We’re living in a golden age for music documentaries — probably the golden age. In an effort to satiate our bottomless thirst for content and to prop up their subscriptions, streaming services have gone wild for music docs. Graciously, that frenzy is what made “Get Back” possible. But “Get Back” was only the tip of the iceberg. Beneath its glorious sheen are piles and piles of other films. There was “Summer of Soul,” which won an Oscar and rescued footage that was too important to stay boxed away. There was that Sinéad O'Connor one. The Ronnie James Dio one. The King Crimson one. And those were just the docs I watched in 2022. In 2021, there was The Sparks doc. The Alanis one. The Poly Styrene one. Oh -- the Todd Haynes Velvet Underground movie was amazing. God, there were so many. During the first wave of COVID, in 2020, I watched the one about Karen Dalton. I definitely watched The Go-Go’s one. The Shane MacGowan one and the Tiny Tim one. And this is to say nothing of the Juice WRLD movie or the Charli XCX one or the dozens of others I completely missed (Jennifer Lopez) or skipped (Shawn Mendes). 

With each press of the play button, however, I became more and more curious about the music doc that had not been made. The one about the pioneering, bi-racial band who modernized Rhythm and Blues. The band who combined Ike Turner with Link Wray, by way of Jazz and Gospel music. The one that made Otis Redding possible. The house band for Stax Records. The one with the bandleader who would go on to become “Mister Fix It” for Willie Nelson and Bill Withers and Rod Stewart and, eventually, Matt Berninger. The one whose guitarist was the axeman that John Lennon and John Prine coveted. Yes, that band -- half of whom went on to become Blues Brothers and whose drummer was shot by his wife and then, shortly thereafter, murdered as part of an unsolved mystery that pointed directly back to that same wife. The band who was covered by The Clash and Liquid Liquid and sampled by literally Hip Hop emcee since Roxanne Shanté.

Booker T. and the M.G.’s are likely the most undocumented, great band in the history of pop music. In addition to the dozens of music docs that I’ve watched over the last few years, I’ve also read tomes about The Replacements and Yo La Tengo and the 1970s CBGBs scene, among others. Curiously, there is only one book about Booker T. Jones Jr. That is his own autobiography. It’s the story about a middle class boy, who grew up in the not so easy streets of Memphis and was also a musical prodigy. He could play stringed instruments and wind instruments and, of course, anything with a keys on it. He wrote a number one, R&B hit when he was seventeen and spent the better part of the next five years shuttling between Stax Studios, where he made music for Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, Rufus and Carla Thomas, and Indiana University, where he played in the college band. 

How does this happen? But also, how was Booker T. & the M.G.’s even possible? How did they make those sounds? How did they -- one day -- just stop? And how come their story has barely been told? No movies. Well, that’s not entirely true. There are several Stax Records documentaries that feature Booker T. and the M.G.’s. But there has not been one about the bandleader, himself, or his iconic group. It’s not just that. There are surprisingly few album reviews out there. Fewer interviews. I can think of no other band whose importance stands in such sharp contrast with their media footprint. Honestly, it makes very little sense.

I suppose some of this mystery can be explained by the nature of a backing band. Aside from The E Street Band and The Heartbreakers and, I suppose, “The Band,” Booker T. and the M.G.’s was the most famous backing band in popular music. And, to be clear, they were also probably the greatest. But, because they are thought of as “players” -- as unit session musicians -- rather than as artists, they are not discussed alongside more famous bands from the Rock or Soul canon. Part of the job of being a backing band is to not upstage the lead. And, for most of the 1960s, Booker T. and the M.G.’s played their part, providing the perfect soundtrack for a label renowned for its singers but, perhaps more so, its sound.  

While keeping a relatively low profile, Booker T. and the M.G.’s would still sneak their way onto the charts every couple of years. They almost couldn’t help it -- hits just poured out of them. “Green Onions” in ‘62. “Hip Hug Her” in ‘66. “Hang ‘Em High” and “Time Is Tight” from ‘68. Booker T. and the M.G.’s had dozens of lesser, but still sizzling, songs during their great run with Stax. And though they were not thought of as a band in the same way that The Beatles or CCR or, even, The Temptations were, they also managed to release a number of enduring albums. The early records were simply packed with singles, while later ones, like “Melting Pot” and, even, “McLemore Avenue,” were more conceptual. They were much more than the greatest backing band of their generation. If you’d asked John Lennon, you might have even heard the secret truth: Booker T. and the M.G.s were among the best bands on the planet. Period.

Their too low profile could also be explained, in part, by the fact that there was no singer in the group. Since the days of Sinatra, the machinery of popular music has been built around the singer. Radio. TV. Photos. Interviews. Everything presupposes a star in the front of the act. And, though he was handsome and articulate and stylish and intriguing, Booker T. Jones Jr. was not a star. He was a virtuoso musician. A lifelong student. An elite songwriter. An in demand producer. But his affect was workmanlike rather than glamorous. He was objectively famous but had seemingly no interest in stardom.

And, of course, there is the music itself. Roughly half of the songs recorded by Booker T. and the M.G.’s were covers of other artists’ material. As the 1960s became the 1970s, David Geffen led a movement that reimagined popular music as art created by songwriters. Through that lens, singers and bands who recorded their own songs were elevated. And while Booker T. and his band had no shortage of songs, they excelled equally at playing the music of others.

Meanwhile, their singular tone -- defined by the exacting nature of Cropper’s Fender and the dexterity of Jones’ Hammond organ -- was imitated and then co-opted in the later 1970s by a style of background music, designed for elevators and institutional settings. That form -- called “Muzak” -- became so ubiquitous and so irrevocably linked to a depressed America that, to some, jazzy Hammond organ and clean, Fender guitar became synonymous with blandness. It can be hard to unhear the influence, even for me, an avowed fan of Booker T. & the M.G.’s. It’s not so much that Muzak destroyed the legacy of a great band -- the M.G.’s had functionally broken up by the early 1970s. It’s more that it dulled our ears. It made it harder for us to discern something that was white hot from something which was caucasian tepid.

Whatever the root cause, Booker T. and the M.G.’s never became The Band or Sly and the Family Stone. They never achieved the legendary status of Otis Redding or the popularity of Bill Withers. By the early 1970s, Stax Records was struggling to keep up and, after much -- likely unnecessary -- resistance to the idea, Jones moved to L.A. In the middle of that decade, and soon after all four members assembled in California, Al Jackson was killed. Two years later, the remaining trio -- plus drummer Willie Hall -- released “Universal Language” -- a full-hearted, but lackluster, eulogy for their former bandmate. Though the band had barely existed for the previous several years, Jackson’s death was confirmation. Booker T. and the M.G.’s were done.

Throughout the 70s and 80s, Jones released likable, immaculate solo albums while establishing himself as something of a svengali for Country stars hoping to find their Soul. Cropper and Dunn traveled around as an elite guitar and bass session team in L.A., before making their star turns as Blues Brothers. Ultimately, the surviving Booker T. and the M.G.’s returned to the place where they started and where they were, perhaps, most comfortable -- six feet from fame. 

Booker T. Jones was the opposite of nostalgic. It’s not that he is allergic to reminiscence so much as he is constantly striving. As a teenager, though he’d already written and performed hit songs and at least nominally mastered every instrument required by Rhythm and Blues, Jones opted to go back to college to “learn about music.” In a 2019 interview, when asked which of his collaborators did he most enjoy working with, he answered Willie Nelson -- not because he was most proud of their records but because Willie was a “music man” who could teach Jones about songwriting. By all accounts, he is someone who is constantly looking forward. Tomorrow there is always a new song to write and a new idea to improve. And so, in this way, it made great sense that Booker T. Jones moved on from Booker T. and the M.G’s. HIs dispassion was never disdain, however. It was pragmatism. And progress.  

In the early 1990s, though, the narrative shifted and Jones, Cropper and Dunn were thrust back into the limelight. In 1992, the band was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame -- the same year that Jimi Hendrix and Johnny Cash entered and the year before Van Morrison and Creedence did. The next year, the surviving trio supported Bob Dylan for his thirtieth anniversary concert, which led, in turn, to their invitation from Neil Young to join him for a world tour. 

This unexpected momentum and proximity led to the inevitable. In early 1994 the three bandmates, along with former Blues Brother and current Rolling Stone, Steve Jordan, entered The Power Station, in New York, and then Plant Studios, in California, to record “That’s the Way it Should Be,” the first album from Booker T. and the M.G.’s in seventeen years.

Though this reunion might sound epic in retrospect, it was, in fact, a non-event at the time. The album was made quickly and professionally by four men who were perhaps more efficient at laying down tracks than any four men on the planet. Its twelve songs featured six originals and six covers. Track nine, “Cruisin’” (not the Smokey Robinson song), actually went on to win a Grammy for the best Pop Instrumental Performance that year. Nevertheless, the record did not sell particularly well or find its way onto the radio. In fact, other than the obligatory Allmusic review, there’s almost no evidence of any writer or media outlet paying attention to it. True to form and perhaps especially so in middle age, Booker T. and the M.G.’s were still the most admired, but least documented, band around.

“That’s the Way it Should Be” is almost exactly what you’d expect and most of what you’d hope for from Booker T. and the M.G.’s in 1994. It’s not spectacular in any way but it is exemplary, to the point of being perfect, in almost every way. That’s kind of the thing with this band. They never miss a note. They’re never out of sync. They always sound amazing. They can really “cook,” but they never actually “jam.” In that way, their surprises are less shocking or awesome and more validation of their extraordinary competency. Nearly three decades removed from their heyday, there’s no mono charm. They absolutely do not sound like they are recording in Stax Studios. Everything sounds rich, clean and paid for. And, without the patina of age, there are absolutely moments when you have to convince yourself that they are not playing Muzak. But then, you might also conclude something obvious: They are playing Muzak (if that suggests music that works well in the backgrounds of elevators or institutions). But, also, you could say the same thing about Bon Iver and Big Thief and American Analog Set and Death Cab for Cutie and some Stereolab and Belle & Sebastian and dozens of my favorite bands of the last twenty years. It’s music that can thrive in the background (or foreground.) And, in the case of “That’s the Way it Should Be,”  it’s still completely enjoyable. In fact, it’s incredible.

The best tracks on “That’s the Way it Should Be” are those that groove -- ones where Jordan stays in the pocket, where Cropper uses his Fender like a pickaxe working on the hook and where Jones’ doesn’t have to play lead so much as he gets to lay a blanket on top of the bed. They locate that vibe early on, with “Mo’ Greens,” a not too distant cousin of their iconic, first hit, “Green Onions.” This take on the theme is darker -- smokier. The bass strolls more casually, figuring out where it wants to turn. Eventually, the band closes with a jazzy, spare coda that reminds you just how quickly they can go from “cool” to “white hot.”

The aforementioned “Cruisin’” grooves from the start, adding a dash of Southern Soul and a hint of Texas twang to a melody that’s somewhere in the neighborhood of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” (a song that the band once covered, by two artists that Jones and Cropper went on to work with in the 1970s). There are other very good to kind of great originals, including a fairly straight Ska number called "That's the Way It Should Be" and a convincing slice of Funk, entitled “Camel Ride.” 

The cover songs on The M.G.’s eleventh studio album (excluding one Christmas album and one soundtrack) are perhaps more of a mixed bag. When performing other people’s material, the challenge for this band almost always comes down to the vocals. Booker T. Jones can sing, but he has spent most of his career electing not to. And so, the singer-less band has ostensibly two options. They can either use one of their instruments (in this case, the Hammond organ) to mimic the lead singer. Or they can functionally ignore the vocal performance and instead focus on interpreting and adapting the soundtrack.  

When they opt for the former, as they do on Janet Jackson’s “Let’s Wait a While” (written by Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis), the results are less compelling. With Jones ostensibly on “vocal” duties, playing organ in time with the words, the band can’t find a groove. It’s actually quite a lovely rendition and a reminder that The M.G.’s could have made a killing off of Slow Jams. But, it’s ultimately an unnecessary song -- a wasted spot for a band who can probably do anything they want but who are best when there is rhythm to their blues. The same could be said for “Have a Heart,” the wonderful Bonnie Raitt song (written by Bonnie Hayes), which The M.G.’s render with economy and tenderness, but which also trades a great singer for a great organist and loses something in the translation.

That all being said, it’s not as though the M.G.’s lost their flair for covers. To the contrary, they remind us that they were the band who dared to take on “Abbey Road,” just a year after its release, and actually add some things to the original masterpiece. And, true to form, their version of Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody” is stellar. The song -- a swaggering mix of R&B and Gospel -- was practically built for Cropper and Dunn. And whereas most Pop songs plant the vocals onto the beat, Dylan sings all over the place -- behind the beat, in the pocket and on top of it. His unique phrasings allow for a jazzy interpretation from Jones’ Hammond. “You Gotta Serve Somebody” is about as on the nose as a cover can get for a band whose members once  played with Mavis and Pops Staples and later served as Levon Helm’s backing band. 

Similarly, their take on Ann Peebles “I Can’t Stand the Rain” is just superb. Part of their success is that, in the original, the vocals are both spare and completely in service of the groove. Here, Dunn and Jordan set a sumptuous bottom for Cropper and Jones to explore. The organ handles the melody while the guitar -- alternating from crystal clear Funk to the faintest of tremolo -- is really the star of the show. There are more virtuosic players and there are certainly more famous ones, but I doubt if anyone has ever used the Fender guitar more precisely or respectfully than Steve Cropper. He knows exactly what that instrument was built to do. 

Neither of those two, great interpretations, however, could have prepared me for the closing track of “That’s the Way it Should Be.” Here, the band pumps up the bass and really leans into the Hammond’s church vibes for a cover of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” The original is all Bono and Edge -- Adam Clayton stays in place and, to my knowledge, there is no synthesizer. But, Booker T. and the band play the song for what it really is -- a Gospel song. A hymn. It’s both completely unnecessary and positively wonderful. And something that very few bands would dare, much less land.

Since “That’s the Way it Should Be” there have been no new albums from Booker T. and the M.G.’s. There’s no reason to suspect we’ll ever get another one. It’s been nearly thirty years -- a longer stretch than the one that followed “Universal Language.” Duck Dunn died in 2012. Booker T. Jones is almost eighty and Steve Cropper has passed that milestone. In truth, I have no specific need for new music from whatever would constitute “The M.G.’s.” It’s more that I cannot fathom the extent to which they have either understated or completely forgotten. Certainly music writers and scholars and those who heard them way back when have a certain esteem for Booker T. and the M.G.’s. In some circles, I know that they are revered. But those circles seem to shrink with every passing year.

Booker T. and the M.G.’s final album was destined to be forgotten. It already has been. It’s a wonderful, but ultimately inconsequential record -- a footnote only because it arrived at the end of the story and because a group of industry insiders gave it a trophy. But the larger story -- the whole story -- is just sitting there for somebody to tell. It may not be the most tragic or the most tweetable, but it just may be the most important untold story in modern music. So, who’s going to do that? And when? Dave Grohl -- you do this sort of thing. Don’t you? Elvis Costello -- you adore this band. Right? Darryl Hall -- you make internet TV shows. Right? Matt Berninger -- you work with the guy and you know a lot of people. You in? Come on, guys. Call me. Let’s do this. I’m here to help.

by Matty Wishnow