By Sam Levin
By Sam Levin
By Sam Levin
By Jessica Lussenhop
By Sam Levin
By Timothy Lane
By Sam Levin
By Dennis Brown
Without connections, 7Fourteen would have a tough time getting their phone calls returned, much less placing Carla Carter's songs on million-sellers.
"It's like the U.S. Open," says Melina, his mind turning to tennis. "Try walking in as a wild card. The song has to be awesome. Good ain't good enough. Great is OK. If you think it's great, then sit for a week and think how you can make it classic, awesome, inevitably a standard."
Not long ago Carla Carter was working in the Juniors department at Dillard's at Westfield South County mall and writing songs in her spare time. Her contract with 7Fourteen includes only small financial advances, not enough to make ends meet. When she had to make a songwriting trip west, she'd have to ask the department store for days off. That ended in May, when 7Fourteen's demands outstripped Dillard's financial hold and Carter quit to make music full-time.
Carter's first big break had come at Lambert-St. Louis International Airport and she wasn't even there. Her mother, Joyce McCowan, worked for American Airlines and was at the ticket counter when members of the Philadelphia rap group the Roots showed up, fresh from a show at the Pageant with Chicago rapper Common. McCowan noticed one member of the group, Kelo Saunders, who was plunking his keyboard while waiting to board.
She got him a good seat on the plane, McCowan remembers, and then, after exchanging pleasantries, told Saunders her daughter was a singer and songwriter.
Saunders gave McCowan his phone number. Not five minutes later, Carter called and sang to him as he boarded his flight.
"If she was really a singer and a songwriter, she would call, and I would hear her," Saunders says in retrospect. "Sometimes you just gotta give [people] a shot.
"She was like a little hummingbird," he adds. "She has a very beautiful voice."
Saunders invited Carter to Philadelphia. She came two weeks later (with her mother as chaperone) and stayed for two months, working with Saunders and Roots drummer ?uestlove, and sleeping in the guest room Erykah Badu used before she went platinum. Through Saunders Carter met platinum-selling producer Scott Storch, whose hits include Beyoncé's "Baby Boy" and Justin Timberlake's "Cry Me a River."
McCowan is recounting the tale in the dining room of the single-story shotgun house, painted pea-green on the outside, where her mother, Jannie Haynes, lives on North Sarah Street. Haynes, whose late husband was a Baptist minister, says many of her fifteen children learned to play music and passed along the art to their own kids. "We played at a funeral in Chicago and someone said, 'You all should get a bus and go on tour,'" she says.
Carter says she took piano and violin lessons as a child, but when she took up voice lessons, something clicked.
A younger sister, Carly, whom everyone calls Miss B, made up songs for them to sing. "[Carla] didn't have any interest in writing songs until her sophomore year of high school," says Carly.
To this day Carla insists her sister is the better songwriter, and Carly doesn't deny it.
Carter's best songs, like "Fool for Some Love," address common pop themes but do so from the point of view of a young woman who grew up on the north side. A slow confessional, "Fool" begins with a creeping rhythm, followed by a bluesy guitar riff. A Hammond B3 organ hums in the background as Carter outlines "all that ghetto shit" she did for love. "He got me turning into that girl I said I would never be, and that ain't even half of it, ladies. I was a fool for some love.... I checked his phone, I kicked his door, I bleached his clothes.... I've been running in the streets looking for this fool, feeling real stupid, don't know what to do," she admits, then confesses, "And I would do it again."
It's that persona Alan Melina is looking to harness. The Billboardcharts are filled with female divas in need of songwriters. On top of that, black-oriented R&B material often crosses over onto the pop charts and reaches far beyond the urban centers where it's created.
"The hood is popular right now," says Carter. "Everybody knows about what's going on in the hood. Even if you're from Chesterfield, you think you're tough, so you'll sing a song about the hood and feel tough."
A very large bouncer has just denied Todd and Karrie Butterfield entry to the VIP room.
Only moments ago the couple the only white, middle-aged faces in a sea of twentysomething hip-hop fans was holding hands like newlyweds, wending through the packed dance party at Dreams, a nightclub on Washington Boulevard just north of the Saint Louis University campus.
Now, as Karrie flashes her best sincere smile, Todd, dressed in baggy jeans and color-coordinated baseball cap and sneakers, presses his case. Da Banggaz314, the group that just closed out a roof-raising live performance downstairs?
I might just thump his ass, I might just jump his ass He keep on bullshitting, I might just thump his ass Ain't no bitch in me, nigga! Ain't no bitch in me, nigga!
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