OUT OF THE BOX #24

Clarence Carter (1968)

Out of the Box is a monthly series focusing on seven inch records. It’s an excuse to engage with my collection in a new way, as well as to write about older records and genres we don’t often cover at ACL.

OUT OF THE BOX #24
Clarence Carter ~ Slip Away / Funky Fever (1968)

The last few installments have been very much in the ACL wheelhouse, so this month I’ve selected a soul record I’ve been meaning to write about for a while, Clarence Carter’s debut single for Atlantic Records. Carter had been performing since 1962, first as a duo with Calvin Scott and then solo, but failed to score any chart success until 1967’s “Tell Daddy” (which inspired Etta James’ response, “Tell Mama”). 1968 saw the release of his debut album, This Is Clarence Carter, which includes both songs on this seven inch, “Slip Away” and “Funky Fever.”

I don’t recall when exactly—it may have been in 2014 when I moved to Minneapolis for my doctoral studies—I bought a mystery box or two of old R&B, soul, and funk singles on eBay. I would occasionally slip through the boxes and listen more or less unsystematically. At some point, I randomly put this on and fell for it immediately.

My only previous reference for Clarence Carter came from a memorable line by Talib Kweli on Black Star’s “Hater Players”:

Reachin' past the star status that you grabbin' at
My battle raps blast yo' ass back to yo' natural habitat
So floss, 'cause what it costs ain't worth it to me (Why?)
'Cause I'm the one that these Spice Girl MC's "Wannabe"
But they can't, ain't no points for effort, so why bother?
'Cause your girl calls my name out, like "Clarence Carter, Clarence Carter, Clarence Carter!"

I kind of assumed he was an actor or something, and hadn’t given it too much thought. But from the opening guitar riff and bass line—classics of the genre—Clarence Carter had me hooked. All the more so when I learned this ode to infidelity was sung by a blind man. And perhaps that shouldn’t be so surprising; lest I come off as ableist, I don’t mean to suggest that the disabled should be held to a higher moral standard or are otherwise unable to sneak around. It’s just I hadn’t pictured a blind man singing lines like “I’d like to see you right now darling.”

Marcus Daniel, who had been one of Carter’s sidemen since 1962 (I believe on bass), wrote the song, coming up with the lyrics and the melody one night after pleading for divine inspiration to up his craft. That said, Carter’s band for his full length debut consisted of session musicians, including Tommy Cogbill, whose bass riffs helped make the song a classic.

Born in Montgomery, Alabama in 1936, Carter began his career as a professional musician in 1962, shortly after graduating from college. After a number of singles with Calvin Scott under the name the C & C Boys failed to chart, the duo finally had some small success with the ballad “Step by Step” as Clarence & Calvin, released on Atlantic imprint ATCO Records in 1965. Unfortunately Scott would be seriously injured in a car accident after a gig in 1966, and Carter continued as a solo act, finding success with Atlantic records solo debut in 1968. (After recovering, Scott took up the organ and released his sole solo record, 1972’s I'm Not Blind...I Just Can't See on the venerable Stax label. The title is likely a jab at Carter, who he sued for damages following the accident. Believing the record was poorly promoted, Scott then quit the music industry for good.)

I have a few Atlantic cassette compilations I treasure, with classic R&B tunes from the likes of The Drifters, Otis Redding, and Sam and Dave, not to mention their Avant-Garde Jazz series, with records by Don Cherry, Mingus, Ornette, and the Art Ensemble. But I had mostly just considered Atlantic to be a major label (it’s been owned by Warner since 1967) and didn’t give it much more thought until working on my podcast episode about İlhan Mimaroğlu. The Turkish composer’s relationship with Atlantic Records was perhaps even more important than his association with the Columbia-Princeton Electronic Center, where he studied and worked as technical director and a teaching assistant. In 1971, Atlantic that gave him the opportunity to make a career with free reign over his Finnador imprint. Atlantic welcomed Mimaroğlu to the team, allowed him his imprint to release music that was not necessarily commercially viable but still very important, everything from the work of classical composers to Jean Dubuffet’s art brut, electronic music from titans like Stockhausen to the early work of Suzanne Ciani, and even records from Herbie Mann and Whirling Dervishes. And, most significantly, the anti Vietnam War album, Sing Me a Song of Songmy, a 1971 experimental album with the jazz trumpeter Freddie Hubbard.

Founded in 1947, Atlantic was run by fellow Turkish émigrés, Ahmet and Nesuhi Ertegün, whose father was a friend of Mimaroğlu’s father. The Ertegün brothers had a privileged upbringing in London and Washington, DC as the sons of a Turkish diplomat, but quickly came to sympathize with the struggles of Black Americans. Ahmet Ertegün recalled a moment of intersectional awakening as a teenager, seeing how the figure of “the Muslim Turk” played a similar role in European racial imaginaries. In his memoirs Ahmet emphasizes how he learned more from his Black friends at R&B and jazz concerts than he did in his fancy education. Due to this enthusiasm Ahmet pushed Atlantic records towards those genres, making the small independent label into a major player in the music industry.

But back to the R&B and soul that made Atlantic what it is. There’s something about Carter’s debut that feels untimely. It shouldn’t be a surprise that his career chilled by the mid-70s, unable to pivot to psychedelia like the Temptations, not as funky as James Brown or Sly, and at odds with the rising disco movement. He would enjoy newfound success with the bawdy “Strokin” in 1986, his last charting hit which nonetheless struggled for airplay due to its suggestiveness. That song would later enjoy renewed attention after appearing in Eddie Murphy’s 1996 remake of The Nutty Professor (which, unknown to me at the time, was likely my actual introduction to Mr. Carter’s music).

As is typical of many singles from the era, “Slip Away” wastes not time in grabbing the listener’s attention—in a music industry driven by single sales, a record needed to hook you from needle drop. Sustained organ chords are accentuated by the guitar melody and that great bass line. Carter’s pleading baritone begins the first verse after 15 seconds, prolonging the opening riff, but it’s the brief first appearance of the chorus, running from about 00:49-00:57, with an intensification the vocals and memorable horn stabs, that really seals the deal. A drum fill draws out the tension into a lengthy bridge with more classic horn arrangements as Carter pines, trying to convince his conspirator of “Love, how sweet it is.” The second verse consists of more attempts to convince her to “slip away,” even though they both know it’s wrong. The final thirty seconds allow the chorus to play out, again as that bass line keeps things upbeat. Two and half minutes, a perfect pop song.

I find the b-side, “Funky Fever,” to be less successful. Carter was clearly trying to cover all his bases, with a variety of styles aimed at different segments of the market. And while his voice lends itself to soulful ballads and uptempo R&B, his funkier excursions just don’t hit me. The horn arrangements are solid, in fact the bass and drums hit too. It just doesn’t quite cohere, probably because there’s just not much to the chorus. But your mileage may vary. And in any case, this is a record that’s worth it for the a-side.

Both songs are included back to back on the b-side of Carter’s debut LP, also released in 1968. That album, This Is Clarence Carter, begins with “Do What You Gotta Do,” a Jimmy Webb penned song first recorded by Johnny Rivers in 1967. So to rap things up, another rap association I have with Carter. Both Carter and Nina Simone recorded versions in 1968. Simone’s version gets an interpolation by Rhianna as the hook of Kanye West’s “Famous,” and Simone’s version is sampled at the end.