20 | What’s Going On? | Motown Vs. Stax
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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to Black History for Real early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. All right, I'm pretty sure every generation says this, but I think we are living through some really rough times. Oh, yeah, we definitely going through it. You got me out here trying to be hella creative with it, too. I'm talking about...

I might write a poem, make me a little song. How you be doing it? Hell, you might even catch me dancing on TikTok. You know what I'm saying? Hit you with the one, two move. Listen, I cannot blame you because if there's one thing we're going to do, it's dance our way through anger and grief. But we're going to be all right, though. Yeah, we're definitely going to be all right. You know what I'm saying? And thinking of dances, especially when you get ugly out here.

What's your favorite protest song or your favorite song with the message? Oh, OK. It's really hard to narrow it down. But one of my favorites is Say It Loud. I'm black and I'm proud. James Brown. I mean, that one gets me going. And then a lot of people have covered this one. But my favorite cover is by Nina Simone of Strange Fruit. What about you?

And the first thing that came to mind for me is the new school week on be all right. Kendrick Lamar. Yeah. That just made me feel, I'm saying good in my spirits. It made me kind of, you feel me feel very empowered and super black. Yeah. I like that about that one too. I mean, there's, there's a lot of another one I thought of was war. What is it good for? Again, it's still like, it like, huh? Good God. Like it, it really gets you going. Yeah.

But I think you really hit the nail on the head with Kendrick's All Right, because it really does feel...

And I feel like that's something that's really necessary in these kinds of protest songs. Yeah. And then one last honorable mention, you feel me? It ain't really a song. It's more like a poem. But that Gil Scott hearing, Whitey on the Moon, it's something about that that just makes me, you know what I mean? I feel like it just really engages me in a particular way where I just start thinking of a whole bunch of stuff. Like, damn, bro's spitting. Yeah. No, I...

I really love that one. And you know what? I would love it if more of us got back to that style because it is a poem, but it's set to music and it's still, again, it's so engaging. You really have to listen to ingest every message in that one for sure. ♪

Sometimes pain makes great art, and our legends in the music game use that pain for fuel. I ain't gonna hold you. Musically, they was going off in the late 50s and the early 60s. Racial segregation was the theme song of America. Our artists took all that pain and created one of the golden ages of Black music. Let's get into some Black history, for real. ♪

It's 1959, Savannah, Georgia. It's a beautiful day. The sky is clear as a ringing bell, bluer than it has any right to be. Birds fill the air with song as 19-year-old Al Bell marches on the front lines of Martin Luther King Jr. Whatever song the birds are singing is lost to his ears. Bell and the other marchers are surrounded by racist, hurling slurs. Bell's not bothered, though. He raises his voice and fills the air with his own song.

Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around is his anthem as he keeps step with everyone else. One man gets close to Al. You black son of a bitch. Them words are like oil on water, rolling right off of him. He just sings louder and keeps pushing forward. His teacher encouraged him to come here and work with Dr. King, so Al packed up. He left school and his disc jockey gig back in Little Rock.

Ain't gonna let nobody turn me around. He's still singing his heart out. The racists keep creeping closer and closer. Al's confidence wavers. Maybe this non-violent stuff ain't it. The white man walks in lockstep with Al. His eyes wild with hate. His face as red as his rage from screaming. He gonna have to stay mad. I hear helping prove black folks point.

The whole world's watching a struggle against a violent system of oppression. Al looks over his shoulder at Dr. King. He's in the center of the march. Cool as snow on a polar bear's ass, at least that's the way it looks. He turns back around. That fool white man is even closer, like four feet away. He spits on Al.

Al doesn't even blink, barely gives himself time to think. He pulls a switchblade from his pocket and stalks after the man who tries to disappear back into the crowd. The switchblade's by his side, ready to go. His walk turns into a sprint. The man's within reach when two brothers grab Al by the shoulders. "Calm down, son." They work with Dr. King. Their calming touch brings him back to his senses.

Al rejoins the march, but now he's not singing. His heart's still racing and he's too anxious for that. All he knows to do is just keep walking. He messed up. After the march, they head back to headquarters. Dr. King pulls Al aside. He explains passive resistance again. Many of us are going to be killed. They're going to hang us, but we're going to have to take all of that. Al jokes around, covering up his shame over breaking the line.

Dr. King smiles. He understands how Al feels, even if he don't agree with his actions. What's important about it is they're going to carry it on television and they will see how America treats us. Passive resistance must come first. Al nods in agreement. He's going to make things better for black people, a change they can feel in their souls through music.

He hopes that change that he wants don't get him lynched.

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From Wondery, this is Black History For Real, where we chronicle the stories of movers and shakers from Black history all over the world. The stories will inspire you, educate you, and more often than not, leave you shaking your damn head.

I'm Consciously. And I'm Francesca Ramsey. This week, we're continuing our four-part series on the Motown and Stax Records' evolution of soul. Both companies are challenged to grow and thrive in the sociopolitical upheaval of the 1960s. Motown and Stax also grapple with personal tragedies that redefine who they are and spark new levels of creativity. This is Episode 3, What's Going On? It's beautiful.

In 1963, Barry Gordy's hustle. The civil rights movement got white America on notice. He gonna let the frontline activists do what they do best while he cooks the beats of the movement in the studio. His music gonna bring everybody together. Black, white, liberals, conservatives, everybody's gonna be playing Motown.

Al does feel some pressure to be directly involved, though. Black people are still his primary audience, after all. His sister Esther tells Barry that Dr. King's coming back to Detroit in June to lead Detroit's Walk to Freedom. She's been interested in connecting civil rights activist Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. with Motown.

The march is for speaking out against Southern segregation and the violence that activists face down in the Jim Crow South. Barry thinks this is a perfect business opportunity. He can combine his skill set as a producer with his support for civil rights, raising Motown's visibility at the same time. Barry contacts the organizers, the Detroit Council of Human Rights. He offers to record the speeches given that day. Barry captures Dr. King's speech.

But distributors think the album's too political, and they're not rocking with it. They want bops that liberate people's feet and libidos, not records that liberate their souls. Half the copies Motown pressed come back unsold.

Barry's undeterred and inspired by the speech. He feels Dr. King's a down-in-his-heart good person. He's going to do what he can to spread the word about the preacher man and raise him up. He admires King's vision for a peaceful, integrated world. It's similar to Barry's vision for Motown, bringing together people of different races and religions through music. He wants to take this partnership further. It's still good for business. ♪

In August, he attends a benefit concert for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference down in Georgia. After the concert, he presents the album of Dr. King's Freedom March speech to the civil rights leader. The two men agree that Motown will record his next speech the following week before an eager crowd in Washington, D.C. Dr. King stands at the podium. Black people from all over the country show up. A crowd of nearly 250,000.

And when King opens his mouth to speak, Berry knows he has a classic on his hands. So does Dr. King. He copyrighted the speech before he uttered a single word of it. "I have a dream." Words nobody forgets. Berry's got a dream too. He rushes back to Detroit, puts out a new album as fast as he can.

He calls it the Great March on Washington. Barry can see the same integrated vision of the world as Dr. King. He ain't the only one. Other companies produce bootleg copies of the speech and release recordings. But Barry's dreams almost becomes a nightmare.

By October, Dr. King files a lawsuit against three record companies, Motown's, one of them, and buries Beyond confused. He swears he got permission to press and sell the speech. Filled with dread and rattled by his nerves, he sends Dr. King a typo-filled telegram. The Motown Record Corporation is more concerned with the unity of civil rights organizations and the progress of the Negro in America than it is with the sale of a single record album.

He offers to take the album off the market immediately. He can't have Motown's reputation ruined like this. You see, Dr. King's lawyer ain't know about the handshake agreement between Barry and Dr. King down in the ATL. Motown's dropped from the lawsuit a couple days later. Relieved, Barry stamps the speech on wax and starts selling it.

He admires Dr. King on a personal level, but his offer to record King's speech has gotten upside for Motown. Barry kind of relates to the civil rights movement in a transactional way. Sure, eventually he donates the proceeds from the album to the SCLC, but it takes about four years before he does, and only after Reverend Jesse Jackson implores him to do so.

Ain't no problem with Barry to donate, as long as he gets to record all the Dr. King speeches. He ain't a businessman. He's a businessman. And a Gordy, everything else comes second. Barry's also not trying to upset the white audiences he's courting. Over in Memphis, Stax artists got to deal with civil rights issues head on. They ain't got nowhere to hide.

It's summer 1965. Memphis hot as hell. And Stax ain't got nobody's air conditioner, man. Booker T and the MGs are swimming in sweat. They gotta get outside and take a break from their recording session. It's time to go somewhere cool and get some burgers. The four young men put on their shades and head outside. It's brutal.

Sweat rolls down their faces as soon as the feet touch the pavement. This kind of heat make you not want to sin. They sit and cool off with an ice cold drink at the closest burger stand they could find. Suddenly, the white stand owner appears out of nowhere.

He storms over, points his finger in their faces. You boys can't be served together. Not here. We record together at Stax. Green Onions, don't act like you don't know our song. The man stays tight-lipped. He said his piece. Booker T and the MGs are an integrated band. The keyboardist Booker T. Jones and the drummer Al Jackson are black. The guitarist Steve Cropper and his bassist Donald Duck Dunn are white.

All of the places nearby are segregated. They toss out a few names. The owner is eyeing them. The pressure's on. He's going to kick them out any minute. Booker T snaps his finger. What about the Lorraine Motel? Duck grumbles. The Lorraine's all the way over on Mulberry Street. It's a 10-minute drive. But we can eat in peace. They roll up the Lorraine's. Hopeful the policy ain't changed. All right.

The waitress looks them over and grabs four menus. The boys relax. They're safe here. What are you boys having? Sandwiches and coffee all around. Booker T sinks into the booth. The cold air washes away his anxiety. I think we've got our spot, y'all. The motel and its coffee shop is their new safe place. Somewhere to relax outside of Staxe.

Jim Stewart forms a relationship with the owners of the Lorraine Motel. Artists and their bands visiting from out of town stay there. They get to enjoy hot meals and the coolness of the pool on hot days. This is at a time when some pool owners close the pool before they let Black people swim in them.

The Southerner in me is already seeing the stark contrast in how the music is made and even how we've already kind of described these two different entities, Stax versus Motown. Then, you know, in Detroit, I feel like you have a different relationship to white supremacy, a different relationship to segregation. So, you know, the music can be a little bit more playful, a little bit more cheerful. You know what I'm saying? Got a little soul in it, but they ain't what we centering. You know what I'm saying? In Memphis, it's

It's hot as hell. And segregation is hot as hell as well. So it impacts, you know what I'm saying, how they make the music, I feel like, you know? Yeah, it's something that stuck out to me. You know, it's so funny when you talk about the way that race and racism have impacted our experiences. People are always like, why do you want to bring race into it? But it's...

integral to so much of our lives and thinking about, you know, the stereotype of Black people not swimming and the fact that segregation and segregated pools and neighborhood pools closing when they became integrated being the reason that so many Black people did not grow up swimming is

To then this day, we have people who have never learned how to swim and have, you know, fear around water because of the ways that Black integrated pools were treated. You know, you see those classic images of them pouring stuff into the pool in hopes of getting the Black kids to get out of the pool. And like all of this has trickled down throughout generations. So it's so interesting when...

People have this disconnected understanding of why certain things have happened within our community, not realizing that there's a historical reason that that's the case. The segregation in Memphis is so bad that even standing beside each other can be dangerous. Might get called out your name or worse. Legend has it, Otis Redding and Steve Cropper, the white guitars from the MGs,

By taking a recording session break Standing together on the sidewalk Right in front of the studio The laws 12 The coppers drive by Threatens Get into that studio I'm putting braces on you both

They're working on the album Otis Blue, Otis Redding Sings Soul. Touring is Otis' bread and butter, but he presses pause for a couple of days. 24 hours is all Otis and his band have to record the whole album. The only long break they have is when the house band leaves to play their regular nightclub gigs. And that's not much of a break.

Three original songs are ready to go. The rest are covers. The Rolling Stones' Satisfaction, The Temptations' My Girl, and a running list of songs that are already classics. Otis sings three Sam Cooke songs, A Change Is Gonna Come, Shake, and Wonderful World. The Sam Cooke covers are important to him and rest heavy on his heart. Sam was shot and killed in December 1964. Otis looked up to Sam.

Even styled himself after the senior in the early days of his career. He wants to honor him. In the past when he sang Sam songs, he wasn't sure of himself, was all timid. But on this album, paying his respects to Sam, Otis sheds all his insecurities about his voice and style. He got soul that can't be bought or sold with the gritty, belting voice

He tells a story with more than words. He's fully himself. Everybody knows Otis Blues is going to be a hit. The single I've Been Loving You Too Long, released in April, was a smashing success and the inspiration for the quickly recorded album. But Stax doesn't use Otis' face to sell his own album. The album cover features a stock photo of some blind white woman.

Doggone sure ain't Otis. Jim Stewart and Jerry Wexler at Atlantic are chasing crossover appeal. It works. The album outperforms expectations, selling more than a quarter of a million copies and ranks on the pop charts.

Just another stark contrast. They marketing multiculturalism up there north in Motown, and they stealing stock photos of blind white women for marketability down south. You know what I'm saying? Now, I know nobody was buying that record and being like, this white lady is definitely singing this song. Maybe they thought that the man on the album was singing to her.

I don't know. It's a strange choice. I don't know, man. I don't know. You feel me? Because they ain't that marketable. You know what I mean? See, in Memphis at that time, they probably had a whole bunch of amortization laws or they had just got past them, which means you better not have no soulful-ass black men singing to no blind white woman about some... Oh, yeah, but I'm sure they could pretend. They were like, oh, yeah, that could be a white guy. It could be. Otis? I mean, come on. Otis? Back in Detroit...

Barry Gordy's chasing the same thing. It's a sweltering New York summer in July 1965. Gordy's prepping the Supremes for a three-week run in a tucked-away hotel basement on 60th Street. Brazilian decor and palm trees bring a sense of the tropics. They was also throwing down in the kitchen. In this Brazilian decorated club, they serve Chinese food.

The iconic Copacabana Supper Club is the crown jewel of New York's nightlife scene. Glamour, celebrities, headlining entertainment. But hardly any black people.

Celebrated Black artists like Nat King Cole are forced to use the service entrance. No Black performer graced the Copacabana stage until Lena Horne in 1947. Her contract demanded that Black music fans be allowed at her performances. Before her, no Black patrons were allowed. Even after her opening, Black people have a hard time getting in.

But then came Sammy Davis Jr. and Sam Cooke. They'd shown up and showed out during their runs at the Copa, solidifying a seat of a table for Black artists. By the time the Supremes make their debut, things have gotten a little better. Barry sees the three-week show as an inroad for conservative, wealthier whites to embrace Motown. He's so eager to make it happen that he agrees to perform for $3,000 a week. Motown's gotta eat damn near all the production costs, though.

He pulls out all the stops in preparation for the show. He's going to record a live album, The Supremes at the Copa. Rehearsals don't go smoothly. The Supremes complain about the set list and the staging. Diana thinks Barry's too critical of her performance. Everyone's stressed, especially Barry. He snaps at them. Shoot, he snaps at everybody. If the Supremes do well, his other acts will be welcome at the Copa. All this pressure might create a Motown diamond.

Six days before the Supremes make their debut, Barry gets a call. His sister Lucy's being taken to the hospital. Her brain's bleeding. A cerebral hemorrhage. Barry's not thinking about the COPA or Diana anymore. He takes the next flight back home to Detroit. Barry rushes in to see Lucy at Detroit's Mount Sinai Hospital. She asks him to make her medical decisions. He's always been good in a crisis.

Barry wonders why him and not one of the other siblings or their parents. Before he showed up, the family wasn't trying to insult Lucy's doctor. They just followed the doctor's lead. It's clear now why sister wants him in charge. Barry insists on a second opinion, and he's already got a plan to bring in a top specialist. The day before Lucy's surgery, the consulting specialist is suddenly unavailable.

Barry's got another decision to make. Get a second opinion from a new specialist or let the surgery move forward as planned. The doctor's confident in his skills and his chosen specialist. Everything's going to be fine. Postponing your sister's surgery now could be incredibly dangerous. Barry's guts churn and screams at him. Get the second opinion. But he doesn't. And he puts his trust and faith in the doctor.

The day of the surgery, Barry and his family wear grooves into the waiting room floor. They've been pacing for hours. Barry's mind swims with memories of his sister, all that Lucy's helped him accomplish at Motown. She's got to survive. She may not be able to see the Supremes at the Copa, but he'll be damned if she doesn't see the next Motown act that plays there. The specialist finally comes in. Barry steps forward. How's Lucy? Where is she now? The specialist hesitates.

Hope hangs in the silence. The patient died. Barry's family dissolves into tears. He's angry and guilt pummels his heart in grief. He wishes he'd postponed the surgery. He wishes he'd gotten his second opinion. Barry vows to never let anyone talk him into going against his gut instincts again.

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Lucy's funeral is filled with the sound and spirit of Motown. The temptations and Marvin Gaye scene. Songwriter Brian Holland and Smokey Robinson are pallbearers. That night, the Supremes open at the Copa. Barry and his family attend the funeral. Then fly to New York, hoping to lose themselves in song. The Supremes are hit at the Copa.

They dedicate their entire run to Lucy. The live album reached number 11 on the Billboard 200 and number 6 on the Billboard R&B Albums Chart. The Temptations, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Martha and the Vendellas, and other Motown acts are welcome at the club, just like Barry predicted.

It's August 1965. Estelle Axton stands in the back of one of the most popular venues in Watts, the 5-4 Ballroom. It's the perfect spot for the Stax promotional tour. Booker T and the MGs are up on the stage. A little bit of rock and roll, the signature Stax horns, a funky undercut. The crowd can't get enough. Estelle takes a slow drag of her Parliament cigarette and takes in the scene. Pride surging in her chest.

The LA tour is her idea. She's executed her plan and it's worth it. Stax artists have blanketed the airwaves in radio interviews and in black and white in newspapers. They've entered homes and barbershops through TV shows and even got billboards attention. The artists do promotion. Estelle does business, chatting up distributors and DJs, raising Stax's visibility on the West Coast. She's going to prove to her brother and business partner, Jim, that she's a vital part of Stax's success.

Burn, baby, burn. DJ Magnificent Montague hypes the crowd. There are hundreds of people here. Audience members take out lighters and hold them up. Some people got matches. They repeat Montague's signature chant. Burn, baby, burn. Estelle's uneasy. Tension creeps along the edge of their words. Maybe she's reading too into it.

The show wraps and everyone's feeling good, electrified as they go back to their rooms at the Continental Hotel. Next stop's Memphis. They need their rest. A few days later, a violent LAPD traffic stop sparks the Watts Rebellion. The people chant, "Burn, baby, burn." Estelle misses her flight as Watts goes up in flames that touch the sky.

She's stuck in the hotel with a few Stax artists who stay behind. The hotel sits on a hill overlooking the city. They all gather and watch the rebellion unfold. Smoke rises over Watts. They can't believe they were just there. The artists wonder how they're going to help. Estelle ain't thinking about that. She wonders how Jim's going to react. If he can find a way to blame her for the riots, he will.

And he's definitely not going to be happy with the deal she made without him.

The day before the rebellion, Estelle arranged for her son to record an album of instrumentals on DJ Montague's label. A couple of the MGs played on the album, too. Jim won't give her son, his nephew, a chance at Stax. Her son's alcoholism is a real problem, but he's still family and a damned good musician. She really loves one of the jazz songs they recorded that day, Hole in the Wall.

Hole in the Wall hits the R&B charts, runs all the way up to number five. Jim loses it, but Estelle pushes back. He should respect her opinion more. If he listened to her, that song would have been a Stax hit. Now look, Jim's angry enough to try and ban his nephew from the studio. No good's gonna come from him, but Estelle owns half the company.

Jim's not about to do nothing. Her son can come and go as he pleases. The rift between the siblings deepens. Estelle's arguing with Jim openly. She gets especially protective of artists she can sense Jim doesn't like. Don't give Jim Stewart that song. They can split the publishing. If you don't, I'll never back anything y'all do. She convinces a few of them not to sign contracts, even if she's got a turn to blackmail.

It works. The artists sign elsewhere. It cost her money as half owner of Stax, but Estelle doesn't care. This is more than business. Somewhere along the line, it got personal. One time, Al Bell tries to buy a song outright from a writer. Estelle forbids the writer from signing the contract.

She annoys Jim and Al in one fell swoop. It's especially satisfying because she senses Jim looks at Al as more of a partner than her. His actual partner. It's worth every penny it cost Stacksville.

Estelle's a petty queen. One of the biggest power plays she makes is giving a contract to an artist Jim kicks out of the studio. The artist's transgression? Wanting to read the contract before signing. She gets a hold of the contract, and the artist reads it overnight. He gladly signs. Estelle can't believe Jim and gives him hell in the studio. In front of everybody.

Annoyed by Estelle's antics, Jim takes his revenge by ignoring and dismissing his sister. Decision-making powers are shared within a select circle of men in the office. Estelle's firmly on the outside. When Al Bell joins the company that fall, he becomes Jim's right-hand man. He promotes the hell out of Stack's biggest star, Otis Redd.

Al already knows Otis from his days as a DJ in Memphis when Otis visited the radio station trying to get Al to play his records. Al did. He immediately recognized his Otis talent before he even signed that status. They developed a friendship. When Al left Memphis radio station for Washington, D.C., he spun Otis tracks introducing Chocolate City to a generational talent on the come up.

Then Al got hired at Stax and their relationship deep. They wrote songs together. Al felt closer to Otis than his own brothers.

Touring and hit records make Otis a wealthy man. He buys a private plane, a $200,000 twin-engine Beechcraft plane. That's nearly $1.9 million in 2024. He uses it on tour. Friends like Smokey Robinson warn Otis to stop traveling in the plane, but he soars from one city to the next, ignoring their concerns. The battery in the plane is going bad.

And on top of the world, the crooner doesn't listen. A fateful decision for Otis, for Stax, and for the history of black music. It's December 10th, 1967, Las Vegas. Al Bell's at a radio industry convention, laughing and chopping it up with old friends from his days as a DJ. He big up Stax to every new person he meets.

A group of guys nearby are raving about these acts they saw at the Monterey Pop Festival in June. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. That standing ovation she got was earned, man. First one of the whole damn festival. Al jumps into the conversation. You know, she started singing the blues because of Otis Redding. The group is impressed with that little fact. Al's got them locked in now.

She was a folk singer before she saw him performing at the Fillmore in 66. He asks if they've ever heard Otis perform. He's always going to brag on his friend. He blew them little white kids' minds. They screamed and hollered. Otis sang encore after encore till he couldn't encore no more. The men laugh. What's Otis got coming up? How smooth is the opening notes to the song Otis just recorded when he tells them, sitting on the dock of the bay.

a little different from his usual sound. Softer. I think you'll like it. Al doesn't tell them almost everybody at Stax hates the song. Duck Dunn swears the song's going to bankrupt Stax. Jim Stewart doesn't think it's R&B. Even Otis' wife hates it. Otis doesn't care. He wants to expand his sound. And Al's gonna back his man.

He hears Otis' name come over the loudspeaker. Speak of the devil. Otis Redding's plane crashed into Lake Manoa. Al freezes. His heart plummets and his mind goes numb until he hears the announcer repeat the news. Otis Redding's plane crashed into Lake Manoa, Wisconsin. Otis Redding is dead at 26. Al doesn't hear anything after that. He sits down, hangs his head in disbelief. His friend is Otis.

It's dead. He can't believe it. People talk to him, but their words are like the hummings of bees. Al can't process what they're saying. Someone puts a drink in his hand. He drinks it down in one gulp, in another, in another. He drinks until he can't think, until the words match the spinning of his mind. Al wakes up the next morning with a pounding head and a weary heart.

His DJ friends helped him get to his hotel room last night. He's still fully dressed, right down to his shoes. The sun shines bright in the room like it's mocking him. Al covers his eyes and groans. He gets up from the bed. He needs a drink of water. His mouth is like cotton. He pads over to the nightstand, a pile of casino chips, a pile next to the water glass.

He must have gambled. Al counts the chips out. $85,000. It doesn't matter. It ain't going to bring Otis back. Panic grips him and squeezes. Without Otis, he might lose Stacks too. Stacks is turned upside down. Otis is their biggest star. But there are more problems along the way.

Back in 1965, Jim Stewart and Jerry Wexler formalized a handshake agreement between Stax and Atlantic. Jim asked for a clause to be included. If Jerry left Atlantic, Jim would be able to break the deal. He assumed that was the only thing Atlantic's lawyers were going to change. But it wasn't. Stax loses its entire music catalog when Warner Brothers buys Atlantic. Jim signed on trust alone. He never read it.

Man, what's crazy is I'm real good friends with Isaac Hayes III, and he just posted a video on social media about how people assume that he grew up all rich and stuff because Isaac Hayes was his dad. But he talks about how his dad had to file bankruptcy like two years before he was born and how he just learned a whole bunch about like the music industry throughout his life and how, you know what I'm saying, he kind of had like some rough, humble beginnings.

So reading this, you feel me? And then thinking about what Isaac Hayes specifically, you know what I'm saying, has talked about recently, specifically, you know what I'm saying, the one that was with Stax, it's kind of always just like messed up and intriguing at the same time. Yeah, the music industry, unfortunately, has a long history of being very predatory. You sign those contracts and they're so thick. And if you don't have a lawyer, which, you know, especially when you're talking about

Brand new artists, people that don't come for money, people who don't have, you know, a lawyer on retainer because their family is in business, for example.

You can't even if you try to read the contract, you can't always understand the contract. And that's why it's so interesting to hear so many of these stories talking about how at Stacks, they didn't want people to read the contracts. They were saying, no, if you if you don't sign right now, then it's over. And now here it is, like biting him in the ass when you didn't read your contracts, sir. And you were trying to pull the wool over other people's eyes.

And again, if you aren't prepared to read with like a fine tooth comb and understand every single thing that's in there, you might say yes to something that you really don't fully understand. And, you know, look at somebody like Prince. Prince lost his name. He was the artist formerly known because he didn't own his name. It happens, unfortunately, too often. Definitely. And again,

This one right here, I'll be interested if it was to hold up in 2024 because Jim Stewart and Jerry Wexler, they formalized a handshake agreement between Stacks and Atlantic.

a handshake agreement and then some lawyers you know what I'm saying was able to put it on paper and then when Atlanta got sold to Warner Brothers there was a stipulation I'm curious of how Warner Brothers must have like longer pockets and better lawyers because like how in the hell y'all was able to stifle out you know what I'm saying the entire music catalog off of a handshake agreement

It turns out the contract wasn't just a distribution agreement. It was a master's purchase. Atlantic owns all the rights to the music it distributed on behalf of Stax throughout the 1960s, including unreleased Otis Redding recordings. Jerry Wexler swears to Jim he didn't know a thing about the contract addition. Says he even went to his boss to try to get Stax money for the masters. But his boss said, no, no take backs on this deal.

Sitting on the dock of the bay, it's released, becoming Otis' first and only single to reach number one on the Billboard Hot 100. Atlantic releases three more albums with Otis Masters. New material, including a hit song, Hard to Handle. That's especially hard for Al. He co-wrote that song with Otis. The one person he wants to celebrate his hit song with is gone.

And Al's increasingly bitter about Atlantic profiting off his friend's death. In the middle of a whirlwind of grief, Al and Jim scramble to save Stacks. This season, Instacart has your back-to-school. As in, they've got your back-to-school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back-to-school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.

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It's April 4th, 1968, Memphis. Al Bell's hard at work in Stax's Studio A. It's been a long day, and the sun's starting to dip below the horizon. Singer Shirley Walton's in the booth recording a track he co-wrote with Booker T and singer Eddie Floyd. Send peace and harmony home. It's simple but purposeful. The song's underscored by the jangle of a country guitar. It's a song that's been written for a long time.

Shirley's got a strong voice, a sense of consciousness. It turns the sweet song into a protest. Shirley finishes up her first take and waits expectantly for Al's notes for her next take. The tape's still rolling. Singer-songwriter Homer Banks bursts into the studio. He's dead. Al can't take no more death. He's afraid to ask the question, even more afraid of the answer.

Who you talking about? They just shot Dr. King. They killed him. Shirley starts crying. Al's too stunned to speak. There's not much of him left to devastate since Otis died. But still, there's deep heartache. He turns the recorder off, sits down, hand over mouth, thinking of the man who spoke so kindly to him about nonviolence all them years ago during the Atlanta March.

There'd never be a chance to march alongside Dr. King ever again. Al steadies himself, breathes deeply until his pulse slows. He can't let his emotions pull him down. King would want him to carry on. He stands. Shirley, get back at the mic. We're going to dedicate this to our man, Dr. King. She nods, clears her throat.

♪♪

They don't know much, saying the same things over and over and over. He shuts it off. A couple of guys from the MGs come into the studio.

They know about his relationship with Dr. King. Al, you need to get on the radio. Talk to the people. They're starting to tear down the neighborhood. Tell them Dr. King wouldn't have wanted them to destroy what they have. Al resists, but he starts to think of ways to help black people while he's helping staffs. He's going to respond to this growing feeling of helplessness with economic empowerment. And he's going to do that with music. It's something his idol Barry Gordy would do.

combining business and social change. In the days that follow, Al dreams up a huge promotional event for Stax. 30 singles and 27 albums, all released at the same time. An instant catalog. Dr. King's death hits the Motown family hard. Barry Gordy and Motown release portions of Dr. King's speeches. I have a dream and free at last. Not long before King's death,

Gordy mentioned wanting to memorialize his speeches for generations to come, but not like this. Not when there are so many speeches King would never give. He's angry, and he has to do more. Barry organizes a concert at the Civic Center in Atlanta in May 1968. The concert benefits the Southern Christian leadership's Poor People's Campaign. Motown acts take the stage, and Diana Ross and the Supremes are a highlight.

Al and Jim watch the neighborhood around them change after Dr. King's assassination. Stax artists get their cars stolen and busted up. Somebody threatens to kidnap Booker T. Black musicians even have to walk white musicians to their cars for their own safety. It gets so bad.

Al gives Duck Dunn money to go buy guns in West Memphis. He also hires hustler and former Army Ranger Johnny Bailey as their new security man. Changes happening inside, too. Jim can feel it. Lose and Otis, then Dr. King, are difficult for everyone. But it's especially for black people. Relationships in the company grow strained.

Isaac Hayes was supposed to be the next Otis Redding, but he was close to Dr. King. After his assassination, he grows more militant. All he feels is bitterness and a deep anger he can't overcome. He can't write music. He doesn't know what to do with himself. When an epiphany hits, music begins to flow through him again. He'll have enough of a voice to make a difference. Success and power are his path to helping his people.

Jim and Al can't afford to let Isaac Hayes wallow in his grief about Dr. King. They want him to finish his album, Hot Buttered Soul. It's going to be the crown jewel in the soul explosion. Al's playing for an instant catalog. They push him into the studio.

The album's wildly different from anything Stax has produced before. It's got spoken messages. Classical strings flirt with funk guitar and dynamic rhythm tracks. Hot Buttered Soul becomes the first Stax album to go gold. It sells a million copies to Black Byers alone.

The company's number of employees increases from 20 to 60. Studio facilities expand. They're making more money than ever before. Stacks old-timers are getting angsty. Is there still a place for them at the company? Their departures would spell disaster for Stacks. The company's foundation shakes, and the rapid growth could undermine everything they've built. It's 1969.

Stacks head of publicity, Deanie Parker, meets with Al Bell in his office. The soul explosion is moving along. Isaac Hayes got a follow-up to Hot Butter Soul in the works. Rebuilding Stacks take all of Al's time. He can't do promotion like he used to. He calls in backup. Deanie always prepared. She taps her pen against the notepad, glances over at her boss.

She suggests concerts and television appearances. Al shakes his head. "'That's old. We need something new. Get us more mileage out of the same amount of gas.'"

Dini looks around the office, hopes something will inspire her. She points to a crumpled up issue of Stax Facts. They came up with the poorly executed idea last fall. It's a four-page promotional listing of newly released or popular albums. Very few people saw it. What if we make the Stax Facts bigger and better? More like real magazine. Al leans back in his seat, holds his hands over his lap,

He's liking this idea. We can mail it to DJs. Get them excited about playing our music on the radio. Industry insiders, too, like distributors. They sketch the layout for their new glossy. It's going to feel alive. Be filled with pictures.

We can have this in every radio station, in the hands of every DJ in the country. You're thinking big, Deanie. I like that. We need to add more. Something that says what Stax is really about. The Black experience. Black power. Deanie briefly worries about offending Stax's white audience. It's small, but still there. She decides she doesn't care. If they're turned off by the Black experience...

They not real Stacks fans anyway. We can have opinion columns and news articles about Black life. Of course, profiles on Stack artists. Sounds good, Deanie. I'll leave it in your capable hands. Meeting's over. Deanie develops the new Stacks facts quickly. She doesn't lose the importance of showing off Black success.

Stax Facts positions the company as a phoenix, on its way back up from rock bottom, a falling star in reverse. Al works on production and quickens the pace of album development. Jim searches for a new partnership with a larger corporation. Because Atlantic had screwed them over, Stax needs support. He hopes they can find it before the company overextends itself.

Meanwhile, Barry starts to think Motown should polish the brand. His rep has taken the beating from being out of touch with younger people into psychedelic rock and anti-war music.

Harvard's Crimson Magazine runs a tribute to Otis Redding. The young writer clowns Motown, says they'll release a psychedelic album five years after it's relevant. The ridicule stings. Barry needs to get his finger back on the pulse of popular music before Motown fades away.

If you like Black History for Real, you can listen early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. Before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

This is the third episode of our four-part series Motown vs. Stax. We use multiple sources when researching our stories, including the New York Times, Rolling Stone magazine, and the Stax Museum. A note, our scenes contain reenactments and dramatized details for narrative cohesiveness.

Black History for Real is hosted by me, Consciously. And me, Francesca Ramsey. Black History for Real is a production of Wondery. This episode was written by Pia Wilson. Sound design by Aaron May. The theme song is by Terrace Martin.

Lindsay Gomez is the development producer. Our production coordinator is Taylor Sniffen. Sophia Martins is our managing producer. Our associate producer is Sonia May. Matt Gant is our producer. Our senior producer is Morgan Givens. Our senior story editor is Phyllis Fletcher. The executive producers for Wondery are Marshall Louis, Erin O'Flaherty, and Candice Manriquez-Wren. Wondery.

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