindful of the competition to become the leading economic and cultural center of this self-conscious and well-publicized urban movement to modernize the South. Music is only one part of the social makeup of an urban community, but it punches well above its weight in assessing the quality of life and in determining a cultural identity. The lack of a musical identity to compare with some of Birmingham’s neighbors in the New South, or even an acknowledgment that there was a local music scene, struck longtime residents as another injustice — the final straw after fifty years of bad press and unwarranted criticism. Memphis claims rock ’n’ roll, New Orleans sells itself as the birthplace of jazz, Nashville means country music, and even Vicksburg can claim to be the “key” to Mississippi music. But Birmingham has nothing to claim despite the impressive list of great musicians who had once called the town home. The 1990s was a decade of rapid economic growth and raised expectations in Birmingham. The town’s self-esteem was buoyed by the outstanding performance of its new service, health, and communication industries. Its elevation in the media to the status of an attractive, livable city and a “best-kept secret” was the source of immense pride to its inhabitants used to finding themselves at the bottom of every list. Aaron Beam was one of the founders of HealthSouth, one of the fastest-growing and most profitable businesses in the nation, and his outlook reflected a new confidence in the future of a city that had previously failed to live up to every one of its New South promises. Birmingham was moving forward on a wave of local pride and record earnings reports, and expecting even greater things as the millennium approached. A history of rock music in Birmingham would be a timely reminder that the city could provide entertainment that was not as bad as everybody thought, and that this was something to be proud of in a community reasserting itself into the cultural life of the South.

The entrepreneurs who founded the city had great ambitions for culture as well as the production of iron. They wanted to give the new city the veneer of high culture, and chose to import “classical” symphonic music as the means to accomplish this goal. The people who started this oral history project also chose the classics to demonstrate the cultural accomplishments of their community, but in this case it was classic rock, southern rock, and all its offshoots into country rock, folk rock, art rock, and so on. I think it was Duke Ellington who said that there were only two sorts of music: the good music and all the other music. The definition of “good,” however, is highly subjective. By the 1980s the term “classic rock” was considered pejorative in some quarters, but positive in others. The young musicians of the New Wave had criticized the aesthetic and pretensions of 1970s rock ’n’ roll much more effectively than any parent or minister had done in the 1950s. In turn professional musicians with a decade or two of experience on the road laughed at the amateurism and pretensions of the New Wave. The direction the oral history took depended on who was asked, and this in turn reflected the musical knowledge and tastes of the people arranging the interviews. Even a small city like Birmingham produces too many musicians to include everyone in an oral history, so there was never any intention, or commitment, to provide an inclusive and complete history, although this was the standard often expected of it.

“Birmingham: Greatest City in Alabama / You can go across this entire land, but there ain’t no place like Birmingham.”

When I joined the project in the mid-1990s, it had stalled in its efforts to create a taxonomy of popular rock bands because there was far too much information to be easily digested and too many discrepancies in the information gathered in the interviews. The context of the project was always the baby-boomers’ understanding of what popular music was and what it stood for — the 1960s idea that music meant much more than entertainment and that loyalty to one band was a virtue for both musicians and their audience. In the 1960s you stayed with a band for life, but thirty years later one chopped and changed between different bands, and there were so many highly mobile musicians, and so many bands, that it was virtually impossible to keep track of them. There were so many different versions of who was in the band, what instrument they played, when they played, who they replaced, and even how to spell their names. I fear that the last issue will never be satisfactorily solved because it is difficult to read people’s handwriting, even when it is in capital letters. I want to apologize in advance to everyone whose names we misspelled and whose true role in the band was overlooked. I want to thank my friends in the Birmingham Record Collectors club, especially Johnny Powell and Charlie Bailey, for all the help they gave me in uncovering the history of sixties bands and locating the surviving musicians. The flow chart of the formation and progress of rock bands that the pioneers of this project had envisaged grew so large and complex that it had to be discarded.

A native of Louisiana, Beam knew little of Birmingham’s troubled past as America’s most segregated city and brought with him no local pride or loyalties. He was interested in southern music and not the New South. What he learned about Birmingham’s history came from the stories about the good/bad old days he heard from members of bands, and most of all, from the music they played, which was largely unapologetic about the city’s racial politics. Like my friend Aaron, I am an outsider in Alabama and an alien onlooker with no personal investment in interpreting its history. As a professional historian I came to this project well aware of the city’s racial past and the global impact of the fight against segregation. What I saw in the growing number of interviews of musicians was a means to examine the history of the city through its music. Birmingham is a creation of the New South and a splendid example of a New South city, not only in its first incarnation, but also in its postsegregation experience. Birmingham was coming under the influence of urbanization (even gentrification), increased Latino immigration, reverse immigration from African American communities in the North, a new demographic that included a more educated workforce, and the challenging of the politics and social norms, which were often as much Old South as New South. A musical history of the city of Birmingham might be able to supplement and even inform the many political and social interpretations of its history. What I envisaged as the final product of this project was a scholarly book based on these interviews that would provide a narrative of the city’s musical culture. As this covered over a hundred years, it would have to be an overview rather than a detailed account, but it could act as a foundation for further investigation.

I therefore successfully lobbied to broaden the outlook of the project to include more musicians, more sorts of music and more of the history of the city. The project was enlarged to cover a much longer time period (as far back as anyone living in Birmingham in the 1990s could remember), a much broader definition of what counted as rock ’n’ roll, and as many other musical genres as could be practically investigated. I knew that Birmingham had a widely acclaimed jazz heritage, and when I thought about the city’s music, it was Erskine Hawkins’s “Tuxedo Junction” rather than Randy Newman’s “Birmingham” or Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” that immediately came to mind. I was also aware that many of Birmingham’s jazz greats were coming to the end of their lives and thus there was no time to waste in getting their stories down on paper. In the first few years of my management of the project, Birmingham lost the Lowe brothers, Sammy and J. L., who had played a significant role in creating Birmingham’s jazz heritage and were active in keeping it alive.

As someone whose musical education began in London in the 1960s, I came to Birmingham with a grounding in the history of the blues (more than a lot of native Alabamians, both black and white) and a belief in the blues myth of racial purity and expression. My generation was profoundly touched by the blues and probably bought into the myths of the blues more than any other group of affluent Europeans. What better place to learn about it than a major urban center in the Deep South with a historically large African American population? Before coming to the city, I had never heard or read about a blues player from Birmingham, but it seemed to me that a city usually ignored in the history of the blues ought to have some “real” blues music in its past. My own journey of exploration in this project was to go fearlessly and naively into the uncharted waters of African American culture and get to the heart of what I believed was the southernness in southern music.

The first problem was that there were hardly any blues players from the golden age of the 1920s and 1940s still alive in Alabama and ready to talk. Much of the blues history I heard had been passed down from enthusiastic, middle-class whites who recounted the stories told to them years before by bluesmen, or friends of bluesmen. The history I was hearing was secondhand, and probably fashioned to suit white sensibilities and molded by the blues myth. The Alabama native Johnny Shines had been a friend of the legendary Robert Johnson and was full of interesting stories about the great man and their life on the road. I pounced on these stories, but I could not help wondering, as I heard them told and retold, how much they represented the reality of bluesmen versus their mythical life as enshrined in their songs. During the 1990s a blues joint in an industrial suburb of Birmingham called Gip’s Place emerged into public consciousness (Henry Gipson opened his place back in 1952, he says), and quickly lost its best-kept-secret status to become extremely popular. Gip’s Place soon made the national media, the AAA’s Alabama Journey magazine, and the Travel Channel. This was the so-called authentic blues in my own backyard. The music came to me not on vinyl or MP3 but in video clips sent to me via cell phones by my friends and students. It sounded very good, but it made me wonder if the music I heard was an authentic voice of the African American past in Alabama or an entertainment directed to a white audience of college kids, tourists, and hipsters that had to conform to their expectations, and the widely held stereotypes of the blues and its players. Gip’s Place now has its own Facebook page and sells a line of merchandise. Was Gip’s the real thing, or was it another commodification of a music already heavily commodified in television commercials and in franchised blues clubs like the House of Blues?

Birmingham had its own black business and entertainment district during segregation, places deemed sites of authentic black cultural production, just like Memphis, Atlanta, New Orleans, and Chattanooga. In her engaging history of Bessie Smith, the “Blues Empress” of black Chattanooga, Michelle Scott describes how the process of rural to urban migration (Bessie Smith’s family came from Alabama), industrialization, and the creation of a black working class provided the context for the rise of a blues culture and the creation of African American entertainment stars. Chattanooga worked just like Birmingham in supporting a segregated entertainment in a clearly delineated district that offered street performers, tent shows, music halls, bars, and rent parties in private residences in addition to retail and hospitality businesses. Along with historians Robin Kelley and Tera Hunter, Scott argues that black recreational spaces served as alternative sites of networking, economic enhancement, and protest. They allowed African Americans to enjoy themselves, be themselves, and “share their true feelings about economic hardships, relationships, and racism in a social space away from the gaze of an oppressive white population.”² Music was an important part of what Lawrence Levine called the “necessary space” that had existed between the slaves and their owners in the antebellum South. He described how the “sacred world of the black slave” — their religion, folklore beliefs, and music — prevented legal slavery from becoming spiritual slavery. When this “necessary space” shifted to urban centers like Chattanooga or Birmingham and came under the same economic forces as the rest of the country, blues culture moved beyond self-definition and personal liberation to economic opportunity. It was, in Grace Elizabeth Hale’s words, “a dangerous dialectic,” one in which “slaves constructed masks of simplemindedness and sycophancy, loyalty and laziness to play to their owners’ fantasies while securing very material benefits.”³ The white-run entertainment business provided these material benefits as it mediated the space between the races, which depended on serving both black and white customers. That is why the first accounts of African American music in Birmingham come from white observers.

The blues figures large in the identity of black southerners. In her study of race, class, and regional identity in the postsegregated South, Zandria Robinson points to the centrality of this musical culture in defining what black is (“and what black ain’t”) in the South. She describes African Americans’ collective search for ancestral American history in which the South “stands in for a cognitively and geographically distant African homeland. Blues, soul, and gospel are the soundtrack.” Blackness, she argues, can be found in these “originary soundscapes.”⁴ In many ways this assessment of the power of blues music to create identity and encapsulate history is not much different from white blues enthusiasts who buy the commercial products of blues culture. Bessie Smith became the Empress of the Blues through the popularity of her recordings in white America, and by the 1920s the blues covered a very wide range of music. The bandleader Paul Whiteman competed with Bessie Smith as representing blues royalty, but his palm-court hotel music is as embarrassingly white as Bessie Smith’s music is excitingly black. There was no firm correlation at this time between racialized music and racialized bodies. Karl Hagstrom Miller describes a music industry at the turn of the century in which black and white performers “regularly employed racialized sounds,” but by the end of the 1920s listeners expected musicians to embody them, allowing African Americans to challenge the minstrelsy conventions that supported blackface.⁵

The story of Bessie Smith shows that the rise of the blues as a popular music provided opportunities for entrepreneurship, especially when it was co-opted by the white music business and popularized for broader consumption outside the segregated districts of the New South. Several students of Birmingham’s great music teacher, Fess Whatley, played in Smith’s band and got a chance to tour the country and make some good money. Bessie Smith played a large part in taking the blues out of its birthplace in the backstreets and byways of the black South into the mainstream entertainment of the industrialized West. She certainly benefited from it — her stage shows articulated the wealth and luxuries that fame brought her just like the current stars of hip-hop flaunt their wealth in their music and performances. I am certainly not arguing that these economic transactions between whites and blacks were fair and reasonable, but even the most criminal exploitation of blues musicians provided some small inducement to continue playing the system. Robert Toll, in his groundbreaking study of minstrelsy, stressed the mobility and opportunities of advancement to be found in blackface. However meager the returns of playing for the white man, they were preferable to the other outlets for employment and entrepreneurship. When Bessie Smith was making a career in regional vaudeville and appearing in the blacks-only theaters in Bessemer and Birmingham, she went back to working as a laundress in Birmingham during the times she was not on the music hall circuit.⁶

From the meager number of interviews with elderly African American musicians in Birmingham, and from a study of the literature and discographies, a pattern of entrepreneurship and opportunity emerged in Birmingham in which African American music during segregation was essentially a commercial endeavor played by professional musicians. In this conclusion I am on exactly the same page as Karl Hagstrom Miller. In his book Segregating Sound, he shows how southern music was compartmentalized first by the record companies and music business according to race, and then these divisions were reinforced by academics and listeners. This “logic of segregation” has become commonly accepted, but as he convincingly argues, this compartmentalization failed to reflect the music actually being played. Karl Hagstrom Miller starts his book with a quote about Robert Johnson from his traveling companion Johnny Shines: “He did anything he heard over the radio. Anything that he heard … It didn’t make him no difference what it was. If he liked it he did it.” Miller argues that the blues and country music sold as products of “modern primitives” in fact emerged from long engagement with pop and commercial music. He discovered that “the very idea of southern musical distinctiveness” came not from southern musicians playing in the South, but from the touring shows of vaudeville and minstrelsy and from southern migrants who moved to the North and Northeast.⁷

If we define blues music as a commercial endeavor that drew on a wide variety of sources and was successfully engaged with the music business, then its links to authenticity and black identity come into question. That it provided entrepreneurial opportunities for African Americans colors the content and tone of the memories of Birmingham’s black musicians. The first blues players who hustled from street corners in downtown Birmingham were content to play whatever their audience wanted. Birmingham’s first jazz musicians, schooled by the legendary Fess Whatley, played “society jobs” as often as they jammed for friends and neighbors — the former gigs were preferred because they paid better. Seeing their music as a profession, as their job, meant that African American musicians in all genres of the blues — from street corners to concert halls — had a particular take on segregation that did not dwell on its evils but rather on the opportunities it provided. It wasn’t that they ignored the racial injustices and violence going on around them; rather, they did not think it was worth it to stop carrying out their profession to confront these evils — they just kept on playing. As J. L. Lowe concluded about decades of performing big band jazz in the segregated South: “We did what we were supposed to do: we played.” Matters of blackness and whiteness took a back seat to considerations of green dollars; helping to define black identity and providing a record of racial injustice were all very well for subsequent generations of commentators and academics, but it did not pay the rent at a time when making a buck as a black man in Birmingham was very hard work.

Comparing the two sets of interviews — one from southern rockers and one from big band jazz musicians — provided some surprising similarities. Both groups of musicians put a high value on virtuosity and expressed a pride in their professionalism. Both provided plenty of stories about the decadence of the road; the only difference was that it was harder to extract all the interesting details from elderly African Americans. Both were convinced that Birmingham and its musicians had been undervalued in the history of American popular culture, and they wanted to see more credit being given to their city and its music.

The coming of rock ’n’ roll clearly provided more entrepreneurial opportunities for black musicians, despite claims that they were shortchanged when the music was stolen from them by the white entertainment industry, which indeed it was. But the black roots of rock music were appropriated just like the country ones, and there was no color bar to being cheated. In his excellent book on the music scene in Memphis, Robert Gordon sees rock ’n’ roll as the result of a collision of two musical cultures rather than a happy comingling of enlightened musicians, club owners, and record producers. Reading this book and enjoying the stories expertly recounted by Gordon reminded me of the same sort of stories told in our interviews with Birmingham’s musicians. Birmingham and Memphis are considered to be similar cities of the New South, and the same goes for their rock ’n’ roll experiences. They usually begin with first tentative explorations of black music by budding white musicians, starting with the radio and ending with the personal interactions by which all musicians learn their trade. Gordon assigns the telling quote “Everybody learned it from the yardman” to white guitarist Jim Dickinson, but I have heard the same thing from no end of Alabama rock guitarists. Dickinson’s band went through all the experiences of every garage band in Birmingham, from visits to pawnshops to get instruments, then to learning songs from records, to the triumphs at high school hops. Musicians in both cities had to navigate the same enormous changes in the music business caused by the Beatles. Businessmen in both cities exploited the British Invasion to sell stuff and to claim to be hip. But most important, the emergence of rock ’n’ roll in both cities was inspired by, and drawn to, African American music. As Dickinson remembered: “My band played the blues, and we played it like white boys, because that’s what we were.” Perhaps this is what leads Gordon to conclude that “whites were unable to exactly mimic black music, and their failure created another hybrid … Rock and roll was white rednecks trying to play black music. Their country music background hampered them and they couldn’t do it. That’s why we don’t call what they made rhythm and blues.” Rather than condemn racism as immoral and unproductive, Gordon sees it as responsible for rock ’n’ roll. Dickinson points to the venality, racism, and exploitative nature of white businessmen not as an aberration that undermined the new music but as an integral part of its creation. A gentle coming together of musical cultures could never have produced the edginess and energy of early rock ’n’ roll: “The racial collision, it has to be there.”⁸

White boys playing black music imperfectly was hardly new, nor were the profits of exploiting black music and dance going to white-owned businesses. This process did not begin with the Rolling Stones or with the Original Dixieland Jass Band; it started way back in the nineteenth century with the universal popularity of the minstrel show, which emerged in the northern states in the antebellum era. Minstrelsy traded on images of black difference and inferiority, but according to Karl Hagstrom Miller, it was the primary medium through which nineteenth-century Americans came to understand musical authenticity, “not rooted in history of heritage but in consensus — minstrelsy taught that authenticity was performative … imitating black performance remained a constituent component of white identity.”⁹ This theme has been picked up by historians David Roediger and Grace Elizabeth Hale. In Making Whiteness Hale asserts, “Blackface became essential to the creation of a more self-consciously white identity as well.”¹⁰ In this way whites imitating blacks was a tradition that began well before the blues. This was the heritage carried forward to the era of rock ’n’ roll. Criticizing white rock musicians for copying black music and thus undermining the racial and aesthetic purity of the music ignores this great American tradition.

In the mediated spaces of the blues music business, blacks were also given the opportunity of mimicking whites. As minstrelsy became the popular music of the industrialized West in the late nineteenth century, African American performers were allowed onto the bandwagon and were able to get their share of the revenue streaming in from the minstrel shows. Some of the largest and most profitable minstrel shows that entertained thousands of whites in Birmingham were African American productions. In putting on the same blackface as the white performers, blacks got to see African American identity through white eyes. As Hale points out, these professional musicians had “in effect to play whites.” The creation of these “miscegenated styles paradoxically subverted white spectators’ expectations and declared black musical freedom to match white methods and survey the full measure of musical sources.”¹¹ In this way, blacks imitating whites imitating blacks became another American tradition carried forward by rock ’n’ roll.

To my mind, the story of minstrelsy effectively challenges the concept of distinct racial musical traditions, as well as historians’ commitment to narratives of difference. It also provides us with a different take on the birth of rock ’n’ roll and the amount of white guilt to be assigned to the co-opters and exploiters of black culture. The white teenagers who played in garage bands in Birmingham acknowledged their debt to black musicians and freely admitted, like Jim Dickinson, that they played the blues like white boys. But they made it their music too, despite coming from the wrong side of history and the color bar. There has been a friendly takeover of blues music in the twentieth century. The blues is the foundation music of white players in Birmingham and has been for many years. It is white boys’ music played exclusively for white audiences. Teenagers learning how to play electric guitar naturally lean toward blues rhythms and progressions because it’s easy, and it actually sounds better if you don’t have clear amplification and intonation. Martin Stokes has written about the musical construction of self and place: “Music is part of modern life and our understanding of it, articulating our knowledge of other things, and ourselves in relation to them.” Yet he argues that “people will use music to locate themselves in idiosyncratic ways,” and this surely covers white teenage Alabamians who think of the blues as their own.¹²

“At the Dark End of the Street”

For all the similarities between the musical experiences of Birmingham and Memphis, two very important differences stood out: the relative successes and failures of recording studios and the differing attitudes toward race. Both of these differences can be used to explain why Memphis is regarded as a music city and Birmingham isn’t. If only Sam Phillips had moved to Birmingham rather than Memphis! If only those famous studios in Muscle Shoals had been established in Birmingham rather than out in the sticks! Alas, this did not happen, so Birmingham remained a backwater in American popular music. The creation of a successful recording business is founded not, as popularly believed, on great local music, but on commercial considerations such as infrastructure, geographic location, and marketing networks. There was every reason to believe that Atlanta would have become the recording center of the South rather than Memphis or Nashville. In the 1920s it was the recording center of the South — there were no studios in Memphis or Nashville at this time — but it lost this lead in the 1940s, never to regain it, and the musical development and reputation of the city of the New South suffered accordingly.¹³

The story of the rise of Muscle Shoals’ recording studios has been told and retold, but I am not going to apologize for including it in this book because it plays such an important part as a comparison with Birmingham. Many of the players who made Muscle Shoals famous came from Birmingham or would have willingly moved there if there were equal opportunities. The rise of Muscle Shoals as a recording center reveals the importance of racial integration in rock music and explains why Birmingham never made it into the urban version of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Only a few miles up the road, Muscle Shoals provides the perfect comparison with Birmingham and proves that racial tolerance plays a vital part in a dynamic music scene. If there is one scholarly conclusion to be taken from these interviews it is that Birmingham’s racial tension suffocated its musical aspirations in the rock ’n’ roll era.

White Alabamians who loved black music and respected black musicians felt privileged in a segregated society because their musical tastes allowed them to mark the difference between them and their schoolmates and parents who condemned black music as “trash” and “animalistic.” The garage bands who played blues and R&B could say later that their music placed them apart from the rest of white Alabama, and this is true, but an interracial musical culture does not necessarily create interracial harmony or equality; it might suggest interracial harmony, but it does not actively produce it. As my colleague Odessa Woolfolk pointed out, if you didn’t march you couldn’t claim to be part of, or even a friend of, the movement for civil rights. The young white men who played black music lived the same divided lives as their schoolmates and parents, keeping the races separated and making a distinction between the African Americans who brought them up and served them, and those who were demonstrating for civil rights downtown. In remembering the dark days of 1963 there does appear to be a collective myopia in white Birmingham; the dramatic events unfurling in downtown Birmingham managed to attract the attention of people all over the world, but the news failed to go “over the mountain” to the more affluent suburbs of Birmingham.

Music marked out white identity in Birmingham just as it did for black self-awareness, but it also gave white blues and R&B fans the means to take sides without getting involved in violent confrontation. Many of our white respondents admitted that their love of black music had to be kept secret in the 1950s and 1960s. Modern communications technology provided the means for whites to cross the color bar in secret, and even those brave or enthusiastic enough to make surreptitious trips across town on Saturday night could return to their privileged place in a segregated society on Sunday morning — the most segregated time of the week, according to Dr. Martin Luther King. It is pretty easy to condemn their passivity with the benefit of hindsight and the safety of the twenty-first century, but I can’t blame anyone for not wanting to get beaten up or lose their business license. Those who challenge the credibility of their interracial yearnings have a point, but the young men who played the white-boy blues and idolized the black musicians who had popularized it sincerely thought that they were the good guys in the struggle for desegregation. I couldn’t include a lot of white guilt in this narrative because it was hard to find any in the music lovers we interviewed. Unfortunately, the racial politics of Birmingham’s history leads to white voices being valued less and in some cases completely discredited. Yet white voices are still a part of the story and should carry the same weight as the heroes of desegregation in recounting the musical history of Birmingham.

Looking back over the transcripts of the interviews, I found out that within the community of interviewers and interviewees in this project I was known as “the Professor,” and my modus operandi was to focus the interviews around the topic of race. I admit that I am a history professor, and as with most, or all, history professors, what interests me most about the history of Birmingham is race. Not only did I orientate the oral histories toward African American music, bringing in the first interviews of black musicians, I also interrogated everyone else on the matter of race, often to the annoyance of those being pressed to talk about an issue that they considered had been dead and buried for many decades. Yet in my well-intentioned but naive efforts to make this a scholarly history of music in Birmingham that incorporated both the black and white experience lay the seeds of my defeat and the impossibility of ever producing a one-volume history of music in Birmingham that encompassed the experiences of two musical cultures. There was never going to be enough race in this project to satisfy academe.

The first problem was getting access to black musicians and gaining their consent to give interviews. This oral history project was originated, managed, and executed by whites. One of the main changes I made when I came to this project was to increase the number of people who went out and did the interviews. The first group of interviewers was largely adults — musicians or other members of the music business who were long-term residents of Birmingham. Under the direction of the hard-working Jon Van Wesel (who did the majority of the interviews), investigators Keith Harrelson, Gigi Boykin, Jay Dismukes, Brian Haynes, and Nancy Belcher went out and did the interviews. I exploited my position as professor at the University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB) to bring in students to this project, which created a younger group of interviewers, who were music lovers rather than musicians and who had much broader and more eclectic tastes in music: Courtney Burks, Alison Oden, Tonya Wise, Brandy Lepik, Rob Heinrich, John Gilchrist, and Caitlin Moore. My experiences directing the American Studies program at UAB, a public school with a large percentage (around 25 percent) of African American students, taught me that they know almost nothing about blues culture and care little for the history of black music, slavery, and civil rights. As budding doctors, lawyers, and engineers, they find little to attract them in this part of black heritage. While it was easy to convince my white students to take part in this oral history project, it proved almost impossible to recruit young African Americans. Although we in Birmingham live in an integrated city and enjoy life in an interracial society, the black and white communities are still largely self-segregated, and there remains some discomfort about white people coming in with clipboards and lots of questions. It was possible to reach out to the older generation of black musicians to tell their story, but finding out about modern African American music proved to be much more difficult. Hip-hop in the 1990s was a closed society in Birmingham. Because of the opposition of city government and the impossibly high insurance premiums, there were few hip-hop concerts, and the performances that did take place tended to be private and underground. Again there were significant incursions across racial lines, which muddied the waters of authenticity because hip-hop culture remains amazingly popular within the white suburbs, but one can hardly imagine the howls of protest that would have followed a history of hip-hop in Birmingham drawn largely from whites.

The other problem was that musicians look back on the segregated past with different viewpoints than other people, especially white liberal academics. It was easy enough to get African Americans to talk about the horrors of segregation. Here is a typical quote from Bruce Martin: “It was bad back then … people shouting at you as you walked down the street, throw a tin can full of pee at you … Lots of black women had to work, worked for whites, and get abused, you know. Go home and tell their man, nothing he could do about it. That’s where all those high yellahs come from! It was the Dirty South, not the Deep South, the Dirty South.” Bruce is a taxi driver and was in a good position to understand the reality of segregation. But a black musician sees segregation in starkly different terms than those in other occupations, and it turned out that the last place one was going to find outrage and disgust about segregation in Birmingham was in music venues and clubs, or in the recollections of musicians of both races who had made a good living during that period. How much the rules of racial deference in public continued in this era of good feelings toward African American musicians is hard to evaluate, as no side is eager to stress the power dynamic of these business relationships. Yet it is uncontestable that both sides were profiting from these relationships, which had always allowed African American musicians to work in places where many other blacks and whites were not allowed, and to get much higher returns for the work they did.

In fact, one could argue that many of the viewpoints expressed in these interviews go completely against the prevailing views of academic historians and what one would expect from downtrodden African Americans in what used to be America’s most segregated city. The first time I heard an elderly African American speak wistfully about the good old days of segregation and how much better life was back in the 1960s I was shocked, but I soon got used to it and understood that musicians interpret history differently than professors or politicians. If we see their music as a commercial endeavor rather than staking out black identity and articulating black resistance, this begins to make sense. The same economic forces that powered African American music into the mainstream of popular culture were never going to dwell on the injustices or the immorality of segregation. By choosing to record the experiences and viewpoints of musicians, rather than garbage collectors, taxi drivers or policemen, the final product was never going to meet the expectations of the academic community who were the peer reviewers of the scholarly narrative I hoped to publish. The binary racial politics of Birmingham were never going to be reflected in the mediated and mobile space that musical culture occupies in between the races. Leaning on a group of respondents who were pretty much politically incorrect to start with was enough to condemn their recollections as debased and unimportant within the contested cultural history of the Deep South.

The boundaries of racial politics are not permanently fixed in time, and racial signifiers also shift over time. Mike Butler has studied southern rockers in the postsegregation decades and found that the Confederate symbols these musicians proudly displayed no longer represented traditional southern racial ideologies, in which the flag was associated with the Ku Klux Klan and other racist organizations, but the changing racial identities for white males in the South. Although this new construct of male southerners was not accepted by all males in the South, those involved in southern rock rejected the racist imagery of the flag in favor of a pride in regional imagery, while at the same time “openly and frequently paying homage to the blues musicians who influenced their own creative musical style.” In the 1960s and 1970s this was a rebellious posture that counteracted the accepted image of these musicians as “frightened racists.”¹⁴ While southern rock still carries with it the burden of southern racism, it has to be accepted that music has healing, redemptive properties, and this is especially true for a popular music that was the product of some elements of racial integration. As Mark Kemp wrote, “Southern rock offered an emotional process by which my generation could leave behind the burdens of guilt and disgrace, and go home again.”¹⁵

“We’ve got Newark, we’ve got Gary / Somebody told me we got L.A. And we’re working on Atlanta.”

Birmingham, Alabama, is what George Clinton would call a “Chocolate City.” In the postsegregation era it has a majority African American population, a local government run largely by African Americans, and a large and affluent black middle class. In her book about black identity in the postsegregated South, Zandria Robinson defines two distinct urban Souths: the historic urban South, which has experienced increased African American population growth but maintains many of the old black/white binary populations and power arrangements, and a new urban South, characterized by an increasing racial and ethnic diversity. She then enhances her definition of the new urban South to encompass the idea of a “Soul City,” in which cities like Birmingham “carry on the musical and political legacy of the civil rights movement even as they attempt to reconcile the racial and socioeconomic realities of the post-soul era.” Like Jackson, Mississippi; Greenville, South Carolina; and Raleigh and Greensboro, North Carolina, Birmingham has little of the Old South’s Confederate heritage or the glitz and sophistication of the fashionable cities of the New South, like Atlanta.¹⁶

“Soul” is a perfect way to locate a time, a place and racial identity, and Robinson expertly joins the components of the music and its southern black experience. She explains how the music of soul artists like Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding “recast southerners as instrumental in the political and cultural struggles of African American communities.”¹⁷ But soul music as a signifier of black southernness is not without paradox. This blackest of post–rock ’n’ roll African American music was also the most integrated of southern music up to that point. Ironically the first meaningful racial musical interaction in the postsegregation South ended up articulating black pride and power. If you had to condense soul music into one brand, it would have to be Stax Records in Memphis, and here we see white and black musicians working together — it is difficult to think of the Stax sound without thinking of Steve Cropper and Donald “Duck” Dunn, who came to the Stax rhythm section from the Mar-keys, the first integrated band to play in black circuit in the early 1960s. How come a soul classic like “The Dark End of the Street” was written by a two country boys from Vernon, Alabama, and LaGrange, Georgia? If I were to find a consensus in all the interviews of white music lovers active in Birmingham in the 1970s about the genre of music that appealed to them the most, it would have to be soul. Even though this was the heyday of southern rock in Birmingham, it was soul bands that reached the high points of that “ecstatic commonality” (in the words of Ellen Willis) which drew us all to the rock performance in the first place. Soul touched white music lovers in Birmingham in ways that would be unimaginable in a politically correct world. Birmingham’s garage bands were probably unique in how quickly they incorporated horn sections into the lineup of three guitars and a drum set: and horns mean soul.

By pointing to the popularity of soul music in Birmingham I do not want to understate the amount of white anxiety in postsegregation Birmingham. I agree with Madhu Dubey that the move back to authenticity in the popular culture of the 1970s, and the amazing popularity of folk and roots music, was a response to the empowerment of African Americans in a new New South, a Nuevo South in which the old binary code of black and white that had served the South so well was upturned by a new and more complex formula.¹⁸ Music plays the same role in defining both white and black culture in the South, acting as a performative and ideological glue that holds identity together. In her book on rock ’n’ roll culture in Liverpool, Sara Cohen argues that music is a “shared code” that gives “a strong sense of allegiance and identity.”¹⁹ It also helps define a time and a place. Reaching for authenticity in music meant going back to a time when the races knew where they stood, and stayed in their place; and if there is one thing that defines southerners, it is that they know their place. But times have changed, and we now live in a Chocolate City that has overcome its tragic past and looks forward to a prosperous multiracial future.

Yet neither the New South nor the new New South has lived up to its expectations and realized the identity politics of its boosters. The history of the civil rights struggle in Birmingham remains a critical part of its identity and the justification of its rise as a Chocolate City. But as Diane McWhorter has pointed out, reconciliation has become an industry in Birmingham. The fifty-year anniversary of the historic events of 1963 was an orgy of self-congratulation and self-promotion, tempered only by the continuation of poverty of many of its citizens and the uncontested tradition of bad government. If you ask white people what it was like to live in Birmingham in the 1960s under the leadership of Bull Connor, they will tell you about the hopeless corruption and inefficiency of a comically inept government. If you ask anybody in Birmingham right now about city government, they will tell you more or less the same thing. While Dr. King’s “dream” is much closer to becoming a reality in Alabama, it is still a work in progress. Hip-hop artists have taken up the role of documenting the lives of the poor and disenfranchised in today’s “Dirty South.” In her study of hip-hop in Memphis, Zandria Robinson profiles the artist Erykah Badu, who sings about a Dirty South of poverty, drug trafficking, and violence. Robinson calls this protest music “post-soul blues,” which seems an appropriate term for the postsegregated South.²⁰

The city of Birmingham continues to live in the past, unable to shed its historic stigma of racial hatred and to find an alternative to defining itself in terms of African American resistance. City government has enshrined its famous musicians as well as its civil rights leaders in its efforts to build a more acceptable and comforting past. Building monuments to musicians who grabbed the first chance to get out of Birmingham, and sometimes denied ever coming from the city, has more than a touch of irony. I don’t disagree with those African American musicians who told me that the Motown sound was really Birmingham music (and musicians) transplanted to Detroit — but what does that say about the city they left behind?

“Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll”

After it became evident that it would be impossible to produce a one-volume history of music in Birmingham that was politically correct and adequately covered all the music made in the city since its inception, the question remained what to do with the pile of interviews we had amassed — over a hundred by the end of the 1990s. There was so much good material about punk, postpunk, and all the many varieties of the New Wave that it seemed possible to assemble a history of rock music in Birmingham from the 1950s to the millennium that would cover all the different declensions of rock and show how it had developed or perhaps regressed — a sense of progression and change is central to the ideology of rock ’n’ roll. This was still an ambitious goal, but it would provide an opportunity to address some beleaguered issues in rock music, such as gender and virtuosity, and also cover some of the transformative effects that new technology had on the music industry.

It came as quite a surprise to me that a city as conservative as Birmingham should have had such a lively punk scene, but on reflection, the very fact of its tradition of conservatism was only going to encourage rebellious youth. Although the city was far from supportive of the New Wave, it did allow it to exist, in much the same way that gay bars survived in the 1970s and 1980s. What punk represented was part of the fabric of rock ’n’ roll — the challenge to keep it the music of rebellion. As Michael Azerrad noted, rock ’n’ roll in the 1980s was seen as a force for change, not just a commodity.²¹ Just like the folkies and worried white supremacists, rock ’n’ roll enthusiasts’ desire to return to simpler (but more subversive times) reflected discontent with the status quo.

Punk aimed to “break a few rules,” in the words of Ian Dury, and of the many rules punk rockers broke, the gender rules were probably the most influential. The popular music business has been a male domain from the beginning, and it was female musicians like Bessie Smith who challenged male dominance and articulated a new sexuality in their work. Birmingham can claim one of the most outspoken female blues artists in Lucille Bogan, and it is unfortunate that her music and influence are not better recognized. While country music was traditionally open to females, its louder and more energetic cousin rockabilly was dominated by males and the popularity of this music in Birmingham marked the beginning of rock ’n’ roll in Alabama. There were a few notable instances of female rockabilly stars coming from Birmingham, but regretfully I was never able to locate the survivors or find anyone who remembered their performances in enough detail to analyze it. As the music of white working-class southerners, rockabilly conformed to the tradition of keeping the women at home. I was told that “good girls” didn’t go to rockabilly joints (which were sometimes joint business ventures with prostitution), so being a female rocker in the 1950s required some mental and physical toughness. The music they made certainly sounds as tough and as assertive as that of their male counterparts.

Susan Cahn has described in detail how rock ’n’ roll highlighted the sexual tensions of the 1950s South. Much of the fuel for resisting integration and rock ’n’ roll came from fears of how white girls would fall prey to sexually evocative, black-influenced music. Cahn paints a picture of the sexually charged spaces in high schools and dance floors and the “coming out of teenaged girls’ sexuality, with rock music at the conspicuous center.” Yet for all its sexuality and surface rebellion, rock music in the 1950s was dominated by males. Cahn recounts the career of Janis Martin, “the female Elvis,” who openly expressed as much sexual longing as the male Elvis and paid the price for it. Female rockers had brief careers, short-changed by deejays and stifled by the disinterest of record companies. Cahn concludes that “a female performer singing about her own sexual desires, satisfactions, frustrations, and fantasies seems to have deviated too far from sexual norms. The men controlling the music industry preferred the dynamic of a sexy male singer eliciting giddy, hysterical reactions from girls.”²²

The rise of the counterculture in the late 1960s enshrined sentiments of sexual liberation, but the pursuit of hedonism was still ordered along the lines of gender. For all its claims of sexual equality, the 1960s were sexist. Ellen Willis has pointed out that the counterculture still treated women “as chicks — nubile decorations — or mothers or goddesses or bitches, rarely as human beings.” Rebellion was still part of male assertiveness, and the liberation that came with new sexual freedoms served to excuse males from the traditional obligations of respecting and supporting women.²³ Women in 1960s rock ’n’ roll were seen as groupies, backup singers, or the object of love songs, but not as players; their place was in the audience, not on the stage. Only a few musicians, like Janis Joplin, managed to break into this male club.

While the folk revival of the 1960s encouraged women to join in, to play guitars and write songs, the male domination of rock ’n’ roll continued into the 1970s. Acoustic guitars were open to both sexes, but electric guitars — the mainstay of rock ’n’ roll — were considered boys’ toys. Electric guitars and amplifiers are complex technological systems that have always been a male preserve in America, and the great power of amplified guitars meant that only strong males could control them. The absence of women in rock prompted feminist writers such as Patricia Kennealy-Morrison to question the core values of this musical culture. In her wonderfully titled article “Rock around the Cock,” she articulated her own fantasy of becoming a guitar hero — a heresy to the rock establishment and its audience.²⁴ But punk challenged both the concept of a guitar hero and the gender conventions of rock ’n’ roll, opening up rock music to all races and both genders. Punk allowed women to get their foot in the door and participate: The music and the business have been much the better for it. Nowadays young female guitarists are courted not only by the popular music industry but also by the manufacturers of electric guitars.

The technology of rock music has changed drastically over the past three decades. When this project started, you still bought music in record stores, and very few bands thought of using a computer to record music or to reach out to their fans. Aaron Beam’s oral history of music in Birmingham happily spanned the most significant changes in the popular music industry since Thomas Edison invented the phonograph. Here was a chance to evaluate these changes from the perspectives of the musicians rather than put it into a context of the history of technology. In fact, all the changes in rock music and the music industry in the twenty-first century seemed better illustrated by the experiences and opinions of musicians than by any scholarly interpretation. This realization returned the focus of this project back to the interviews themselves: no longer the basis for the narrative, but the narrative itself. And this is the book you have before you. A history of rock music in Birmingham told by some of the people who played it, listened to it, and tried to make a living from it. A history of rock music in Birmingham that explains how it changed lives and how it reflected individual identities and perceptions of the city itself. Although it has plenty of rags-to-riches episodes, it is not a story of success aimed to boost the reputation of the city and attract more investment and tourist dollars; rather, it follows the cycle of raised and lowered expectations. It relates the experiences of professional musicians rather than rock stars, and how their dreams and desires were translated in the harsh realities of the music industry. It is a story not about rock ’n’ roll’s triumph but of its evolution and survival.