Happy 25th Anniversary to Lewis Taylor’s eponymous debut album Lewis Taylor, originally released August 19, 1996.
Nature abhors a vacuum and so, it would seem, do music fans. When Lewis Taylor hung his guitar up (in 2006) and called it a day recording and releasing music, those who’d loved his brand of soul music sought to fill the gaps with ideas that ranged from the crazy to the mundane—he had become a plumber or he’d lost himself in the all too welcoming arms of addiction; everything was pinned on him.
On January 26, 2006, Taylor played his final gig at New York City’s Bowery Ballroom just as it seemed he was on the cusp of something special. Catching the red eye back to London, he turned his back on his career and stopped recording. His music always remained available on streaming services though and, indeed, Robbie Williams scored a global hit with a cover of Taylor’s “Lovelight” later that year. He also popped up as musical director and bass player for the band playing Gnarls Barkley’s epic “Crazy” on Top Of The Pops in the UK.
But new music or any sense of visibility as an artist of immense repute with a fan base that included the great and the good? Not a whisper. Not even one.
His decision not to venture further and deeper into America is not uncommon among British acts with some measure of success. To penetrate the consciousness of the states’ record playing public requires a commitment unlike most other markets—it takes months of touring, thousands of miles of zigzagging from coast to coast and all points in between, and stamina to hit the late-night talk shows with all the enthusiasm of a bright-eyed ingenue. Exhausting doesn’t come close.
When he turned his back on what seemed like a future assured of success, he had released five albums. The last of which, The Lost Album (2004), was what had prompted the proposed assault on the US and beyond that concluded with the fateful night in the Bowery Ballroom. It was his eponymous debut album though that began the journey that ended so abruptly at the Bowery.
It is almost a cliché to describe Lewis Taylor as an unloved or hidden work of genius, but that’s exactly what it is. The BBC review of the album called it a work that “everyone talked about but few bought,” whilst David Bowie said of Taylor that he was “the most exciting sound of contemporary soul music with a European sensibility.” So alongside talking about the reasons why the album is so great, it is inevitable that we should visit why it failed to make its way into more people’s record collections.
Given his stepping back from the limelight, it is difficult to find many of his thoughts and opinions about the album and its subsequent performance, but the key resource for learning about the creation of the album is an interview Taylor gave to Soul Jones in 2016.The greatest revelation contained within the piece is regarding the composition and production of the album —one of the most common narratives about the album is that the multi-instrumentalist wrote, performed and recorded it mostly on his own, but this was emphatically not the case.
It has been a common ploy to portray male multi-instrumentalists locked away in a creative mist of genius single-handedly churning out the goods (especially anyone post-Prince’s creative heyday), but here Lewis Taylor was mislabeled. Alongside Taylor was his partner Sabina Smyth and it is best left to his own words (from the aforementioned interview) to describe her role: “She was involved in the writing, the arrangements, sounds and textures and the production. And I didn’t credit her because I was so insecure, immature and self-involved. I would say the executive producer credit I eventually gave her on that album is patronizing at best.” It may be late but his willingness to reflect and set the record straight is welcome and timely given the recent news that they are writing and recording together once again.
In listening to the album 25 years on and reading the scant interviews with Taylor that are available, the things that made the album so great are also the things that contributed to its lack of commercial success. In all of the interviews with Taylor, he namechecks his influences as those early bluesmen of the 20th Century. In Son House, Charley Patton and Blind Lemon Jefferson, he eschews the usual suspects for a soul singer of that era. While it would be churlish to say the songs are 12 bar blues with the hallmarks of those great bluesmen, his stubborn refusal to namecheck Stevie Wonder or Marvin Gaye or Sly Stone (or any others of the soul tradition) mark him out as an artist who wanted to stay fully true to his gut and self-identity, and for whom the guitar was a primary mode of expression.
Indeed, he posited his sense of self as the major reason for his later departure from the music industry. He talked with Soul Jones about his separation of his art and the artist—as he put it: “Where is Andrew (his given name) in all this?” Furthermore, a brief interview in MOJO magazine in 1997 pointed towards the familiar strain between artist and label, as he felt “hamstrung by straighter soul songs” and that he felt “they pushed me into a place that’s not representative enough of what I’m interested in.”
British soul artists almost always struggle to gain the appeal their talents deserve and the fact that Taylor didn’t fit into any of the neat boxes that might ease some of the difficulties resulted in the cult favorite status that it has come to epitomize. Again, he underlined this himself in the same MOJO interview: “I did this Southport weekender and I really felt out of place there, like someone who’d been tricked into turning up in drag. As each song got deeper and more psychedelic, we lost 10% of the audience.”
There are three main ingredients that make this album such a resounding success. Firstly, there is the prevalence of lead guitar on the album. The neo soul movement (that he could be seen to be a part of) often kept the guitar work subtle and clean sounding. Here on his debut, Taylor fuzzes, distorts and (to be blunt) fucks up his guitar to great effect—it is there on album opener “Lucky” and the blistering climax of “Damn.” But nowhere is it more obvious than on “Bittersweet,” as it yelps and shrieks like a wounded beast.
The second ingredient in the heady brew is the prevalence of delicious harmonies. Layer upon layer of Taylor’s voice create beauty that contrasts markedly with the fury of the guitar work. The examples of this are clear to hear throughout the album, but album closer “Spirit” is almost choral in its use of layered backing vocals and subject matter.
The final element, and perhaps most important to me, is the sense of escalating drama he imbues certain songs with. “Track” is one of those that builds and builds to a crescendo that would fit to a tee on Here, My Dear (1978) by Marvin Gaye.
The trifecta is hit on the highlight of the album, “Bittersweet.” The drama starts with the ominous toll of a bell and doesn’t let up for five-and-a-half minutes. The sharp intake of breath in layered vocals only adds to the claustrophobic sense of foreboding and it builds and builds until euphoric release after three-and-a-half minutes when his guitar, vocals and an uplifting key change force the listener out of darkness into light—it is astonishing.
As a mark of how well received he is by others, it is rumored that D’Angelo asked him to attend the Voodoo sessions to work together, but Taylor got frustrated by the sporadic and unreliable nature of the sessions. Clearly that impression still lasts for D’Angelo, as during his Sonos radio show earlier this year, he spoke in hushed tones about Taylor and his songcraft. As endorsements go, that is a diamond clad one.
The news that Taylor and Smyth are writing and recording together is thrilling—maybe this time they will be unencumbered by expectations, crises of self-identity and record label machinations. Without these limiting factors, imagine the magic that might transpire.
LISTEN: