Damn near everything you want to know about the late singer/songwriter Bill Withers’ music is in the following line from his bio: he was born July 4th, 1938 in Slabfork, West Virginia. As a child of the Depression and World War II, Withers – who died this past March 30 in Los Angeles – was all too familiar with hardship. Brought up in the segregated South, he was keenly aware of the politics of race and class. As a small-town denizen, he knew the difference between the cautious image projected by one’s neighbors and the true drama that went on behind the screen door. And, as befitting a person born on the day celebrating this country’s birth, 4th of July, he was an artist with a fierce independent streak who wasn’t going to compromise his vision for anyone.
It helped that Withers came to the music game late. He was over 30 when his first LP, Just As I Am, came out and was working in a factory making bathrooms for airplanes when he recorded it for Sussex Records. (Hence the cover photo with him carrying a lunch pail.) A self-taught guitarist, the album’s musical backdrop was both sparse and rhythmic. The songs – 10 out of 12 of them his compositions – dealt with issues like aging (“Grandma’s Hands”) and suicide (“Better Off Dead”) spelled out in a small-town language. And then there was his singing: strong and urgent. Withers’ voice was like aural moonshine – kinda harsh with an afterburn that’ll straighten ya ass out quick.
It was that sound of a man who’d lived with a capital L – of someone who knew about trials and tribulations – that set him apart and made him great. Think about the 1971 R & B scene when Withers debuted. It was the heyday for falsetto-led harmony groups like the Moments, the Persuaders, the Delfonics and the Chi-Lites. This was the time for lushly orchestrated romantic epics. Then, amid that sumptuous musical mix, the stark and impassioned “Ain’t No Sunshine” emerges. A two minute long song whose climax consists of Withers repeating “I know” over two dozen times. It is his weary, pained vocal which transforms a simple two-word mantra into a bluesy aria.
His sophomore effort – 1972’s Still Bill – was even better. The emotional expanse of his self-penned material was stunning as Withers ranged from the anthem “Lean On Me” to the unbridled jealousy of “Who Is He (And What Is He To You?)” to the romantic “Let Me In Your Life.” Best of all was the funky “Use Me,” the finest ode to masochism ever recorded.
Normally, an artist recording a retrospective live LP just two albums into their career would be foolish. Not so with 1973’s Bill Withers Live At Carnegie Hall. Withers – fronting a six-piece ensemble – tears through his catalog to date with an adoring audience exhorting him on. The result is so much more than a typical concert document. Propelled by the energy of a revival meeting, Live is both a fervent reimagining and validation of Withers’ life’s work.
1974’s +’Justments – pronounced Add-justments – traveled down a darker path. Allegedly, the recounting of his stormy romance and marriage (and later divorce) of actress Denise Nicholas – who co-wrote the song “Can We Pretend” – the album is, in retrospect, a painfully honest look at a doomed relationship. It also contains on “The Same Love That Made Me Laugh,” Withers’ finest vocal. Defiant through much of the song, he suddenly starts to waver as he sings over and over the refrain “why you wanna make me cry.” At first, he’s angry and puzzled as to why this woman would hurt him and then, with each repetition, he gets more resigned to his painful fate. At song’s end, he’s barely singing above a whisper about how this woman has made him “wet my pillow crying like a weeping willow.” During a decade built on advancing macho stereotypes – remember this was the ‘70s when Blaxploitation ruled the cinemas and the soundtracks – Withers dared to expose and explore Black male sensitivity.
Then Sussex Records folded and the arc of Withers’ career changed. In 1975, he signed with Columbia Records. Columbia’s management was more interested in so-called commercial product and Withers wanted to continue in his idiosyncratic manner. The two repeatedly clashed. (At his 2015 induction into the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame, Withers referred to A & R men as “Antagonistic & Redundant.”) The result was slick, safe product. Now, it isn’t that albums like 1975’s Making Music, 1976’s Naked & Warm, 1977’s Menagerie and 1978’s ’Bout Love aren’t entertaining professional efforts with some standout tracks. They are. They’re just not special. Withers must’ve felt the same way because after one more LP – 1985’s Watching You Watching Me – he basically retired.
(Interestingly, Withers’ finest work during his Columbia period was doing guest vocals on assorted jazz artists’ albums on other labels in which he added some gutbucket soul into an otherwise smooth mix. There was 1980’s “Soul Shadows” with the Crusaders, 1986’s “In The Name Of Love” with percussionist Ralph McDonald and, of course, the 1981 mega-hit “Just The Two Of Us” with Grover Washington, Jr.)
With a relatively meager output – eight LPs and one Live Double LP and all but one of them in the ‘70s – it was a pleasant surprise when, in 2015, Withers was selected to go into the Hall Of Fame. (Notwithstanding voters’ apparent bias against ‘70s R & B artists. No induction yet for Chaka Khan, Natalie Cole, Roberta Flack, Donny Hathaway and Teddy Pendergrass among others? Really?) Withers was relaxed and hilarious in his acceptance speech as he looked over the crowd and stated “this has got to be the largest AA meeting in the Western Hemisphere.”
That was just one of his many jokes and it reminded me of the only time I ever saw him perform in concert. It was at the Beacon Theater in the summer of ’89. It was one of those multi-artist events billed under the then-popular ‘Quiet Storm’ banner. The acts, as I recall, were the jazz ensemble Pieces Of A Dream, Cherrelle, Phyllis Hyman and Withers. Pieces opened and then became the backing band for the other acts on the bill. All were good but Withers stole the show. Whereas the fellas in Pieces Of A Dream were resplendent in their Armani suits, Withers came onstage carrying his acoustic guitar in faded jeans and an equally faded denim shirt. As he sat down on a stool, he looked the band’s musicians up and down. “Nice outfits,” he said sarcastically. Then he made a sweeping motion at his clothing. ‘Cost me ten dollars from head to toe,” he said. “Goodwill.” That set the tone for the rest of his set. Hit song. Applause. Joke. Raucous laughter. Another hit song. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Slowly, surely, Withers’ laid-back manner transformed the Beacon. We, the audience, were no longer watching a performer above us on a stage. Instead, we were welcomed visitors sitting around a porch watching and listening to a down home troubadour entertainingly doing his thang.
Withers wrapped up with “Lean On Me.” He did his arrangement and, as the band kept vamping, he mentioned Club Nouveau who’d had a huge success with a cover version of it the year before. Someone in the front row booed. Withers fixed the person who’d done so with a glare. “Uh-uh,” he said with a wag of his right index finger, “They bought an extension to my house.” Bam. Reality check – and royalty check – in full effect. Then he smiled and the band launched into the New Jack Club Nouveau cover of “Lean” as he left the stage. Truth be told, it was more jacked-up than New Jack but it didn’t matter. Truth had been told that night by a supremely honest performer. In other words, he was still Bill.