He may be 53 and a man of God, but Al Green still gets marriage proposals every night. In a rare interview, he reflects on a life of sin, soul and stardom. Burhan Wazir reports
The reverend slowly opens the door to his New York hotel room and dispenses his trademark smile. One stoutly jewelled hand is stretched out in greeting. “Please. You can call me Al. Not Mr Green, definitely not Reverend Green. Now please make yourself at home.” He chortles as I silently inch back on to a sofa. “Lordy, lordy. I got plenty to grin about,” he says. “The Lord has been good to me – given me much more than I have ever sown.”
Al Green has been smiling for nearly all of his 30 professional years. The legendary singer hardly ever gives interviews, but unlike most reclusive musicians, he is neither tormented nor shy. Meeting him recently, after a volcanic live show the night before, his grin was wide and mischievous, stretching across his 53-year- old, unblemished face.
He first rose to fame in the early Seventies as a heart-throb balladeer for black America, with a string of hits including Tired of Being Alone, Let’s Stay Together, I’m Still in Love With You, and his tear-jerking rendition of the Righteous Brothers’s Unchained Melody. For the first half of the decade, Green’s dazzling voice sang of both romance and his concern for the faltering civil rights movement. He was a loverman and a party animal. He was black and proud. Then he received his calling, and everything changed.
Green approached the ministry in 1974 after the suicide of his girlfriend. She had tried to scald him with a panful of grits as he took a bath; then she took a gun to her head. Commentators at the time nodded sagaciously at the news; Green had always been quick to savour the obvious benefits of his status. “Fast Times and Hard Life Takes Soul Star to the Altar”, pronounced the Memphis Chronicle. In 1976, Green was fully ordained as a minister of the Full Tabernacle Church in Memphis, where he still preaches weekly to his own congregation.
But now Green is recording what is promised to be his first secular album since the conversion. After 25 years of singing the gospel, the reverend is back preaching the virtues of romance. “I wanna get back to love,” he says. “People need reminding how sweet a woman’s love can be.”
Twelve hours earlier, outside the Beacon Theatre down near the edge of Brooklyn, Green’s immaculately brightened teeth are on constant display. Advertising boards featuring his Seventies image wrap streetside lights and windows. “Want an Al Green top, brother?” asks one vendor. The singer’s face, crumpled on the cheap cotton T-shirt, can also be seen flashing its pre- molars from a church entrance.
Reverend Green has a reputation for treating his musicians like slaves, both on stage and in the studio. (The sessions for Take Me to the River have assumed mythic status – Green ordered over 100 takes of the song.) At the Beacon, he begins his set with a medley of soul songs by Marvin Gaye, the Temptations and Sam Cooke. “They haven’t rehearsed this at all,” he grins, gesturing at his backing band. The crowd laughs; the musicians look nervous. Halfway through My Girl, the drummer misses a beat. Green immediately arcs one arm down to the floor.
“Nope. You got to stop that,” he yells, spinning round to face the band: “They don’t wanna hear that. That’s not why they’re here. Tell you what: drop it. Let’s do something else. You can rehearse the medley later; maybe you’ll have it licked by next week.” The drummer nods sheepishly as his boss launches into Tired of Being Alone.
“I’m always on the band’s butt,’ says Green the next morning. He has had the musicians awake since 5am, rehearsing for a morning TV performance. “I got to keep kicking them into shape. Sometimes it’s like they don’t hear the music, how the vocals have to ride the arrangements. But they’ll be better tonight – they was just warming up last night. Tonight I’ll be on their butt even more.”
He smiles, expecting me to endorse his obsessive pursuit of musical excellence. “What gives me this kind of confidence? I’m a star, that’s why – some people are born with star quality, others pick it up. I always knew I was something special.” There’s that grin again.
We’re barely 10 minutes into the interview when his PA rises, motioning for an end. Green has been singing softly to himself throughout. His voice is still unchanged, effortlessly hitting the top notes to some of the most demanding pop songs of all time. “I thank you for telling me what time it is,” he says, curtly waving the PA back to her seat, where she sits glowering at the two of us. Green leans back and bellows loudly, rolling his head on the sofa cushion behind him. “I want to keep talking as long as the young man is comfortable,” he says, one hand tinkling imaginary piano keys before me. “Are you comfortable? Can I reminisce with you some more? I’m starting to enjoy this now.”
I start to ask another question, but Green hasn’t finished needling his employee: “We’re just starting to have fun here – you don’t want to interrupt us, do you? Now we’re finally getting somewhere. I feel religiousness in this young boy; he understands what I’m trying to say.” He continues to sing to himself – Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On.
He is recalling his days as a sinner. “Lordy, lordy. Yes, there were some parties!” he laughs suddenly, reaching across to slap my thigh. “Almost every city we went to – wine, women and drugs. I remember them well, although I guess I shouldn’t at all. No, I shouldn’t. But I’m glad I went through all of that. It taught me that there is an even higher love than that of a woman. I’m not into the wild times any more: I been there, done that. I’m trying to build up credit points now. Got to get my sinful self into heaven.”
Back at the Beacon Theatre, even as the zoot-suited announcer implored the crowd to welcome the “the Reverend Al Green”, there were frenzied whoops and hollers from the women in the audience as Green toyed with the idea of removing his jacket. The roses thrown to admiring females in 10-minute cycles only heightened the euphoria.
Green’s live show still has all the mischief of his earlier paramour incarnation. Even his gospel numbers are stained with devilish lust. His wordless soul cries, scissor jumps across the stage and unamplified screams see him mobbed by admirers throughout the performance. “Marry me,” yells one woman, clutching at the reverend’s starched white collar. “Sorry, honey,” he whispers back. “I’m no longer misbehavin’.”
“Women expect me to fly into town and take them away,” he says later. “It’s like they all trying to be the one who will make me leave my work in the church and settle down. But I give them only a little of what they want. Perhaps if they see just how serious I am about what I do, they might turn towards Jesus themselves.”
A representative from his record label rises to end the interview. “Gabby, sweet Gabby,” grins the reverend, taking her hands in his own to kiss them both. “I’m so glad you’ve found a home here, working on my behalf.” She looks at him nervously as he poses for photographs, barking orders to his staff from behind a smile.
“I want to make a soul album that has people screaming for the legend of Al Green,” he says, clenching both fists before him. “I want to work with some new cats. Get some of that hip-hop edge to my music.” He fixes me with a wild look. “But none of that shouty rap music, you hear? No, Lord. We don’t need no cussin’ here!”
Green ushers us to the door, exchanging hugs and handshakes. “I don’t mind what people write about me, I got used to their negativity,” he says finally. The singer’s religious rebirth gave black comedians like Richard Pryor years of material. “But send me the piece; I’d love to read it. Lessee if you can write a bit.” He closes the door, still smiling. A few seconds later, he starts to sing.