" 'Just Out of Reach' was the first country song by a black artist, but the country music was given to me because they had nothing else for me to do," Burke recalls. "At that point, I couldn't do rhythm and blues for Atlantic, and I guess they were trying to find a way to keep me in my recording contract, so they just gave me country. And the country record became a big hit, so they had to continue to give me songs to sing." By the time Burke stopped recording for Atlantic in 1968, he had 15 singles that had made the R&B charts -- one, "Got to Get You off My Mind," went as high as number one, and two others, "Tonight's the Night" and "If You Need Me," came in close seconds -- and 14 that had made the pop charts. Though he never received the acclaim bestowed on such men as Wilson Pickett, Otis Redding, James Brown and Sam Cooke, Burke was their equal and then some. Even now, performing at festivals, Burke proves he still has that indescribable, indestructible something that turns sinners into preachers and heathens into believers.
Although the history books make it appear that Burke dropped off the face of the earth after leaving Atlantic, he did continue to record for a series of labels, the output ranging from the sublime to the merely adequate. Like all soul singers who sacrificed artistic and financial control for the opportunity to get into the studio, Burke doesn't know what has happened to much of his work: The 1978 album Let Your Love Flow, which contains the immortal "Sidewalk, Fences and Walls," has been reissued dozens of times without Burke's knowledge or approval.
Regardless, he couldn't be kept quiet: Burke's two albums on Rounder Records's Black Top subsidiary -- 1988's in-concert Soul Alive! and 1993's marvelous Soul of the Blues -- and his hard-to-find gospel records on the Savoy label proved he wasn't quite ready for a place in his mortuary.
That brings Burke back to The Definition of Soul, a family affair that features his sons Solomon Jr. and Selassie and daughters Candy and Elizabeth and Wexler himself -- not to mention Little Richard. And if The Definition of Soul isn't the definition of a legend, if its synthesized strings and prefabricated horns often sound far smaller than the man singing over them, that's because Burke's still got the punch (the closer, "Nobody but You," could well have been cut in one of his churches, Burke howling to a woman or to his God). The speed bag's just gotten heavier, that's all.
"It's a new day," Burke says. "I want the old sound, but my son says you've got to have the new sound with the old sound. The old sound's better to me. I believe in the horns, and I believe in the live bass player, but when you see things work for other artists, you ask yourself, 'What's happening?' ... When we go out on these live performances, the people want to hear the old songs. You wonder, 'What else can I do?' I just can't keep singin' these old songs. I just can't go in the studio and record the old songs over and over again. I've already done that five times."
The service is over, and Burke has steered his entourage into a crowded Chinese restaurant. Burke orders for the table, getting a little of everything and a lot of something. The waiter winds up bringing giant bowls filled with soup and plates heaping with fried shrimp, steamed fish, sauteed scallops, marinated beans -- a feast with enough left over for everyone. But before anyone can touch the food, Burke blesses it: "My father, we thank you for the food we're about to receive and the food we have received. May it strengthen our hearts, minds, souls and bodies...."
Stories have long circulated about Burke's generosity, about how he'll put so much money in the collection plate it'll literally overflow with bills or treat his band as though they were members of his family. Everything about him is larger than life, and his kindness is sometimes equal to his jacket size.
During dinner, he tells the waiter -- his voice reduced to a slight whisper -- to bring him the check of the man sitting at the next table. That man is none other than Ron O'Neal, the legend who was and forever shall be Superfly, and he and Burke go way back. Burke and O'Neal visit for a while, talking business and friendship. Their words are warm, and they shake hands and pat each other's back often.
"I want him to play me," Burke says when O'Neal walks away, referring to the life story he'd someday like to turn into a film.
"My time will come," Burke says, his voice tinged with a little modesty, perhaps more than a little frustration. "A lot of the people in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame are not around. A lot of people that have accomplished a lot of things or gotten recognition, they're not around. So I thank God for the longevity. I thank Him for extending my life and my career little by little, step by step, day by day. When my time comes, if it's for me, it's for me. It doesn't matter to me. I'm happy to see it happen for other people. I'm happy to see it happen for my friends, because I'm blessed. I'm wealthy with God's graces. Look at my kids. They all walk, talk, see, hear, with two legs, two arms, two eyes. C'mon -- I'm blessed!
