the back-up singer

He was one of two guys from North Carolina singing background, nice and sweet, for a young and, honestly, forgettable new soul band that was the first opener of the evening. Probably first time in New York, his voice had just enough depth, adorned with the scratch that comes with age. Before I took his photograph I thought he was in his twenties. He is not in his twenties. And he is not on top. He drank after the set, and sat at the table with the rest of the band, but invisible, dislodged from the conversation. The others were younger, and talked around him, leaning back in their chairs so that he wouldn't disrupt their eye contact. It didn't bother him. He seemed used to it.

The Revelations came on and, as is the case now in this Post Daptones world, the band is entirely made up of young white Jews. That's not completely true. If they aren't young Jewish Columbia-University-graphic-novel-by-Daniel-Clowes types then they are willowy Mid-westerners with short hair, parted long over their eyes, or maybe bearded and, most likely, the proud (but not showy) owners of a record collection that takes up an entire wall of their shared apartment on a quiet block in Humboldt Park. They care deeply about their coffee. But sometimes drink tea. Their vinyl shrine is dedicated to singers most people don't know about, including the tea drinking young man's Lutheran parents.


So race matters still and in completely new ways in this particular corner. The music is very much a 'white man's' game, but the singer and spot light remains the 'black man's' place. The Revelations work with a performer that would probably have been voted off Idol during the first Hollywood week. Not horrible, but not good, and certainly not a star.

But here this band stood, and this singer stood, playing gracious host on the stage with a true giant. Fifty years in the business but standing straight and strong with a muscularity and spirit that could knock a man down. And here he is, after so many years and songs and cities and clubs and women and drink - surviving it all - yet the airlines lose his luggage. He's forced to work up a secondary income with a dry cleaning business. Few people know his name. He is owed thousands and thousands of dollars in royalties. He has to tip toe around instruments and amps on stage rather than walk a clear straight path to his damn microphone. He has to put up with major and minor disrespect on a number of levels unfit for a man of his stature. He was, unbelievably, an opening act of the night.

And yet as Otis Clay sang, belted, cajoled, howled, shrieked, conjured, whispered, and lived out the lyrics of his unforgettable songs and unfathomably beautiful and graceful performance, these young white men stood on the stage with greatness, and basked in the experience, his source taking them to a level they would not dream of reaching on their own and would remember for the rest of their lives. They met their maker, right then and there. And that infinite well they were able to tap into, that root of pure energy was owned - and generously offered to them, to us - by the one great man in this town that night. And that is power.