Ge­of­frey O’Brien

Otis Red­ding: An Un­fin­ished Life by Jonathan Gould

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Ge­of­frey O’Brien

Otis Red­ding:

An Un­fin­ished Life by Jonathan Gould.

Crown Archetype, 533 pp., $30.00

Half a cen­tury has passed since the shock­ing dis­ap­pear­ance of Otis Red­ding at age twenty-six, when the twinengine Beechcraft car­ry­ing him and most of his tour­ing band the Bar-Kays to a con­cert crashed in a Wis­con­sin lake on De­cem­ber 10, 1967. For many who were around then, the time elapsed has not al­le­vi­ated the shock. The sub­ti­tle of Jonathan Gould’s new bi­og­ra­phy, An Un­fin­ished Life, prop­erly ac­knowl­edges the pang of lost pos­si­bil­i­ties that ac­com­pa­nied that news bul­letin. It came at a time of much vi­o­lence and protest against vi­o­lence, and was fol­lowed soon enough by fur­ther cat­a­strophic losses. In the midst of all that, it was hard to give any mean­ing to Otis’s death be­yond ran­dom bad luck— although that didn’t stop the in­evitable ru­mors of con­spir­acy and mur­der for po­lit­i­cal or fi­nan­cial rea­sons. It wouldn’t have been the Six­ties with­out such ru­mors. By that point, para­noid dis­trust was well on the way to be­com­ing the cul­ture’s new men­tal wall­pa­per. Buf­falo Spring­field’s “Para­noia strikes deep,/Into your life it will creep” (“For What It’s Worth,” re­leased Jan­uary 1967) had sounded the note early, and by year’s end the be­nign ec­stasies of the Monterey Pop Fes­ti­val, where Otis had per­formed so tri­umphantly in June for what he ad­dressed as “the Love Crowd,” were a rapidly cur­dling rec­ol­lec­tion. Upon his death, the qual­i­ties his fans tended to as­so­ciate with Otis Red­ding—his hu­mor, his pas­sion­ate forthright­ness, his delight in the dy­nam­ics and tex­tures and con­stantly evolv­ing grooves of his mu­sic—at once be­longed to a mo­ment defini­tively passed.

We played those al­bums—The Great Otis Red­ding Sings Soul Bal­lads (1965), Otis Blue (1965), The Soul Al­bum (1966), Dic­tionary of Soul (1966)—ev­ery day in ro­ta­tion, be­cause their open-spirit­ed­ness made rooms more liv­able and walls less in­clined to close in. He sug­gested a for­tu­nate tem­per­a­ment, not in­clined to pet­ti­ness and in­ca­pable of fake solem­nity; able to express pain and frus­trated long­ing with noth­ing of self-pity, and then turn it around—some­times in the same phrase—into a mood of free-fly­ing ela­tion. In the ab­sence of any very spe­cific in­for­ma­tion it was all that eas­ier to make a cul­ture hero of him.

We knew his roots were in ru­ral Georgia, if not from liner notes then from “Tramp,” his 1967 duet with Carla Thomas. Carla: “You know what, Otis? You’re coun­try! You’re straight from the Georgia woods!” Otis: “That’s good! ” Im­pos­si­ble to miss the unim­peach­able knowl­edge that in “Chained and Bound” he brought to the lyric: “Taller than the tallest pine,/Sweeter than a grape on a vine.” There hadn’t been time to find out much. His whole pub­licly known ca­reer, start­ing from the break­through Au­gust 1962 ses­sion at the Stax stu­dios in Mem­phis where he first recorded “These Arms of Mine,” had lasted five and a half years. His pub­lished state­ments amounted to lit­tle more than a cou­ple of in­ter­views in Melody Maker and Hit Pa­rader. Those who didn’t have the op­por­tu­nity to catch him live could only go by what­ever his voice was telling. Ev­ery first en­counter was a mat­ter of reg­is­ter­ing that this was a voice that sounded like no one else’s. The tim­bre alone seemed to res­onate among echo­ing in­te­rior cor­ri­dors, never mind his ca­pac­ity to mod­u­late it through shades of rough­ness and sweet­ness, keen­ing and crow­ing, slid­ing and de­flect­ing and sharp­en­ing. The ec­cen­tric swerves of the phras­ing, the quick­sil­ver em­bel­lish­ments of tone or tim­ing of­fered con­tin­ual as­ton­ish­ment. He stood by him­self even in an era when he was be­ing judged in com­par­i­son with (for starters) Sam Cooke, Ray Charles, Smokey Robin­son, Marvin Gaye, James Brown.

If he stood for any­thing it was the plea­sure of in­vent­ing, of find­ing an un­fore­seen an­gle to launch from or land on, of work­ing with the Stax mu­si­cians— Booker T. and the MGs, with horn parts by the Mar-Keys—to build forms that took on in­de­pen­dent life, the cir­cu­lar coda of “My Lover’s Prayer” or the de­scend­ing vari­a­tions at the end of “Good to Me” or the high hog-call­ing ul­u­la­tion on “Hawg for You” or the mesh­work of in­sis­tent pound­ing and jab­bing or­gan chords that al­most sub­merges the out­cry com­ing from deep in the ca­cophonous mix on “I’m Sick Y’All.” In the pro­longed fade­outs there was al­ways some fur­ther ac­cent or nu­ance, a fur­ther flight of ver­bal free as­so­ci­a­tion.

It hardly mat­tered whether he had writ­ten the song; what he did to “Ten­nessee Waltz” or “Sat­is­fac­tion” was an­other and rad­i­cal form of com­po­si­tion. “Al­ways think dif­fer­ent from the next per­son,” he told Hit Pa­rader. “Don’t ever do a song as you heard some­body else do it.” That sheer dif­fer­ence was the first over­whelm­ing fact. Too dif­fer­ent for Top 40 ra­dio in the be­gin­ning: it would take all of those five years to make much of a dent at the top of the charts, and only posthu­mously did he achieve his first mil­lion seller, “(Sit­tin’ on) The Dock of the Bay,” the be­gin­ning of a fresh phase of ex­per­i­ment stopped in its tracks. Jonathan

Gould has writ­ten an ab­sorb­ing and am­bi­tious book about a life cut short, a life devoid of the melo­drama and self-de­struc­tion that en­liven the bi­ogra­phies of so many of Otis Red­ding’s con­tem­po­raries. He was far from an overnight suc­cess, but from the mo­ment he be­gan push­ing to­ward a mu­si­cal ca­reer—as far back as his for­ma­tion, with some child­hood friends, of a gospel quar­tet call­ing them­selves the Ju­nior Spir­i­tual Cru­saders—he moved only for­ward. He lived by his own pre­cept: “If you want to be a singer, you’ve got to con­cen­trate on it twenty-four hours a day. You can’t have any­thing else on your mind but the mu­sic busi­ness.” He soaked up ev­ery mu­si­cal in­flu­ence in his vicin­ity, from gospel to R&B to coun­try and west­ern. Louis Jor­dan’s hu­mor­ous ca­lypso hit “Run, Joe” (1948) was a child­hood fa­vorite, and it’s fun to imag­ine the seven-year-old Otis singing it, un­doubt­edly in per­fect pitch and with to­tal mas­tery of Jor­dan’s ver­sion of a West In­dian ac­cent. As a teenager he won the lo­cal tal­ent show at the Hil­lview Springs So­cial Club in Ma­con, Georgia, so many times they wouldn’t let him win any­more.

He sang lead with a suc­ces­sion of lo­cal bands, trav­eled to Los An­ge­les where he made his first record­ings, and mas­tered the styles of Clyde McPhat­ter, Jackie Wil­son, Ben E. King, Ray Charles, and above all his fel­low Ma­conite Lit­tle Richard. His ca­pac­ity for mimicry was such that in LA he was able (in a prac­tice not unique at the time) to go out on gigs im­per­son­at­ing the Mo­town artist Bar­rett Strong, whose “Money” was a huge hit but who was not known to West Coast au­di­ences. The in­tense fo­cus of this ap­pren­tice­ship pe­riod can be gauged from Otis’s first Stax record­ings. Early in­flu­ences, Lit­tle Richard’s es­pe­cially, linger on, but he can be heard re­com­bin­ing ev­ery­thing he knows to make a sound un­mis­tak­ably dis­tinct.

From a bi­og­ra­pher’s point of view, a re­cap of his ca­reer risks look­ing like a pat­tern of steady pa­tient progress to­ward ever greater artistry and wider pop­u­lar­ity. The un­qual­i­fied ad­mi­ra­tion and awe ex­pressed in a wide range of tes­ti­mo­ni­als verges on monotony. From fam­ily it might be ex­pected, as when his older sis­ter Louise com­ments: “I al­ways thought Otis was a kind of divine in­ven­tion, be­cause no­body ever taught him any­thing; he just knew ev­ery­thing.” But this sort of state­ment is typ­i­cal, whether from Grate­ful Dead mu­si­cian Bob Weir af­ter see­ing Otis at Monterey (“I was pretty sure that I’d seen God on stage”), MGs gui­tarist Steve Crop­per, Otis’s close col­lab­o­ra­tor at Stax (“Otis Red­ding was the nicest per­son I ever met . . . . He was al­ways work­ing, al­ways on time, al­ways to­gether, loved every­body, made every­body feel great”), or Phil Walden, the Ma­con R&B en­thu­si­ast who be­came Otis’s long­time busi­ness part­ner (“he may have been the most orig­i­nal, most in­tel­li­gent per­son I ever met in my life”).

Gould’s book doesn’t chal­lenge the con­sen­sus that Otis Red­ding was a re­mark­able and re­mark­ably de­cent per­son. In fact it suc­ceeds in mak­ing him seem a good deal more re­mark­able by tak­ing the mea­sure of the his­tor­i­cal cir­cum­stances he emerged from. The known day-to-day facts of Otis’s short life are only part of the nar­ra­tive Gould has framed. Those facts take us deep into the minu­tiae of ra­dio tal­ent shows, fra­ter­nity dances, re­gional disc jock­eys, mar­ginal record com­pa­nies (one of Otis’s early sin­gles came out on the in­cred­i­bly named Con­fed­er­ate la­bel, com­plete with bat­tle flag), the whole mu­sic in­dus­try wilder­ness of book­ing agents, song plug­gers, per­sonal man­agers, and mis­cel­la­neous hang­er­son, a wilder­ness Otis was ap­par­ently able to take in­creas­ingly in his stride. But Gould sit­u­ates these mi­croworlds within a much wider field of ac­tion. To do so he of­ten leaves Otis aside for pages at a time, a ma­neu­ver he ex­e­cutes with great con­fi­dence. None of these ex­cur­sions are di­gres­sions or foot­notes; ev­ery de­tail feeds back into the story he is telling.

Gould’s pre­lude is Otis’s apoth­e­o­sis at Monterey. He was, along with Jimi Hen­drix, one of the only AfricanAmer­i­can head­lin­ers, un­known to most of the au­di­ence, and came on stage af­ter mid­night to per­form a trun­cated five-song set, backed by Booker T. and the MGs and the Mar-Keys. His show-stop­ping trans­mu­ta­tion of the sen­ti­men­tal pop stan­dard “Try a Lit­tle Ten­der­ness” into an ac­cel­er­at­ing emo­tional blowout made him, fi­nally, an in­con­testable sen­sa­tion. It is every­body’s fa­vorite kind of show busi­ness story, the long-de­served sud­den in­can­des­cent tri­umph. This one has been told many times, filmed by D. A. Pen­nebaker, and gen­er­ally en­shrined as a mo­ment to cling to amid the flak and cul­tural de­bris of the late Six­ties. As so of­ten in pop cul­ture his­tory we find our­selves con­fronting the same de­tails again, won­der­ing if these shards can still yield any life once they have been in­stalled in a per­ma­nent nostal­gia ex­hibit. Gould sets the tone for what will fol­low by dol­ly­ing back into a panoramic es­tab­lish­ing shot: “The United States is a vast coun­try, and ge­og­ra­phy has al­ways played a part in the saga of its pop­u­lar mu­sic.” Within a few para­graphs

he evokes large sweeps of ter­ri­tory and time. Ray Charles, Thomas A. Dorsey, Hoagy Carmichael, and Stephen Foster come into the frame. Gould now makes his premise ex­plicit: to un­der­stand the sig­nif­i­cance of what Otis Red­ding ac­com­plished, “it is nec­es­sary to start with an un­der­stand­ing of the cruel and seem­ingly un­yield­ing con­straints of the cul­ture, mu­si­cal and oth­er­wise, that was be­ing bro­ken through.” That elo­quent phrase—“cruel and seem­ingly un­yield­ing con­straints”—sets up the coun­ter­force to il­lu­mi­nate the ap­par­ently ef­fort­less free­dom of Otis Red­ding’s aes­thetic. The book be­comes the story of how he re­sisted con­straint and pushed back against cru­elty, in his own fash­ion and in the terms of his own art. That story will be told, but Gould makes good on his premise by first re­view­ing the his­tory of pop­u­lar mu­sic in Amer­ica, en­cap­su­lat­ing the nine­teenth-cen­tury rise of white black­face min­strelsy and then, af­ter the Civil War, of the black min­strelsy that pro­vided an early pro­fes­sional out­let for African-Amer­i­can per­form­ers—and then go­ing on to ad­dress the gen­eral his­tory of the post-Re­con­struc­tion South, the cul­ture of lynch­ing, the myth of the Lost Cause, the econ­omy of share­crop­ping, the so­cial and racial hi­er­ar­chies of the towns and cities of the in­dus­tri­al­ized “New South,” the im­pact of tech­nol­ogy (by way of phono­graphs, bat­tery-pow­ered ra­dios, and road­side juke­boxes) on the dis­sem­i­na­tion of in­for­ma­tion and mu­si­cal styles. He moves rapidly and lu­cidly through a wide range of events and al­lu­sions, land­ing for a mo­ment on “Swa­nee” (1919), Ge­orge Gersh­win’s jazzed-up nod to Stephen Foster’s evo­ca­tion of the “Swa­nee River,” men­tion­ing that “Al Jol­son hap­pened to hear Gersh­win play it one night in a Har­lem bor­dello,” and then slip­ping back to 1918 to linger on the de­tails and cir­cum­stances of the tor­ture and lynch­ing of a preg­nant woman in Brooks County, Georgia, “near the head­wa­ters of the ac­tual Suwan­nee River.”

Into this larger pic­ture Gould in­tro­duces Otis Red­ding’s grand­mother Laura Fam­bro, born in 1877 to exslaves in Mon­roe County, and traces the pat­tern of her life, as far as it can be known or sur­mised, in the cot­ton coun­ties of Georgia. (Sur­mise plays a large role, es­pe­cially since what­ever pa­pers and pho­to­graphs had been handed down in the fam­ily were de­stroyed in a fire in 1959.) “In the eyes of south­ern so­ci­ety,” he notes, “the pro­duc­tion of cot­ton was the only rea­son for peo­ple like the Red­dings to ex­ist.” He de­tails the ex­ploita­tion of share­crop­pers and the mech­a­nisms of so­cial con­trol hem­ming them in be­cause, how­ever fa­mil­iar it ought to be, this forms part of a story “that the great ma­jor­ity of Amer­i­cans have al­ways been de­ter­mined to dis­miss, for­get, or ig­nore.”

The as­ton­ish­ment of Otis Red­ding’s ca­reer can­not be grasped with­out a full sense of the in­grained, fear-driven, sti­fling forces in­tended to pre­vent such an emer­gence from ever hap­pen­ing. Gould takes time there­fore to track the fam­ily as closely as pos­si­ble, from well be­fore Otis’s birth, as the wid­owed Laura and her three sons, three daugh­ters, and four grand­chil­dren move about Georgia in re­sponse to chang­ing eco­nomic con­di­tions, find­ing them­selves by 1930 in “a three-room cabin on a stretch of un­paved high­way” in a cor­ner of Ter­rell County (later known to civil rights work­ers, we are told, as “Ter­ri­ble Ter­rell”).

Af­ter

Otis Red­ding’s birth in late 1941, his fam­ily moved to the boom­ing city of Ma­con, a trans­porta­tion hub and man­u­fac­tur­ing cen­ter with a newly built Army Air Force depot and train­ing school. This re­lo­ca­tion from the back coun­try to the in­dus­trial com­mo­tion of the war econ­omy, from a share­crop­per’s cabin to a fed­er­ally funded hous­ing project, must also have been a dis­lo­ca­tion. The his­tory of Otis’s fam­ily un­til then had un­folded in a ru­ral uni­verse where, as Gould notes, “their in­ter­ac­tions with whites had been few and far be­tween.” In Ma­con, daily life in­volved con­stant small ne­go­ti­a­tions and tacit es­ti­ma­tions around pre­cisely which lines were not to be crossed. As Otis, still on the fringes of his life as a per­former, grew to be a man of great charm and com­mand­ing stature, he proved adept at turn­ing such ne­go­ti­a­tions to his ad­van­tage, at least by the stan­dards of a time when mu­sic busi­ness con­tracts were ex­ploita­tive al­most as a mat­ter of course.

Otis Red­ding’s story is not one of un­usual trauma or de­pri­va­tion. He came from a tightly knit fam­ily bound by strong be­liefs. His mother, Fan­nie, is briefly but vividly de­scribed by his older sis­ter as “what you call a nat­u­ral woman. She didn’t be­lieve in makeup. She didn’t drink. She didn’t be­lieve in dancing.” His fa­ther, Otis Sr., was some­thing of a re­formed char­ac­ter— pre­sum­ably un­der Fan­nie’s force­ful in­flu­ence—who ended up as a church dea­con and liked to af­firm that “poor is noth­ing but a state of mind.”

Otis, who dropped out of high school and ran with a lo­cal gang, some of whom toted guns and edged into crim­i­nal ways, might early on have seemed adrift, but ev­ery­thing sug­gests that he main­tained a pow­er­ful sense of di­rec­tion at each step of the mu­si­cal ca­reer he be­gan to build from what­ever open­ings Ma­con could of­fer. In the world of 1950s Ma­con, even the most ca­sual and small-scale in­ter­ac­tions of­ten im­pinged on hid­den pres­sures and un­ex­pressed taboos. The grace with which he moved through such ob­sta­cles might make his progress look eas­ier than it ever could have been. With Phil Walden, the young white R&B fan with am­bi­tions as a book­ing agent, Otis es­tab­lished a close part­ner­ship that would also in­volve Walden’s younger brother and their fa­ther, a prom­i­nent Ma­con busi­ness­man. Gould parses the evo­lu­tion of this part­ner­ship in al­most nov­el­is­tic de­tail. The Waldens be­come prime em­bod­i­ments of the strug­gle of some white col­leagues, whether in Ma­con or later in Mem­phis, to come to terms with their own her­itage of white supremacism. (“My fa­ther was born and bred as a racist, as all of his con­tem­po­raries were,” Phil Walden re­marked. “Otis re­ally taught Daddy a lot about be­ing hu­man.”) This is how­ever by no means a feel-good story about mu­tual un­der­stand­ing painfully achieved. Gould goes into great de­tail about wrong­headed pre­sump­tions and wish­ful self-con­grat­u­la­tion on the part of some who felt they had done Otis a fa­vor by as­sist­ing his ca­reer, when the fa­vor—of let­ting oth­ers share the prof­its of his tal­ent—ran quite the other way. As Otis’s celebrity ex­tended far be­yond Ma­con, with his name be­ing dropped by John Len­non and Mick Jag­ger and Bob Dy­lan, he re­mained closely tied to the city and the re­gion. Hav­ing achieved a suc­cess that would have al­lowed him to live wher­ever he wanted, he didn’t choose to move to larger cities, although by then he had spent years per­form­ing in New York and Los An­ge­les and Chicago and, more re­cently, London and Paris. He de­ter­mined rather to go back to the deep coun­try his par­ents had left be­hind, buy­ing a 270-acre prop­erty re­mote even from Ma­con, in an un­der­pop­u­lated area near Round Oak, Georgia, hav­ing care­fully sounded out nearby white res­i­dents and de­ter­mined that he would not be un­wel­come, and set­tling with his wife, Zelma, and their chil­dren at the “Big O Ranch.” A pub­lic­ity photo of him on horse­back on a wooded path, taken a few months be­fore his death, seems far re­moved from a pro­fes­sional life that had con­sisted for five years of re­lent­less tour­ing in­ter­rupted only oc­ca­sion­ally by in­tensely com­pressed record­ing ses­sions.

It is as­ton­ish­ing to re­al­ize what a rel­a­tively small per­cent­age of Otis Red­ding’s time was de­voted to mak­ing the records that pre­serve his art. Once he had cut his first hits for Stax—“These Arms of Mine” in 1962, “Pain in My Heart” a year later—he was mostly on the road. His new celebrity took him to the fa­mous the­aters whose names he would tick off in his won­der­ful ver­sion of “The Huck­le­buck”: the Royal Pea­cock in Atlanta, the Har­lem Square Club in Miami, the 5- 4 Ball­room in Los An­ge­les, the 20 Grand Club in Detroit, the Howard in Wash­ing­ton, D.C., the Apollo in New York. As his fan base ex­panded to in­clude white hip­sters and rock celebri­ties, he cut a live al­bum at LA’s Whisky a Go Go be­fore em­bark­ing as the head­liner of the Stax-Volt Re­vue on an en­thu­si­as­ti­cally re­ceived Euro­pean tour. (A video of an Oslo con­cert in April 1967 is a re­mark­able record of the oc­ca­sion.) In near-con­tin­u­ous tour­ing he evolved from a phys­i­cally re­strained per­former fo­cused on pro­duc­ing those for­mi­da­ble vo­cal tones—he was, fa­mously, not much of a dancer—to some­one who dom­i­nated a stage, ex­tract­ing the­atri­cal power from songs like “Try a Lit­tle Ten­der­ness” and ratch­et­ing up the tempo on num­bers like “I Can’t Turn You Loose” to the point where even the MGs had trou­ble keep­ing up. The live record­ings are of­ten mag­nif­i­cent, but it was in the Stax record­ing stu­dio that he did his great­est work. Per­haps be­ing re­united for brief in­ter­vals with the MGs and the Mar-Keys, af­ter tour­ing with other mu­si­cians, pro­vided the adren­a­line that made it pos­si­ble to record a mas­ter­piece of an al­bum such as Otis Blue in less than forty-eight hours, with the mu­si­cians tak­ing time out in the mid­dle of the ses­sion to go play their usual lo­cal gigs. In the live record­ings Otis works the au­di­ence with over­pow­er­ing en­ergy. In the stu­dio he sings to the other mu­si­cians—and to him­self, seem­ing to sur­prise him­self with the ef­fects as he cre­ates them. He takes apart the lines of songs and breaks them into frag­ments that he holds up and ex­am­ines to sa­vor their newly re­vealed power. The rap­port he elicited from Booker Jones, Steve Crop­per, and the rest has been am­ply at­tested to; just lis­ten­ing to the records is tes­ti­mony enough. (Among the great plea­sures of Gould’s book are his very con­sid­ered as­sess­ments of each of Otis’s al­bums, track by track.) Be­neath ev­ery­thing is the duet he main­tains with the MGs’ great drum­mer Al Jack­son Jr. Otis is never “backed” by the mu­si­cians; he’s in the mid­dle, re­spond­ing and di­rect­ing. Un­able to read mu­sic and not a vir­tu­oso on any in­stru­ment but his voice, he was able by singing the parts to or­ga­nize com­plex in­stru­men­tal ar­range­ments that might be recorded on the spot. The Stax ses­sions for the most part did not in­volve over­dub­bing or splic­ing frag­ments to­gether; they were as­sem­bled in place and recorded in real time.

A fi­nal note on lyrics: Otis was known for his ca­sual ap­proach to the words of songs, im­pro­vis­ing new lyrics for his ver­sion of the Rolling Stones’ “Sat­is­fac­tion” and, in Gould’s view, botch­ing Sam Cooke’s fi­nal mas­ter­piece “A Change Is Gonna Come” by gar­bling the nar­ra­tive. For Gould, it was only grad­u­ally that Otis fully ap­pre­ci­ated the im­por­tance (com­mer­cially as well as aes­thet­i­cally) of lyri­cal co­her­ence, an ap­pre­ci­a­tion ev­i­dent in the con­trol of “The Dock of the Bay.” On the other hand, what Otis did with lan­guage right from the be­gin­ning was cen­tral to his art: those eli­sions, un­ex­pected em­phases, dis­tor­tions, those diminu­tives that en­larged (“a lit­tle pain in my heart”), those in­spired bursts of non­sense and sound ef­fects mark­ing the very edge of lan­guage and seek­ing to go be­yond it. Lan­guage was only one of the things he was al­ways tak­ing apart and putting back to­gether again, dif­fer­ently.

Otis Red­ding per­form­ing at the Monterey Pop Fes­ti­val, June 1967

Nina Si­mone and Otis Red­ding at the Na­tional As­so­ci­a­tion of Ra­dio An­nounc­ers Con­ven­tion, Atlanta, 1967

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