By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
"Play it for me, Little Beaver!" Joss Stone breathlessly calls out in the middle of her new song "Super Duper Love." It's a command that hasn't been heard on a record in nearly 30 years, but the stinging guitar notes sound just as fresh as the chugging, Southern-fried organ groove that pumps away underneath -- courtesy of two other living legends of Miami soul, keyboardists Latimore and Timmy Thomas.
You'd never know that Willie "Little Beaver" Hale's hands are more preoccupied these days with the intricacies of the county's Tri-Rail train system. Or that Thomas's regular audiences have moved from Overtown's fabled Harlem Square Club to the Miami public-school classroom where he teaches. And unseen, but conducting the entire session with the type of physical energy that would give Leonard Bernstein a heart attack, is co-producer Betty Wright -- cherished by singers such as Jennifer Lopez and Gloria Estefan who've hired her for vocal coaching, yet unknown to most of those same stars' fans.
All four figures were key architects of the original "Miami Sound" -- the early-Seventies scene that gave the nation such genre-defining (and irresistibly hip-shaking) hits as Gwen McRae's "Rockin' Chair," husband George's "Rock Your Baby," Wright's "Clean Up Woman," and Thomas's "Why Can't We Live Together?" The vocalists may have changed on those singles, but just as the Funk Brothers were the anonymous band behind Motown's many crooners, and Booker T. and the MG's powered Stax Records' varied R&B shouters, Miami's flagship Alston and TK imprints continually utilized the same core group of players. The result, a signature South Floridian vibe, featured easygoing rhythms that were smooth but never slick -- and with just the right amount of sass creeping up between the clipped riffs.
The impetus for the Miami Sound's return to wax (or digitized compact disc, as the case may be today) is a sixteen-year-old British girl, Joss Stone, whose record label (the EMI-distributed S-Curve) is determined to create a homegrown answer to Cuba's Buena Vista Social Club. Just substitute Miami's forgotten legends of funk for Havana's similarly sidelined sonmasters. Except that the booming voice fronting this old-school revival is the jarring epitome of blue-eyed soul.
"People look at her long blond hair, and then they hearthat voice," Betty Wright chuckles, conjuring up a mental image of Stone, whose clean-cut visage would appear better suited to a duet with Britney Spears than to belting out classic soul numbers with an at-times moving sense of authority.
"Elderly black people are the worst," Wright continues, recalling Stone's performance at downtown Miami's Tobacco Road a few weeks ago. "They all came up afterwards and asked me" -- Wright adopts a conspiratorial sotto voce -- "'Betty, just tell me, is she really white? That's your light-skinned niece, now tell the truth.' I just say, 'That girl is born with that!'"
It's a response Stone herself is growing accustomed to. Speaking with Kulchur by phone from her home in Devon, England, she remembers the reaction when she walked into North Miami's the Hit Factory/Criteria studio to begin recording her debut album, The Soul Sessions. Wright had assembled her cast of soul veterans, rounded out by Lenny Kravitz's drummer and bassist, Cyndi Blackman and Jeff Daley, themselves slavishly devoted to reproducing that classic Seventies feel, down to their bell-bottom jeans and analog tube amplifiers. But whoever they might have been expecting to stride through the studio door, it sure wasn't Stone.
"They looked a little shocked at first," Stone laughs. "This little white English girl -- she ain't gonna be able to sing!" But once she grabbed the microphone ...
"It's not about color," she insists, "and I think everybody came to realize that. This is soul music -- what, don't I have a soul?"
Perhaps more surprising than Stone's facility at hitting those high notes is the ease with which she invests them with bona fide emotion. Throughout The Soul Sessions's nine covers of soul obscurities (as well as a slinky, molasses-paced overhaul of the White Stripes' garage-rock roarer, "Fell in Love with a Girl"), the common theme is men -- of the lyin' and cheatin' kind. But how does a sixteen-year-old living in rural England know so much about heartache?
"I've been through it, man!" Stone retorts good-naturedly. "Just because I'm sixteen doesn't mean I sit in my room. I do get out!" And take it from her (Mama Stone, please stop reading here), teenage lotharios are no less cruel than their older brothers. "I can relate to a lot of the lyrics I'm singing," she adds, pausing for a world-weary sigh. "Believe me."
With the imminent release of her album, upcoming television appearances are already set for Letterman, Conan O'Brien, and ABC's Good Morning America. Add in a U.S. tour and Stone's September schedule is full. So much for childhood.
Be honest: Is promoting this album just an excuse to get out of school?
"Aw, hell yes!" Stone hollers into the phone. "Oh my gawd, I hate school!" she gushes as the wizened diva quickly disappears from her tone. "You have to get up early in the morning -- that's bad enough. But then you have to go to school? It's torture!"