Candi Staton may be most associated with "Young Hearts Run Free," the 1976 hit that thrives on the bittersweet contrast between its heartbreaking lyrics and a lush disco aesthetic. The unequivocal highlight of this timeless dancefloor anthem are Staton’s vocals — wounded, defiant, eternally hopeful — just one example of a dazzling ability that defined her legendary, genre-spanning career.
Canzetta Maria Staton was born in Hanceville, Alabama in 1940, and began performing gospel with a traveling trio when she was still a child. 1970 marked the release of a gritty solo debut — I’m Just a Prisoner — with a repertoire that moves comfortably in the fertile terrain where authentic soul meets gospel and the blues.
Staton enjoyed her greatest commercial success during the disco era, but her discography overflows with underrated gems. Her superlative versions of "Stand By Your Man" (1971) and "In The Ghetto" (1972) were nominated for GRAMMY Awards.
The latest installment in her musical adventures, Back To My Roots, is her 32nd album. A mixture of covers and originals, it offers a summation of everything Staton has achieved during the past 55 years. Highlights include memorable duets with the likes of Stax icon William Bell — the 2017 gem "My God Has a Telephone," by Aaron Frazer — and the uplifting "Hang On in There (God Is At The End Of Your Rope)," with singer/guitarist Larry McRay.
Staton spoke with GRAMMY.com about touring the South in the ‘50s, learning to deal with drunk hecklers, and turning romantic despair into a disco smash.
Let me begin by stating the obvious: you’ve never made a bad record. How do you explain a consistency of such epic proportions?
I sing from the heart, and the heart don’t lie. Many years ago, [producer] Rick Hall said that I give a pint of blood in every song, and that’s a good analogy, because I’m never satisfied. I’m a perfectionist, and I sing every single track like it’s going to be a No. 1 record.
At what point did you become conscious of the fact that there is magic in your voice?
I was born in Alabama, and we sang in church all the time. I didn’t realize that there was something special until people started telling me. They would tell my Mom: ‘that little girl can really sing.’ I had a grownup voice at nine.
As a young girl in the 1950s, you toured the country singing gospel. What was that like?
I was 11. It was me, my older sister and another girl — we were called the Jewell Trio. Three girls with ponytails, can-can dresses and black leather shoes. We would get up there with a five piece rhythm section and sing our little hearts out. I stayed with the Trio until I was 17. I got the chance to hang out with Sam Cooke, the Staple Singers, the Five Blind Boys and Mahalia Jackson. They were just like friends, like I’m sitting here talking to family. We were all together.
For Black people, this was such a complicated and unforgiving country. Did that affect your daily life as a touring outfit?
It was such a bad time. There was no integration, so we had to stick together, especially going through the South. We traveled together in caravans, and we would all trail each other.
We had the safe houses on our way, so we could rest, but there were few of those, and we couldn't get into motels at the time. So we just slept in the cars, bought bread and bologna and made sandwiches for the road. The ladies of the houses would always have a big dinner waiting for us when we got there. There were no telephones, so we wrote letters letting them know when we would be getting there.
Was the Jewell Trio popular?
We were like the Jackson 5 in the ‘50s. You have to understand that at the time, quartet singers didn’t have anything except for maybe a guitar. And here comes a vocal trio with a five piece rhythm section. We had drums. They had never seen anything like it. So when one of us would stop singing lead, the steel guitar took over, and it sounded like a voice. It was amazing.
Your early days in music were marred by racism and strict segregation, situations that are unthinkable by today’s standards. But it sounds like you didn’t allow the ugly side of reality to get in the way of your personal happiness.
That’s true, because it’s hard to be a creative person in sadness. You need joy in order to create. So we looked at the positive side of things. It’s OK. God is going to take care of us. We got people waiting for us, and we can’t go onstage with sad faces.
We had to lift people up, because everybody at the time was going through the same things. Black men were being castrated and hung and all that. Don’t think that we didn’t know what was going on. We did, but we couldn’t let it bother us. We had to keep our chin up.
I want to touch on my favorite album of yours, which is 1971’s Stand By Your Man. It’s so incredibly self-assured — everything in it perfectly measured, elegantly balanced — it’s astonishing to me that this is only your second LP. How did you achieve such a mature sound?
I don’t know. It’s just what I feel. When I went solo, I didn’t know how to transfer my gospel to a secular audience. At the time, I had gone through a horrible marriage with my ex-husband, who was very abusive and left me with children that I had to raise alone. Then I married a good friend of mine, [blind singer/songwriter] Clarence Carter, and he took me under his wing. He showed me how to do those first solo shows.
Did you feel vulnerable when you performed solo for the first time?
I was heckled, and ran off the stage crying. I had a little yellow dress on, and stood there looking up to God. The people were there to dance and have a good time. They were half drunk, and one of them screamed out: "Whatever happened to Baby Jane?" It was a reference to the Bette Davis movie, because my hair was halfway down my back. I was a light skinned colored woman with pretty curly hair. I didn’t have an afro. They were booing, and I said to myself: I’m never going back there, ever. I’m going home to Mama.
How did you recover from such a horrible experience?
I was opening for Clarence at the time; this was our second show together. And he said, "Oh, well, we’re going to take care of that." The next day, he called a rehearsal. And he gave me songs. Then I went to California, where they cut all my hair off and gave me an afro. Some of the guys in the band taught me how to be sexy. They took me shopping, and I got a couple of little gowns, because I was about size four.
I remember Jerry Butler standing in the wings one night. After the show, he told me: "You’re not in church anymore. You have to look people in the eyes. You got to sing to them. These people came to see a show. They want to be personal with you." It was a process.
Let’s move into the mid-‘70s. How did you tackle the gradual transition from soul to funk to disco?
It was a lot of fun doing that type of music, because you have to understand that I was in the Chitlin’ Circuit. It was tiny little clubs where you brought your own bottle, and people got drunk. If you didn’t sing the right song, they would throw bottles at you. I remember one night the organ player almost got hit — he had to duck. I learned how to deal with hecklers quickly, but I was coming out of that atmosphere.
Then I did eight albums with [producer] Rick Hall, and most of them were blues. Then I was going to Vegas, and Lake Tahoe, but I had nothing to back it up. But I got a glimpse of what it was like to perform for that type of audience, and yearned for it. I didn’t know how to get in there, because Rick would only do R&B. He never got the disco thing.
But then, in 1976, you recorded "Young Hearts Run Free."
Warner Brothers signed me up and gave me a new contract. They were just starting to do disco. [Producer] David Crawford was in Burbank, and he was looking for a new artist. I knew him well, because I was on the road with him when he was playing gospel music with the caravans. We were working in the studio, and one day we went to have lunch together.
At the time, I was with this guy who was beyond abusive. He was threatening to kill my mother and my kids if I ever left him. I was just sick, and was like, "David, how can I get out of this?" He said, "I don’t know," but I noticed he was writing down everything I was saying. That became the basis of "Young Hearts Run Free."
What was the recording session like?
I had to do some shows, and when I came back to finish the album, David told me: "I’m writing you a song that’s going to last forever." I walked into the studio and this uptempo song was playing — the most beautiful music I had ever heard. We walked to the vocal booth together, and he had written the lyrics on a sheet of paper. Everything I was going through at the time was in there.
He walked back to the control room, and the music started playing. I knew exactly where to come in, I started to sing, and my heart felt so full. I was singing my own story. I recorded it once, and told David that I was practicing. "That wasn’t practice," he said. "That was real." It’s been out for 50 years, and still going strong.
You went back to gospel during the ‘80s, but this wasn’t your average gospel. The arrangements were so progressive.
I just did me. I don’t care what I’m singing, I’m always going to be myself. At one point a label wanted to sign me, but they wanted to record old fashioned stuff like "Amazing Grace" and "Precious Lord." I love those songs, but I wasn’t feeling them at that particular time. I always look to do something from my heart.
Which brings us to Back To My Roots. I was especially moved by "My God Has a Telephone," your duet with William Bell.
We’ve been friends for years. Gosh, we’ve done so many gigs together. We talk about the old days and laugh for hours — you know, there’s not many of us left.
William came over, he sang the second verse and did a great job. We had fun doing it, and I appreciate him. Now I owe him one, because he didn’t charge me a thing. He just said, "How can I charge a friend?"
This album exudes so much joy and wisdom. I’m just wondering how you managed to survive for so long in such a merciless industry.
The Roots album is like a conclusion to everything I’ve done. The song "Love Breakthrough" refers to everything that we’re experiencing in America right now, with so much hate and all this bad stuff going on. It’s not necessary. Our lives are too short and fragile for all that. We need a love breakthrough, because love can always overshadow hate. We’re all human. We all go through the same things in life.