H.T. feels that if he played with us in bars, he'd be a hypocrite, as since he was preaching on occassion and witnessing for congregations, knowing that he was the reason that anyone fell from grace would crush his soul. He believes that if anyone saw--or even heard about--him playing in a bar, then they might feel that it if this man who preached following the word and will of God was out there playing in a place where the sole reason for gathering was to drink alcohol, then why should this man--this preacher--be believed? Why should his word be trusted anymore?
H.T.'s reasoning--and, depending upon one's interpretation of scripture--or, rather, which scripture one wants to interpret--I believe is sound. The scripture (according to the committee King James appointed to refine and reinterpret the Bible)--in several instances--backs up H.T.'s beliefs and concerns of this matter. H.T. doesn't want to become a stumbling block to those who are weak in the spirit of the Lord. Instead, he wants others to know of God's grace, to feel God's healing hand, but H.T. is also smart and practical enough to know that the drunk guy in the corner shouting "Freebird!" (yeah, it's a cliche, but I tell you, this still happens) is willing to be open to accept the word of God in as long as it can be mixed in with his next round of Jack & Coke. Performing "I Saw the Light" to a throng of merry men might get them up and dancing, but the only saving going on will be when it saves the band from having to play another Hank song. See, for any saving to happen, you've first got to want to be saved. You've got to meet God halfway across the sky. You have to want to see the light.
In their radical reinterpreation of Cheap Trick's famous song, The Holmes Brothers give the '70s dance-rock classic not only a gospel feel, but a gospel reading as well. The first striking change the Bros. Holmes make is in tempo and time signature, as they switch the 2/4 beat to 6/8, and then they slow the song down about four times from it's normal speed, turning a boogie into a ballad. Producer Craig Street then works his magic, allowing phenomenal pianist Glenn Patscha to play his classical version of gospel blues, which comes across as some sort of Juliard hybrid of the ivory work of Floyd Cramer and Charlie Rich.
More keyboards follow, as someone--probably Patscha--eases in on the Hammond B3, and then we're at church. This is no regular Sunday service, though; it's a revival, as instead of the regaliance of a choir, we get the intimate intonations of the special guest singers, that trio--the ones from that Baptist church in Harlem--that the pastor told us about last week, the ones whose voices surely must drift down from Heaven above, for we all know that God sings in three-part harmony: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost--here now on this earthly plane, represented (respectively) by bass player Sherman Holmes's stentorian and authorotarian deep baritone, guitarist Wendall Holmes's gruff and gravelly earthbound tenor, and drummer Popsy Dixon's angelic tenor and falsetto. The three singers together are soul music's aural Trinity (and they're the best trio of singers working in any form of music today).
Street uses The Holmes Brothers' vocals to extraordinary effect, as he offers them supple support that buffets their resplendent gospel stylings in a setting whose arrangement (which I suspect to be The Holmes Brothers' design rather than Street's) and soft-soul backing works like that marvel of human engineering, the brazierre: the arrangement/production lifts and separates, yet still keeps the goods together, close enough to grasp as a whole. What a beautiful package it is, though. The trio's singing here en toto encompasses the major forms of latter-twentieth-century African-American singing: doo-wop, gospel, soul are all present.
Almost as great as the music and singing here is the reinterpretation of the lyric. No longer is this a romantic come-on, an ode to devotion, an invitation to dance. With the production, arrangement, and vocals steeped so in gospel, the words take on an entirely different meaning. What's implied here--and it's implied heavily--is an analogy of God's desire to redeem.
The title says it all. Here the want in the title--the second one--doesn't mean "desire," at least not in the carnal sense. That second want means a willingness to accept, a willingness to open one's self, one's soul, to the power of God's grace. This meaning struck me about the tenth (or so) time I listened to the song. I noticed the focus on the repeated line, "Didn't I see you crying." In the original, Robin Zander sings the line with joy and enthusiasm, and he sings it quickly, rushing through it, the lyric meaning nothing more than a means to a sound (and there's nothing wrong with that per se). In this cover version, the Holmes sing it slower. Yes, I know that the reason they sing it slower is because the song's tempo is slower, but it doesn't change the fact that they do sing it slower, and this slower recitation of the line allowed me to hear the next line, which I'd never been able to decipher before.* "Feeling all alone without a friend, baby/You know you feel like you're dying": the singer sees someone in turmoil, in anguish and grief, and he wants to help her, to heal her, but she has to be willing first; she has to want to receive help, to receive redemption, and in this version of this song that redemption can only come at the hands of the Lord.
That's how I see it, anyway. Didn't at first, though. Didn't really see it in full until after I'd had that aforementioned conversation with H.T. A day-or-two after that conversation, I listened to this song again (and I didn't listen to it because of the conversation), and Shazam! It hit me like an epiphany. Of course, I'm letting my own personal circumstances dictate the song's meaning rather than letting the song itself dictate the meaning. Then again, though, the song's sound does dictate a gospel reading, if at least a cursory one. Street & Holmes & Holmes & Dixon & Patscha didn't come across the sound here by accident. And....
Oh, but I'm rambling. I think. My wife often tells me I do so. I stray off topic, I go off on tangents, I include trivial and superfluous information, and--worst of all--I repeat. I say things again. More than once. A second time. Twice. Repetitively. With repetition, though, sometimes comes a new insight, as a different way of intoning the same message can lead to a different message entirely. It's all in the interpretation. You just have to be willing to hear it.
NOTES
*Despite having had a computer with internet capabilities for close to ten years now, I'm still loathe to google song lyrics, as often what I hear in the song is what I want to be the lyric, whether I'm right or not. To illustrate: about fifteen years ago, when I was working at the local radio station, another DJ (and a great friend, too) and I argued for days and days over a particular line in John Lennon's "Nobody Told Me." The line's from the chorus. What I heard was, "Nobody told me that you didn't like me," and what my friend heard was, "Nobody told me there'd be days like these." Now, as DJs, we were idiots, because it took us at least a week to realize that we could put the 45 on the turntable and slow it down in order to be able to hear what Lennon was saying. We did so, and I was excited, because I knew--as I always did, and as I always do--that I was right. I wasn't. Dammit. My friend still gloats about this on occassion, and when he does, I ask him which lyric is better. He always says that which version is better doesn't matter, but which version is accurate does. I think he's wrong. I think he thinks so, too, 'cause he's never told me that the accurate lyric is better than the imagined one. 'Cause it's not. 'Cause I'm right. 'Cause I heard it that way.
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