Five Minutes With: Isaac Hayes

Born in the impoverished, rural town of Covington, Tenn. near Memphis in 1942, Isaac Hayes began in vaudevillian talent shows on Beale Street. Not long after high school, he and co-writer David Porter wrote a good chunk of the oldies still heard every day on radios all over the world. In the late 1960s, Hayes went on to a hugely successful solo recording career, creating his iconic Black Moses image and helping to usher in the era of funk and disco. After becoming the first African-American to win the Academy Award for Best Song, Hayes went on to act in movies and on television, eventually enjoying a rediscovery by a whole new generation as the voice of Chef on Comedy Central’s South Park. His life in music is chronicled on the new career retrospective, Can You Dig It? The Ultimate Isaac Hayes, released last fall. Hayes recently sat down across the street from the Stax Museum of American Soul Music in Memphis (on the site of the original studio on East McLemore) to discuss his history, his songs and his success.

Do you think Memphis is a special place, musically?

Oh yeah. I remember when I was in the first grade, our principal had W.C. Handy come down to our school and play “St. Louis Blues” on his trumpet; that was after he lost his sight. Memphis has a big history of music. B.B. King, Rosco Gordon, all those blues guys. Junior Parker, Memphis Slim—you can name so many. Memphis is rich in musical heritage. Gospel groups like the Spirit of Memphis, and the Southern Wonders. My grandmother introduced me to Sister Rosetta Tharp on guitar. That was the first time I ever heard electric guitar.

It must have been an exciting time and place to grow up.

It was—although we had so much racism, and so much blockage. But even in spite of that, we grew and developed. A vine can grow through concrete, and break the concrete.

Your first paid session was here at Stax, filling in for Booker T. Jones on keyboards?

Yeah, I was with Floyd Newman’s band. He was a staff musician who was playing baritone sax, and I was in his band in West Memphis, Ark. When he was up for a record, I came as one of his musicians. When [Stax co-founder] Jim Stewart saw me working, he eased up to me and said “Young man, I like the way you play. Booker T. is going off to school, so I’m short a staff musician. Would you like the job?” I almost jumped! But I thought—be cool. So I said, “Yeah … I think I’d like that.” Then I went outside and said “Yes! Yes! Yes!” (laughs).

When you were working at Stax around that time with David Porter, did you two have chemistry right off the bat?

We had sung with rival doo-w** groups, gone to rival high schools; we didn’t really know each other personally. I had a doo-w** group, the Teen Tones, and David had a group called the Marquettes. Rufus Thomas had a talent show on Beale Street, and sometimes my group would win and sometimes David’s group would. One of us would win about eight dollars, buy some donuts, and walk home (laughs). Then, when I met David again at Stax, he said “Look man, you’re good with music, and I’m pretty good with lyrics—so let’s team up and become a songwriting team.”

We had chemistry, but we didn’t have no hits at first (laughs)! We had to work at it, you know. Every time we’d turn around, we were up in Jim’s office saying “Jim, we got a hit!” He’d say, “Fellas, back to the drawing board.” We had to keep coming back, but we finally struck our groove, and then we just started writing hit songs.

Then we were introduced to Sam and Dave. Jim said, “We’ve got a couple guys coming in from Atlantic Records, and they’re looking for some writers and producers. So all you writers, put out your best wares, and they’ll make the choice.” Of course, they chose me and David.

When you and David were writing those songs, did you come up with the riffs or music first primarily, or would David come up with a lyric first?

Yeah. But sometimes David would come up with riffs, or I would come up with some lyrics. You know, a hit is a hit, and a good idea is a good idea. So if it started with him and the music, I didn’t care, and if it started with me and the lyrics, he didn’t care. We were a team. We almost lived together.

And we hung out at Stax—everybody hung out at Stax. It didn’t have air conditioning, and we had one heater up against the wall, and we froze in the wintertime. All around the heater we had the organ, piano and drums, so we could work the tunes up around that area. And then, when we were ready to record, everybody would go to their respective positions behind the baffles.

What did you learn in that environment about songwriting, and who were you learning from at the time?

Well, we listened to a lot of songwriters: Bacharach and David; Holland-Dozier-Holland at Motown, they were real hot. We listened to Don Covay, other songwriters who weren’t as prominent. Even Ashford and Simpson, they were working at Motown at that time writing songs. We’d just examine lyrics and stuff, because we were learning as we went along. We found our groove. Our music was kind of raw and Southern. You know, Motown had more polish. But ours was very urban, and very Southern. It was wrapped up in rhythm and blues, and blues. And gospel.

A lot of the songs, especially the ones you wrote for Sam and Dave during that period, are based on gospel songs—“You Don’t Know Like I Know,” for example.

That’s right. I got that title from “You Don’t Know Like I Know (What the Lord Has Done For Me).” I changed it to “What that woman has done for me.”

Did you ever feel restrained by the hit-making process?

Yeah. Sometimes we’d put a nice chord in there and Jim Stewart would say [frantically] “Who put that chord in there? Don’t play that kind of music!” Jim was like a meat-and-potatoes man: He wanted the changes I, IV and V—that’s it. We’d put minor 7ths and major 7ths with added 9s and stuff, but we couldn’t do that. I could only do that when I did my own thing later.

See, Jim had a distinction as being known as “King of the One-Track.” And he loved that, you know. Jim wouldn’t change.

Meaning, recorded on one track?

That’s right. You know, Motown had a two-track Scully machine. Eventually we got a two-track Scully machine at Stax, and Tommy Dowd came in and installed it for us.

When you were writing at Stax, did you ever think your solo recording career would turn out to be so successful?

No. The first album I did was called Presenting Isaac Hayes. That was a fluke. At Stax at that time, every time somebody had a birthday, we would have cake and champagne. I forgot whose birthday it was, but [bassist Donald “Duck” Dunn] and I, we swiped a big chunk of cake and grabbed two bottles of champagne and went into the ladies’ room and shut the door and sat on the floor and drank it, and ate the cake. So when we emerged, I wasn’t feelin’ no pain, man (laughs). So Al Bell said, “Ike, I’m gonna cut an album on you.” I said, “OK, I don’t care.” So Al went in the studio and cut the tape on and said, “You’re rollin’.” I told Duck and [drummer Al Jackson], “Ya’ll follow me, man” (laughs). It was impromptu. I named some familiar tunes and stuff, and we just did it. And when we had run through it, Al [Bell] said “I think I got it.” I was half-drunk, so I didn’t pay any attention.

About two weeks later, Al said “Ike, you’re scheduled tomorrow for a photo shoot.” I said, “What? Why?” He said, “For your album cover!” I had to go rent a tuxedo, a top hat and a cane (laughs). It was nerdy picture, but he put it out. It wasn’t a hit, but people started noticing.

Then Al came to me in ’68, he said, “I’m gonna get albums on everybody. I’m planning a big sales meeting next spring, so I’m gonna need some help producing some of these acts.” I said, “OK—can I do my own album? I won’t be drunk this time, I’m gonna do it the way I want to do it.” He said, “Man, you got carte blanche—however you want to do it.”

He said I could do it the way I wanted to do it, so I didn’t have to follow any kind of pattern, any format. So that’s when I started working on Hot Buttered Soul, where I did long cuts. I only did four—two to a side. Because I had a chance to express myself, and try some things, some innovations, you know.

At the sales meeting, various artists performed, and I got up and sang “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.” I got a standing ovation. And the album became a hit. It outsold everything that year. A star was born (laughs)!

Were you surprised?

I was shocked. But in retrospect, you look at it, the trends that it set—you know, even Rolling Stone magazine kind of panned it. But they had to eat crow (chuckles).

You followed that album with the Shaft soundtrack, which was a double album, and the first album by an African-American to be No. 1 on the both the R&B and Pop charts. It was on the charts for 16 months. What was it about that album that resonated so strongly with people?

Well, first of all, it was different. See, I had worked on that piece, that sound, before. But you know, when you’re working in the studio on something, and you find a groove, sometimes you can’t take it any further. So I said “We’ll put this on the shelf and just tag it.” Then when I had the opportunity to do a score, I thought about that piece. I had the engineer recall that tape, and I got [guitarist Skip Pitts] in the studio and said “Look man, I want you to play this same riff, but this time I want you to add a wah-wah to it.” I got on the floor on my knees, working the wah-wah pedal with my wrist, then he got the hang of it and said “OK, alright.”

Then I had [drummer Willie Hall] use 16th notes on the hi-hats. ’Cause [director] Gordon Parks had already told me, “You’re writin’ this theme, man, you gotta depict the character of the leading man, Shaft. He’s always movin’ and rovin’.” So I figured that the hi-hats would denote movement. That’s the thing that first gets you.

To be honest, I first heard that [hi-hat sound] when I played on the session for Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness.” Al Jackson was breaking the vamp. That’s when I first thought about that.

Thanks to your work on that album and song, you were the first African-American composer to win an Academy Award for Best Song.

Yeah. I was nominated for song and score, but I won for song. I was honored just to be nominated, but then to know I won … wow. That meant I was the third African-American in history to win an Oscar for anything, and the first for music. That’s one distinction that will be there forever.

That must have been pretty heavy for a young man from Covington, Tenn.

Yeah, but you know, I didn’t realize the implications until some weeks later, because I was caught up in the excitement of the moment and all that stuff. It was like a big fantasy ride. Reality hit me weeks later.

When you were on top of the world at that point, were you still drawing on your earlier experiences as a staff writer? Were there little tricks at songwriting you picked up at Stax, which helped you make such mega-huge albums on your own?

I don’t think they were tricks—you just had your experience to fall back on, and you learn to trust yourself. See, you know yourself all the time, but you have no idea the effect it’ll have on other people. I just threw things out there. And when you’re hot, you’re hot. That should impinge on your listeners.

The score itself for Shaft, it had some good pieces in there. See, my mind was wide-open. I was never afraid to take chances, to reach. Because that’s what creativity is. You have to be creative, and let that energy flow. I felt no boundaries.

Even before Shaft, I did albums called The Movement and To Be Continued. Those were platinum sellers, too—with only two tunes per side. I had a hot hand. I can remember how I wrote all these arrangements and stuff. I’d lay on the floor in the dining room and just work ’em out.

Then for some time after Shaft hit, everything sounded like Shaft. Everybody imitated it. I thought, “Where can I go for some ideas?” It was me everywhere. So I kind of withdrew—I wanted to keep my integrity, and come up with something new.

You’ve enjoyed a second career in movies and television. Has your musical experience helped you with the acting, or are they unrelated?

Well, when I was a kid in Memphis, we used to do little Tom Thumb weddings, little stage plays and all that. But music can help you relate to the public, help you to come out of your shell. I remember my first performance as an artist was on the d*** Clark show, “American Bandstand.” I was so frightened. I put those shades on; it was like a security blanket. I put those shades on, man—like, they can’t see my eyes, so maybe they can’t see me, you know (laughs). Everybody thought I was trying to be cool, but I was trying to be safe.

Have you enjoyed the whole South Park experience?

Oh yeah, [in Chef’s voice] “I love Chef!” (laughs). We’re in our 10th year. When I realized it was a hit, I was living in New York at the time. I had to go to Connecticut to a video store for an autograph signing. The limousine pulled up, and the line was around the block. I said, “Are all these people here for me?” Older people had all my albums for me to sign, and then there were young kids with Chef dolls! That’s when I realized my fan base was 6 to 96!

You’ve written some of the greatest soul songs of the 20th century. Do you have any advice for young writers that you could pass along?

Well, you have to be honest. You have to have various experiences that you can draw from. Don’t be a copycat—live it, and try to find a way to express it, through music and lyrics. That’s why it cuts through. Let your creativity flow. Don’t be afraid to take a chance. He who dares, wins. David and I found that.

On that corner there, man [at Stax], we … [pauses] … it was so wonderful. All the civil rights struggles and all that, we lived through all that. Those were the best years of my life. But, I won’t say that, because there’s some finality there; there could be some better years comin’, so I won’t say that. I don’t want to put a lid on it (laughs)!