Ahmet

Alan Swyer
April 2023

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” a distinctive voice stated when I answered the phone while driving. “You’ve got it wrong. Motown was better than Atlantic.”

“Define better,” I countered, and not for the first time.

“They made more money.”

“Whoopee-do! But did they have Aretha, Big Joe Turner, LaVern Baker, Solomon Burke, and the Coasters? Or the Drifters, Wilson Pickett, and the Stones, plus a friend of ours named Ray?”

“Still –”

“Still nothing! Motown was good, but Atlantic was great!”

That I was arguing with Ahmet Ertegun, the head of Atlantic Records, whose biographer would later dub “The Last Sultan,” owed directly to the friend I mentioned: the one and only Ray Charles.

Approached about writing a lengthy piece Ray, who was justly known as “the Genius,” I was flattered and thrilled. Nevertheless, I insisted on three conditions. First: the freedom to tell the truth. Second: serious access to Ray. Third: introductions to people who had been important in Ray’s life and career.

After being vetted extensively by Joe Adams, who ran Ray Charles Enterprises, I was finally brought in for a one-on-one with the Ray himself.

“Joe says you know your shit,” Ray immediately challenged me. “Way back, name three acts no one was crazy enough to want to follow.”

“Guitar Slim,” I answered.

Ray nodded. “With that cord that allowed him to walk through the audience. And?”

“Joe Tex.”

Another nod of approval. “With those microphone tricks everybody stole. And?”

“A dancing bear.”

Ray sat motionless for a moment, then started laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. “We’re gonna get on fine,” he informed me.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. Interspersed with sessions with Ray that were half-research and half-gabbing were meetings, coffees, and lunches galore. Some were with Bluesmen: Lowell Fulson and Floyd Dixon. Others were with ex-Raylettes: Mable John, Clydie King, Alexandra Brown, and Susaye Green. Then came people like Gosady McGee, from Ray’s first group, the Maxim Trio, plus songwriter Jimmy Lewis. After them, Joe Adams and a host of others.

“Sounds like you’re getting everybody still on this earth,” Ray said, relentlessly curious about what people from his past were up to, as well as what they had to say about him.

“Yes and no,” I responded, explaining that there were a few people with whom I needed help.

“Who?”

“First and foremost, your ex-,” I replied, drawing a nod. “And Quincy,” which yielded another nod.

“Anybody else?”

“Stevie.”

That elicited a frown. “Getting through the seventy motherfuckers circling him. And?”

“Ahmet.”

“My buddy Omelet?” joked Ray. “You just gave me a reason to say hello.”

Less than an hour later I received a call from New York. Mr. Ertegun, an assistant informed me, would prefer a face-to-face rather than a phone conversation. Since he was flying to LA on Friday, could I possibly meet with him Saturday afternoon?

“Yes!” I nearly screamed.

Our get-together proved to be a joy. Seated in Ahmet’s suite at the Beverly Wilshire, I listened to tales galore. Some corroborated stories I’d heard from Ray. Others added an additional perspective, context, or information. Then there were a few that were entirely new to me.

First was a discussion of how and why Ahmet had gone about buying the contract of a young blind Blues singer who recorded for a small LA-based company called Swingtime. “I sensed he was capable of more than simply channeling Charles Brown and Nat “King Cole,” Ahmet explained. “But I’ll admit, I had no idea how much more. But I tried to help him put him on the path by writing ‘Mess Around’.”

To Ahmet’s surprise, I started to laugh. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“When I asked Ray what distinguished you from other label owners, know what he said?”

“Tell me.”

“That you were the only of ’em one who could tap his foot in time with the music.

That brought a smile to Ahmet’s face. “Know about the Black clergy?” he then asked me.

“I’d love to hear your view.”

Ahmet explained that though some people recognized that a tune by Southern Tones’ – “It Must Be Jesus” — provided the musical foundation for Ray’s “I Got A Woman, that mixing of Gospel with lust failed to cause much of a stir. That was hardly the case, however, when “This Little Girl Of Mine” was re-imagined by Ray into “This Little Light Of Mine.” The resulting furor among Black clergymen had an unexpected consequence. Attracted by the fulminating and squawking, white people began seeking out the record., yielding Ray’s first crossover hit.

Nevertheless, when Ray presented Ahmet with another tune mixing Gospel with sexual desire – “Hallelujah I Love Her So – Ahmet’s initial response was caution. “Aren’t you worried about more protests?”

“Hell no!” Ray answered. “What do you think made the last one a hit?”

Ahmet apologized to me for taking a phone call, then jumped years ahead to the genesis of Ray’s two-sided hit “What I’d Say” Parts 1 & 2. The song, he pointed out, came to life on a night when Ray ran out of material after repeated encores. To calm an audience threatening to pull the seats out if the show didn’t continue, Ray started improvising, urging the Raelettes and the band to follow his lead.

Ahmet then grew strangely pensive, pacing back and forth across the room before again facing me. “Enough Ray for a moment. How’d you come to learn so much about Black music?”

“I never actually learned,” I explained. “My early days were in a Black neighborhood in Newark, so the music was just there.”

“On the air?”

I nodded. “On WNJR in Newark, plus WADO from Harlem, which is why I kept the radio under the covers while my mother thought I was sleeping. But even more it owed to my mother’s kitchen.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It was filled with smoke while she made sure the vegetables were dead. What little money I had was spent at the soul food place on the corner, where the food actually had taste, and where the jukebox was crammed with Big Joe Turner, Big Maybelle, Wynonie Harris, and Ray.”

“A little different from me,” said Ahmet with a chuckle. “It was only when my father became the Turkish Ambassador that my world came alive.” Ahmet sighed as he savored the memory, then grew apologetic. “I hope you’ll forgive me if we stop here and pick up some other time?”

Though I still had questions galore, I did my best to hide my disappointment.

Assuming that what he termed some other time would never come, I was stunned when ten days later I received a call setting a rendezvous for the coming Saturday.

After a bit of small talk, Ahmet asked me how much I knew about Ray’s departure from Atlantic Records.

“Some,” I replied. “But I’d love to hear your take.”

Ahmet said he was not surprised to learn that Ray, who by then had become a star, was being courted by other labels. Through the grapevine, word came in of one offer after another. Still, it wasn’t until ABC-Paramount made overtures that his worries became serious, especially since the approach was made by the head of the company himself, Sam Clark.

Knowing he couldn’t compete with a competitor running a conglomerate, Ahmet chose to say and do nothing.

Initially he was informed that Clark was offering a significant signing bonus. Then, that he was willing to double the royalty that Ray would receive.

To Sam Clark’s dismay, and Ahmet’s delight, Ray nevertheless resisted.

Frustrated, Clark paid a call on Ray at home, asking what in the world he could add to get Ray to move.

“Complete artistic autonomy,” was Ray’s answer. “In writing.”

Sam Clark hesitated. “If I say yes,” he then said, “does that mean you’ll sign?”

Ray smiled. “It means I’ll think about it.”

Once Clark left, Ray set up a meeting with Ahmet so as to fill him in about the offer.

“I don’t want you to beat it,” Ray proposed. “But can you possibly match it?”

“Truthfully, no,” Ahmet replied. “They’re big and powerful, but we’re just some guys getting by. You”re my friend, so take the offer. Take it with all my best wishes.”

Instead of calling Sam Clark, Ray stayed mum until the executive visited him once again. “I’ve offered the moon and the sun,” stated Clark. “What in hell is it going to take to get you to to say yes?”

“Owning my own masters.”

Clark took a deep breath. “Are you aware that Sinatra doesn’t own his own maters? Or, for that matter, Pavarotti?”

“That’s their fault, not mine.”

Sam Clark winced, then contemplated for a couple of moments before agreeing.

At the press conference to announce Ray’s signing, Sam Clark proudly proclaimed that in addition to having the best in every major category of music – Classical, Pop, Jazz, even Show Tunes – ABC-Paramount now had the Number One artist in Rhythm & Blues.

When it was time for questions, a reporter asked Ray what he planned to do..

“Country,” said Ray, drawing a hearty laugh from the music writers assembled.

“No, seriously –” said the reporter.

“I am being serious,” stated Ray.

“B-but –” babbled a stunned Sam Clark.

“Read my contract,” Ray asserted. “Complete artistic autonomy.”

The aftermath, as Ahmet pointed out to me, proved how ahead of the times Ray was. “I Can’t Stop Loving You” became the biggest selling single before the Beatles. “Modern Sounds In Country & Western” outsold every other album until the arrival of the Fab Four.

“How and where,” I asked, “did he get that kind of guts?”

“In situations like that, Ray always quoted his mother,” Ahmet answered. “’If you ask a man nice, all he say is yes or no’.”

After snacks arrived thanks to room service, Ahmet eyed me strangely. “Okay if I put you on the spot?”

“Sure.”

“Name your favorite labels.”

“I’m crazy about Chess. And Specialty, too. But Atlantic was, and probably always will be, Number One for me.”

“You’re not just saying that to please me?”

“C’mon,” I said. “The great Ray stuff? Aretha? Clyde McPhatter? The Coasters and Drifters? Ruth Brown? LaVern Baker? Otis Redding? And that’s not even mentioning Coltrane and Ornette Coleman, or Buffalo Springfield and Cream.”

“But what about Motown?”

“What about Motown? Lots of talent, lots of good records, But did they put out ‘What’d I Say?’ Aretha’s ‘Respect?’ ‘When A Man Loves A Woman?’ ‘ ‘Soul Man?’ or ‘Stand By Me?’ Shall I go on?”

“Still –”

“Still, nothing. I haven’t even mentioned Wilson Pickett, the Coasters, Dusty Springfield, or Big Joe Turner.”

Only after that conversation did regular calls start coming in from Ahmet. Sometimes it was to gripe that Jerry Wexler, the renowned producer who replaced Herb Abramson as Ahmet’s partner, leaned on him to sell Atlantic to Warner Brothers for less than if they had they held onto the label for a few more years. Other times it was to rant about how much more David Geffin got than he and Jerry did, for first one label, then another.

But without fail, every conversation would ultimately lead to the question of Atlantic versus Motown.

Was it insecurity on the part of the otherwise supremely self-assured Ahmet? I began to wonder. Or a need to have his importance or legacy reaffirmed? Those thoughts made me consider the very nature of our relationship. Were he and I friends? Or was I somehow simply fulfilling some kind of need?

It was only when I was asked to spend time with an elderly guy named Oscar Cohen, who had managed giants like Louis Armstrong, Dinah Washington, and Cab Calloway, that I began to get a firmer sense of the dynamic. Oscar’s contemporaries were virtually all gone. His family had likely started rolling their eyes at stories they had heard a thousand times. And more significantly, most other people had no knowledge of – or the slightest bit of interest in – the world Oscar cherished. Whereas I, in contrast, loved hearing his tales and immersing myself in the lore.

That, I realized, was even more true with Ahmet.

It wasn’t until a few months later that I was asked to rendezvous again with Ahmet. With my project about Ray finished, it was all sorts of other tales with which he regaled me.

It was a joy to hear how he and his first partner, Herb Abramson, had to hide under a blanket in the back of a taxi in order for a cab driver to take them to a rough part of New Orleans to see – and sign — Professor Longhair. It was amazing to hear about his journey to an SRO hotel in Harlem to recruit a down-and-out Clyde McPhatter after the singer’s departure from the Drifters. And I loved learning that, despite relentless changes in personnel and especially lead singers – McPhatter, Ben E. King, Johnny Moore, and Rudy Lewis, plus occasionally Bobby Hendricks, Johnny Lee Williams or Charlie Thomas – the Drifters were his favorite vocal group, as well as mine.

Our conversation that afternoon was interrupted around 4:30 when he received a call. “There’s an Italian actress,” he said to me with a wink, “eager for a bit of attention. But I have an idea. Mick’s in town,” he mentioned, without having to identify which Mick. “So why don’t you grab a bite with your family, then come back at 8 and hit the town with us? Deal?”

“No thanks.”

“Why would,” uttered Ahmet, “would you miss that?”

“Imagine the caption in the paper: Mick Jagger, Ahmet Ertegun, and unidentified third party.”

“You’re really turning down a chance to be with Mick Jagger?”

“Remember who introduced you and me?”

Ahmet smiled. “That’s why both Ray and I like you.”

As time went on, Ahmet came to town less and less frequently, though I continued to get a call every now and then daring me to claim that Atlantic was superior to Motown.

Then, in 2006, I learned that Ahmet had taken a bad fall while attending a Stones concert and had slipped into a coma.

No longer would I have the opportunity to hear his voice, or to defend the superiority of his great record company.

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Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel ‘The Beard’ was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.