In 23 years of writing about music, I've had some memorable experiences with artists. Bonnie Raitt giving me big ups from the stage. Running 5-on-5 basketball with Boston guitarist Tom Scholz about an hour after I filed a review trashing the band's show. Sitting in the dressing room with Anita Baker, then at the height of her stardom, while she listened intently to my negative critique of her platinum sophomore album.
In my hundreds and hundreds of encounters with musicians, I've experienced their arrogance, indifference, professionalism and even what seemed like genuine friendliness. But never had I felt something like love, which is what I got from soul legend Solomon Burke before and after his performance at the recent Sarasota Blues Festival.
It started with a phone interview a couple of weeks before his show. Talking from his home in Los Angeles, he was an uncommonly genial fellow, quick with a laugh, brimming with anecdotes. Sometimes in my chats with older artists, they are reluctant to reminisce; they can be stingy with stories. It's as if to dwell on the past they're negating their relevance now. There have been exceptions. Ray Charles regaled me with tales about his days living in Tampa. B.B. King gladly revisited the old times.
So did Solomon Burke. He laughed constantly, a hearty laugh that spoke volumes about his love of life. He told me that his triumphant album from last year, Don't Give Up on Me, was the first one to ever generate a royalty check. (During his hitmaking days in the '60s on Atlantic, he never got anything more than his advance.) He said this with no bitterness.
Solomon probably asked me as many questions as I asked him. He wanted to know about my family. He became particularly interested in my son, Dan, who's 16 and has uncommonly sophisticated musical tastes. This is a kid who knows the hip-hop underground, will fall asleep to Sonny Rollins' Freedom Suite, has seen Medeski Martin & Wood twice. His favorite album of last year: Please Don't Give Up on Me. (It was mine, too, by miles.)
Solomon was fascinated and delighted by his No. 1 teenage fan. He couldn't seem to fathom that a 16-year-old kid would favor his album above all others. After more than an hour of conversation, the soul legend and I made plans to meet in Sarasota. Me, him and Dan.
The Sniders — Dan, my wife Bonnie and I — arrived backstage at the Sarasota Fairgrounds as John Mayall was finishing up his set. We ran into bluesfest producer Barbara Strauss, who said, surprisingly, "C'mon and meet Solomon." (A pre-show meeting with any artist is pretty rare.) We commiserated with Solomon's daughter Candi for a few minutes while he changed shirts in a rented sedan.
He's 63, a man of immense girth who has difficulty walking. He has a round, welcoming face, a radiant smile and rich brown skin, probably because he doesn't smoke or drink. Seated in the passenger seat, he greeted us with great warmth. We kibitzed about this and that, cracked some jokes; he told a few stories. Solomon paid most of his attention to Dan, asking him questions, making eye contact. Dan told him he only had one grandfather, who lives in Philadelphia and whom he rarely sees. Solomon anointed Dan his godson. He invited us to L.A. for a barbecue. As show time approached, we said our goodbyes. In an uncharacteristic show of affection from my son, Dan leaned over to hug Solomon and Solomon gave him a little kiss on the cheek. "Don't leave without saying goodbye," the singer hollered as we walked away.
The large band launched into an R&B fanfare and Solomon was aided to a throne at the front of the stage. From there, he performed a rousing, feel-good show that mixed select songs from the current album with his old hits and timeless soul covers. The Sniders sat in the buffer zone in front of the stage meant for crew, photographers and a few VIPs. Solomon told the crowd he didn't like being so far from the people. About halfway into his set, he leaned over and handed a couple of women red roses that he'd pulled from a basket stuffed with them. Someone dislodged a metal barrier and members of the crowd calmly filed into the buffer area. A procession of women received roses. Fans hugged close to the stage, dancing, cheering and admiring the man's extraordinary ability to connect with people through song.
After a couple of songs, police approached and, calmly again, ushered people back behind the barrier. Solomon praised the cops for their politeness. Technically, this was a gatecrashing, but one as orderly as you could imagine. During the show's finale, a number of folks jumped on stage and danced. "Where's my godson Dan at?" Solomon asked over the mic. Dan demurred from the bandstand revelry.
After the show, we milled around backstage before approaching Solomon's car. The headlights were on; they were looking to hastily leave. Dan walked up to his new godfather on the passenger side, saying goodbye as promised. Solomon pulled him through the window for another hug and slipped something into the teenager's hand. Dan thought it might've been a note, or an autograph, or five bucks. He held it up in the darkness. A $100 bill.
Dan quickly returned to the car window. "I can't accept this," he said, to which Solomon replied, in a boisterous shout, "You BETTER."
As Dan walked away, Solomon Burke said, "Put it in the California fund."
We drove home stunned. We're still a little stunned. I don't know if Solomon would even want his act of love and kindness to show up in print. I just couldn't help writing about it.
Dan doesn't know what he's going to do with the hundred. Myself, I'd have to keep it, but then I'm not 16 years old. Maybe Dan should put it toward a California trip. Solomon says he can cook up some mighty fine barbecue.
Contact Senior Writer Eric Snider at 813-248-8888, ext. 114, or snider@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Nov 13-19, 2003.