Andre Williams

(March 2008)

Interview, Article and Photographs by Sean P. Lambert

I was walking out of Palermo’s, a fine no-frills Italian joint in Los Angeles, when I spied a flier posted on an electrical box advertising that one Andre Williams was soon to play Spaceland. Andre Williams? Really? For those not familiar with the man, he’s been in and out of the music business for over fifty years, riding the extreme highs and devastating lows of a lifestyle and career that can’t easily be summed up in a paragraph or two of palpable clichés.

With this in mind, Andre might best be known for penning “Shake a Tail Feather,” which was covered by Ray Charles in the brilliant Blues Brothers movie. He also wrote Little Stevie Wonder’s first song “Thank You For Loving Me,” and hit the late ‘50s R&B charts heavy with “Bacon Fat” and “Jail Bait” on Detroit’s own Fortune label. Consider these lyrics from the latter:

It's a rough temptation
But a common invitation
And a good association
But a quick elimination
That will take you out of circulation
Yes, I'm talking about that younger generation

So take my advice fellas
For goodness sake
15, 16, 17…

That's jail bait

Andre developed a street smart talking style delivery backed by gut-bucket soul/funk rhythms that was arguably the earliest incarnation of rap (or at least a forerunner thereof), unashamedly heavy on the kind of raunchy subject matter that will make a sailor blush three shades of red. Andre knew he couldn’t compete with the straight-out singing capabilities of contemporaries like Clyde McPhatter, Sam Cooke or the hugely talented Jackie Wilson, so he adopted this hook more out of necessity to separate him from the crowd. “Bacon Fat,” along with Nolan Strong & the Diablos’ “The Wind,” proved Fortune’s biggest hits, and Andre soon attracted the attention of one Berry Gordy at Motown. Their relationship was destined for trouble, as Andre’s flashy, tell-it-like-it-is manner clashed with Gordy’s controlling ways. Andre was fired and re-hired several times over, acting more as an A&R man, writer and producer than a performer, contributing hits to the likes of Mary Wells, The Chi-Lites, and Little Stevie, as well as The Contours.

Having run his course with Motown, Andre went to Chess Records and recorded some devastating (although widely unnoticed) funk gems like “Cadillac Jack” and “Humpin’ Bumpin’ and Thumpin’.” He laid down a slew of nasty cuts on what would now be considered black indie labels that might have paid the bills and got him some nice gigs, but didn’t sustain him for long. George Clinton requested his services on some Funkadelic and Parliament cuts you can still find kicking around in record crates today. Same goes for Edwin Starr. He was later asked to produce an album for the deviant Ike Turner in the early ‘70s, forming a destructive alliance that ultimately left him homeless and begging for change at the end of a crack pipe. Andre’s life during the ‘80s was murky at best, riddled with personal difficulties amidst spotty side sessions that recycled his familiar themes. Through his own willingness to carry on in the face of his own personal demons coupled with the appreciation of a new stock of fans, Andre revived his career with the release of ‘98s “Silky,” backed by members of the Gories and the Demolition Doll-Rods. It is a remarkably explicit album that finds Andre seductively growling over trumped-up rock ‘n’ roll licks on tunes like “Let Me Put It In,” “I Wanna Be Your Favorite Pair of Pajamas,” and the opening “Agile, Mobile And Hostile.”

It was soon after this recording (while he was working with Jon Spencer on The Black Godfather) that my girlfriend, Jenni Matz, got the idea to invite Andre to do a benefit show she was organizing for the New Jersey freeform radio station WFMU. We had a compilation album featuring “Humpin’ Bumpin’ and Thumpin’” that got some serious playtime on our stereo and we both agreed Andre would be perfect fit for the record geek demographic the show was sure to attract. Besides, she really needed a headliner to bolster a bill that included the Japanese surf-garage-rockabilly outfit, Jackie and the Cedrics, along with hometown legends Rye Coalition. It was an admitted long shot, but after Andre piggy-backed the gratis gala with a paying gig at Hoboken’s own Maxwell’s the benefit gig at the now defunct Brownies in Alphabet City was so on.

We decided it would be a friendly gesture to host a party in our Jersey City Heights pad for the man aptly dubbed “Mr. Rhythm” by the late Red Foxx, and invited all of our closest well-wishers and friends to attend. Our location in the Heights was a bit of a trek for most, but a personal appearance by Andre proved the necessary draw for the overwhelming number of people that showed. Andre, on his way over to Maxwell’s before his scheduled show, stopped by to check-in with the party crowd, dressed from head to toe in a white suit with corresponding footwear that was offset by a remarkable red hat and a matching satin button-down shirt. Spectacular. His driver, Steven, was about as tall as he was wide and spoke in a thicker than thick New York accent. Steven told me later while he was eating some ring-dings (no joke) that many years ago he dated Carly Simon and first introduced Stevie Ray Vaughn to the New York City crowd. “I wasn’t so fat back den, Sean,” he said. I had no reason to doubt him.

Andre held court in our living room on a red and gold couch that Jenni had literally found on the side of the road, laughing it up with members of Rye and all the scenesters that turned out to the only successful party we ever threw at that particular address. Maxwell’s ownership got a little peeved because they felt the benefit show would steal patrons away from their own show, but they agreed to it way beforehand… Sour grapes. Besides, the shows were separated by a full twenty-four hours, not to mention the Hudson River. It took a special New Yorker to hop the Path Train or drive through the tunnel to check out anything in Hoboken aside from maybe Frank Sinatra’s boyhood home, especially in those years. Most of Maxwell’s concertgoers probably worked in Manhattan and lived in Jersey to begin with. Andre sure as hell didn’t care either way, as long as they paid him. Having been burned more times by club owners, labels and the like, guys from his era are understandably wary about the bottom line. Andre and Steven eventually left our apartment, having shared a few bowls and toots while charming everyone with his stories from way back in the day when a song like “Pig Snoots” or “Sweet Little Pussy Cat” could be heard on Chicago radio. I pointed out that thankfully you could still hear them in New Jersey on WFMU.

The crowd cleared out well after midnight. It was maybe about two hours later, around five or so, when I heard our doorbell ring. We were nearly asleep in bed, but I got up anyways figuring it had to be Andre and Steve. Sure enough, Andre had finished his Maxwell’s gig and wanted to see if things were still poppin’ back at our place. Keep in mind, this man was over sixty and was still looking to party long since the rest of us had called it quits. Talk about a professional! I told them everyone had gone home, but they were welcome to join me in a nightcap, which they did.

The following day I met up with Andre at Brownies a couple hours before he was scheduled to go on. My girl was running around attending to last-minute details and generally making sure things were going as smoothly as possible in that packed little club. Steve said while he was leading me down the stairs behind the stage that Andre held firm two rules while traveling on the road:

1.      No fucking white chicks.

2.      No heroin.

I guess both practices had got him into some trouble in the past. He didn’t say whether or not the rules applied while he was at home, however. Rule number one didn't stop the young white chicks with a daddy complex from congregating around him following his set. Although I saw no heroin, rule number two didn't stop a cocaine delivery from reaching his hands while we sat in the basement green room talking about old soul singers he used to know. When the subject of Ike Turner came up, we somehow got onto how John Fogerty refused to play the CCR hits that everyone he ever performed in front of wanted to hear. It took Bob Dylan to convince him that if he didn't play “Proud Mary” everyone would think it was Tina Turner’s tune to begin with and all his other songs could just as easily go the way of the dodo. I don’t know if our chat inspired it, but Andre did a bang-up cover of “Proud Mary” later that night.

Due to his notorious rep for drugging and generally indulgent, filthy behavior, many musicians did not feel comfortable working with Andre. It didn't help that he showed up chronically late to gigs, went off on erratic but playfully disgusting vocal tangents during his sets and fully lived up to his lurid laurels at every turn. In his defense, he said something to the effect of, "Some of the only things I got left was to write and sing about what I've seen, what I've done, how I see the world. So I started writing nasty, filthy, dirty songs."

Andre never would have survived this long in any capacity if it weren't for his obvious musical talent and undeniable charm; the power or quality of pleasing, attracting, or fascinating, which he had in spades from the top of his fantastical wide-brimmed fedora, past his laundered lapels, brass-buttoned britches and down to his awesome alligator shoes. I have yet to meet another performer with his sense of presentation and ability to garner the attention of an audience simply by looking the part. Any artist worth his weight in salt understands that a well-developed persona and simple grooming can add miles to a career. Let's not forget that Mick Jagger (who used the phrase shake a tail feather in the Stones '85 hit “Harlem Shuffle,” where Tom Waits makes an odd appearance on backing vocals and piano) majored in accounting before devoting his life to fronting a band and took awhile before he really established his sassy stage-strut after observing the likes of James Brown and Tina Turner getting down in front of a crowd. Before all that he was admittedly not a very confident showman. Mick went a long way to prove once again that amateurs borrow while masters steal.

If Andre was stealing anything, it was whatever innocence or sense of propriety was left in the minds of the Brownies crowd he sang to that night. What we got was a full-on assault of crass cunt caterwauling and more slimy supplications than an X-rated carnival barker could ever claim. It was stunning. I've never heard the word pussy uttered more times at a show in my life. I guess I should have expected it from Andre, also a former pimp who told me earlier in the night that he at one time had “sixteen bitches kickin’ in my stall.”

About a year later Andre made another New York City appearance at a Club in the Meat Packing District. Through a couple phone calls to Andre’s Chicago number, Jenni and I managed to get our names on The List. Once inside the club, we were even admitted past a tree of a man into the green room before Andre was scheduled to go on. Dressed in a full-on red suit and striking wide-brimmed hat, he greeted us warmly enough before some hot-tempered little man burst into the room and yelled at Andre about a woman at the bar that was causing a scene. Andre jumped to attention and ran out the door to address the situation. It was then I took a good look at my surroundings. I was standing with Jenni in a room that was filled by enormous men in expensive suits. It was a far cry from a WFMU fundraiser. Steven arrived soon after with a little bag of white powder and invited me to a corner. My girl was relieved to find that Miriam Linna and Billy Miller, who had re-released many of Andre’s classic material on their own notable Norton Record label, had walked also just arrived and were equally scared and fascinated by the scene. Steven pointed to the same little angry man that had since walked back from the bar with his arm around Andre and asked me if I knew who “Lucky” Luciano was.

“The gangster? The Godfather?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s his son.”

Granted, Steve was the same 300 lbs. guy that said he once dated Carly Simon, who was romantically linked to everyone from Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty. But again, I really had no reason to doubt him, did I? He went on to tell me that a lot of the actors in The Sopranos that were featured in the club scenes, background types, were in fact actual wise guys the producers used for “authenticity.” I guess the Son of “Lucky” had a hand in that as well, and it’s no coincidence then that Andre appeared as a performer in the ‘04 Rat Pack episode and his song “The Velvet Groove” is on the soundtrack. The tension thickened when the Son of “Lucky” forcefully jabbed his finger into the chest of a well-meaning stoner type, telling him that he could get him a new apartment, money, whatever he needed. Jenni got really uncomfortable and wanted to leave. I felt we were in no immediate danger and really wanted to stay for the show. The whole spectacle was so far removed from anything I’d ever encountered. I had to see how it would play out.

I went over to Andre while he leaned against a wall sipping some rum, asked about his set list and talked about whatever was on his mind, which usually amounted to pussy or music. I guess at heart we weren’t all that different. The Son of “Lucky” bounced over and demanded that Andre tell me what he had done for him. Andre just shook his head, smiled and looked away. The Son of “Lucky” said a second and then a third time to tell me what he had done for him. Not waiting for a reply, he explained in very specific terms how he had revived his career at a time when Andre didn’t have the means to do it himself. Now I was scared, but not scared enough to cut and run just before Andre took the stage, which he did soon after to the inspired cheering of the crowd.

Jon Spencer quietly entered the backstage area a couple minutes later, stayed long enough to evaluate what was going on and quickly left. The huge guys in expensive suits got louder and drank more as their boss did the same. Andre called out on the mic several times for Spencer to take the stage with him, apparently clued-in to the fact that he might be somewhere in the building. I had to get up there myself and tell Andre that Jon had long since left. No matter, Andre put on filthy set without him, intermitted by signature monologues and verbal sparring with the rowdy crowd. Despite whatever distractions loomed, he was in full control of his songs and put on one hell of a show.

So now I’m doing time here in Los Angeles and Andre Williams had surfaced once more. By some strange soulful cosmic intervention (or otherwise competent advertising) I was given a chance to check in with him all over again. I had a few friends that I thought might also want to attend the show, so I called my buddy Sid Brown who, as it turned out, was filling in for the absent drummer of the opening band, The High Society. He told me to get there early so we could arrange to get me backstage and circumvent the whole screening process, which can sometimes get a little tricky if security or management wants to assert itself in ways that may feel a tad excessive.

Proving once again that punctuality is a virtue most often enjoyed alone, I slipped on a suit and tie and arrived at Spaceland much earlier than necessary. I did, however, get to hear Andre’s backing band, Flash Express, go through a few minutes of their sound check before walking to the nearby 7-11 for a bad cup of coffee. On a side note, the guy that decided to pipe in the awful post-sound check music consisting of weird rhythms layered over the sounds of a dog barking and howling at random intervals should be shot.   

Sid Brown soon showed during the audio unpleasantness in his pimped-out yellow VW Bug and got me in free as one of his two allotted guests. Dressed as I was, a few folks mistook me as a member of the band. It was an understandable error as most music writers are failed musicians and most musicians are, too. No matter, my hand got stamped. I was set for the night.

Following The High Society’s set of rollicking '70s era Rolling Stones-like rock, complete with saxophone and keyboard embellishment, Sid popped his head through the stage curtain and motioned for me to get back there. Andre had checked in. Now, if you’ve never been backstage at Spaceland, let me rid you of any preconceived notions that it is a place of glamour or luxuriousness. Sure, the folks assembled therein may be something special, but the room itself is no more than a glorified closet generally full of road cases, a cooler of beer and a few mismatched wooden chairs. It serves its purpose, affording the performers some privacy and storage space before and after a show, but does little more than that. Without objection from anyone, I opened the backstage door adjacent to the main entrance and immediately spotted Andre in a loud satin blue striped suit. Noticeably older, with a few more wisps of gray hair on his head and noticeably trim, he still looked good. I hopped up the stairs and walked over to him through the crowd.

“Hey, Andre,” I said. He looked over with a smile but didn’t recognize me. I didn’t expect him to. “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but my girlfriend, Jenni, got you to play a benefit gig for WFMU back in New York maybe nine or ten years ago. We had you over to our house in New Jersey…”

I could almost hear the gears grinding in his mind, churning through a near decade of memories since we had last shook hands. “Oh yeah,” he said. “What was your name again?”

“Sean,” I said.

He gave me a big hug and we reminisced a bit about his time on the East Coast. He asked about Jenni, who was actually back in New York at the time continuing to film members of Rye Coalition for her ongoing documentary project on the hard luck band. He told me that he had talked to Steven a few months back. When I told him I tried to call his old Chicago number he laughed, pulled out a cell phone from his pocket and said, “Well, now I’m a portable nigger!”

I didn’t get into the Carly Simon thing or even allude to the remnants of the Genovese crime family. There was so much activity going on around us that to delve into the truthfulness of such matters or how they impacted him directly just wouldn’t work. It wasn’t the time or place to dredge up the pains of the past. Despite a cataract in his eye and a “pecker that don’t work without pills,” Andre was in and of the moment, geared up for yet another show. He was all smiles and happy to have his photo taken with as many people that asked him to pose, including myself.

When I explained that I wanted to do an interview, he graciously sat down with me amidst the bustling pre-show activities of everyone squeezed into that small space and answered my questions the best that he could. Hell, I was thrilled he remembered me, let alone wanted or could even answer my geeked-out inquiries given his checkered past and more immediate circumstances.

I first asked about how he got his start with Fortune Records.

“I had $35 in my pocket from my Navy discharge. I got kicked out because I was underage. I went to Fortune because I wanted to know the what, when, why and why of the music business. Man, I recorded all those songs ‘cause there was nothing else to do.”

We talked a bit more about his relationship with Motown and Stevie Wonder. “He’ll always be Little Stevie to me. All my favorite musicians, I trained them. Ike, Little Stevie…”

How did Andre feel about working with George Clinton?

“I didn’t work with George Clinton…George Clinton worked with me.”

I asked Andre repeatedly how the music on his newest release with the Diplomats of Solid Sound, Aphrodisiac, was different than what he was doing with Jon Spencer and company when we last saw each other.

“I’m still original. All the songs are Andre Williams. Tonight I might do some of the new stuff. I’m still doing Silky forever. Everything is either new, off of Silky or The Black Godfather. I want to kiss ass tonight!” 

The last remark caught the ears of his band and they started whooping it up while downing the gratis chilled green bottles of Heineken. One of them called Andre the boss, to which he responded:

“I’m not the boss! If you think I’m the boss, check back with me when paytime comes.”

With that, we agreed to reconvene after his set was done. I then joined the crowd on the other side of the wall and waited for the show to begin. Both times I had seen Andre perform he was much deeper in his cups, along with a few other choice substances. Although his next stops will find him on a 13 city European tour, with an already sold-out London show, it seemed age had finally caught up with him more than I really wanted to admit. It was abundantly clear that his indulgent ways had to be put on the shelf to support a more controlled and healthier lifestyle. After all, the guy was seventy-two and, to his credit, had managed to surround himself with better company than when we had last met, including a documentary team that would be screening Agile, Mobile, Hostile: A Year with Andre Williams (www.agilemobilehostile.com) at the SXSW Film Festival. Tricia Todd, who’s spearheading the project, made sure “Dre” had only one drink before he went on and was a tad suspicious of my initial intentions when I arrived on the scene in my tailored suit and checkered tie. I liked her instantly and I’m certain the lady-loving Andre did too.

The Flash Express jolted the crowd with some heavy instrumental garage rock pounding before lead man Brian Waters went into a signature soul introduction, shouting a lengthy series of Andre’s hits augmented by loud guitar, drum and bass interludes. Andre emerged from behind the backstage curtain as the overhead lights bounced off his florid garb to the sounds of “The Black Godfather,” a thumping, bass-driven groove that set the mood for the remainder of the show. Navigating himself steadily around the drum kit, he approached the mic with ease, grabbing it with a seasoned intensity before diving into the familiar cut with an inspired whoop and growl.

Andre smoked through “Bacon Fat,” “Sling That Thing,” “I Wanna Be Your Favorite Pair Of Pajamas,” “Pass The Biscuits,” “Let Me Put It In,” and a host of others, periodically sliding off to stage right, allowing his band sufficient time in the spotlight. He conferred off the mic between and during various songs with Waters as to what might be coming next, had someone in his entourage bring him a dapper sailor’s jacket halfway through his set and even threw in a few hearty leg kicks along the way.

Andre didn’t have the force he once did, nor could his vocals power past the high-voltage backing band, but what we were witnessing was more than just what some would consider a footnote in the extended history of soul music. Consider for a moment how many of Andre’s kind are actually still with us. For that matter, how many Motown, STAX, Chess or even Muscle Shoals originals can you actually catch up-close in concert? Think we’ll see Chuck Berry at anything smaller than an amphitheater for no more than a sawbuck? Will Howlin’ Wolf suddenly emerge from his resting place to transport us back to when the blues was still considered the devil’s music and convince us that it is entirely so? Andre gives us a direct window into this sonic American legacy, intimating on the raw stuff of sex, drugs, money, seduction and ultimate survival despite the dangers such temptations present. He’s the real deal, unashamed and still willing to invite us along for as long as we can endure the bumpy, wild ride.

I caught up with him backstage after the show to finish the interview. Everyone there was noticeably charged-up amidst more camera flashes and slaps on the back for a job well done. The smell of burning hay was in the air as Andre sat comfortably sipping on a post-performance drink. Feeling reflective and near philosophical, he started in before I had a chance to take the pen from my pocket.

“I see more life. I see more funny things going on.”

Like what?

“What it took just to get here…Problems getting on the plane. Having to take off my shoes, then waiting for my shoes to get through that X-ray machine. By the time you get where you’re going you’re a total mess. I’ve changed. I’m still, how should I put it? A greedy man! I’ve slowed down though to where I’ve got more common sense.”

The scene was getting raucous and the walls of the room were closing in on all of us. Andre was holding court yet again and everyone wanted a piece of his time before he shot off to a late night diner for some food. Despite his insistence to answer whatever additional questions I had for him, under the circumstances there was really no way to squeeze out anything more. While he dusted off his hat and said his goodbyes, he left me with this:

“I’ve gotta pay the rent. If I could…I’d walk. But I can’t. ‘Cause then the gig is over.”