Temples of Sound:
In the studio with
Ray Charles 1953

It started as just another recording session above Patsy’s Restaurant at 234 West 56^th Street in New York City. That’s where the Atlantic Records offices were, up on the fifth floor, in a small room with a couple of desks on a creaky wooden floor. The walls were covered with plywood paneling, and there was a large skylight in the ceiling. When they had recording sessions they’d stack the desks on top of one another, roll a piano out in the middle of the floor, and set up some chairs, music stands, and mics.

It was May 17, 1953. Crowded into the office’s tiny recording booth were Atlantic cofounder and president Ahmet Eretegun; Jerry Wexler, a former writer for Billboard magazine whom Ertegun was courting to join the company; veteran writer/arranger Jesse Stone; and freelance engineer Tom Dowd. Out in the middle of the floor, seated at the piano, the man they were all there to record, twenty-two-year-old Ray Charles Robinson, better known simply as Ray Charles. He had been signed by Atlantic less than a year before. This was only his second session for the company. On this day a backing band made up of three saxophones, a bass, a guitar, drums, and a conga was also squeezed into the small makeshift studio.

Tape was rolling. Charles played and sang the slow blues "Losing Hand," written by Jesse Stone (under his pseudonym, Charles Calhoun). Dowd treated the pianist’s voice with an extra tweak of echo, making the sorrowful lyrics sound as if they were coming out of a dark cave instead of a humble office in midtown Manhattan. "I gambled on your love," Charles cried, "and came up with a losing hand." Suddenly, the phone in the tiny booth rang. Dowd picked it up. It was a message for Charles. Bad news. Dowd hung up and repeated the message to Ertegun, who directed Dowd to go and break it to the blind man swaying and moaning on the piano bench.

Charles finished the song. Dowd stopped the tape, took a deep breath, and walked out of the booth. He took a few short steps over to the piano and leaned on it for support.

Ray, I have a bad message for you," said Dowd.

"What is it?" asked Charles.

"I just got a call. Someone says your mother has just passed away."

Dowd watched Charles’s face for the impact of these words. He barely knew Charles, and certainly didn’t know his mother, but he felt horrible. Groping in the silence, he asked, "Do you want to stop recording?"

Charles was upset, but not outwardly moved. His mother had been sick for some time. He was paying her hospital bills. After a few more agonizing seconds of silence, Charles finally replied, "It’s too late for me to do anything. Let’s continue."

Dowd walked back to the booth, somewhat chilled by Charles’s response. But it had not been as cold as it seemed. Charles would express all his love and sorrow in an electrifying tribute. If "Losing Hand" had been a shout in the dark, "Sinner’s Prayer" truly sounded like a man drowning in his own tears "Lord have mercy/Lord have mercy on me/Well, if I’ve done somebody wrong/Lord have mercy if you please." Conversely, "Mess Around," written by Ahmet Ertegun, nearly careened off the record’s grooves with maniacal abandon – a barrelhouse romp in which you can practically visualize the keys jumping off the piano, like in a Looney Tunes cartoon. It’s the second line coming aback from a New Orleans funeral.

The session continued a stylistic progression for young Ray Charles and marked another major step forward in his growth as an artist. For years, he had gotten by with a sound based on his idols, Nat Cole and Charles Brown. But on this day, the day his mother died, he took another leap forward in finding his voice-a voice that would electrify popular music and help make Atlantic Records one of the most important labels in the industry.

©Copyright 2003

From the book "Temples of Sound" by William Clark and Jim Cogan, 2003, Chronicle Books, San Francisco, CA.