Shrine Part 4

Bands like the Beatles and the Who covered Motown tunes early in their careers, and through the '60s, soul flourished in England. As the sound faded in the States, towns like Wigan and Blackpool became the beating heart of the "Northern soul" movement in the early '70s. The name came from a journalist who noticed a strange phenomenon: kids packed into clubs in towns north of London, dancing for hours to long-forgotten soul singles. These were the prototypes for raves, and attendees were usually stoked by uppers like Dexedrine. For these crowds, spinning a hit like the Supremes' "Back in My Arms Again" wouldn't do; they'd heard that one before.

By 1980, the club scene had crested, but the collector's market it created flourishes to this day. Type the words "Northern soul" into eBay's search window and you'll find about 1,500 singles for sale -- nearly all the product of labels that died fast, featuring artists only soul scholars would recognize.

One of those scholars is Andy Rix. A registered nurse by day and a well-known DJ by night, Rix was captivated by Shrine's music and in the late '80s began a transatlantic campaign to contact the label's artists and back-office types. He wanted to find some vinyl, but more than that he wanted to tell the label's story and bring it some overdue respect. After years of calling and visits to Washington, Rix had located many of Shrine's key players.

"They're fairly stunned to hear from me, actually," says Rix, on the phone from England. "Years later, for someone to come along and explain that there are people who recognize your artistry and respect what you did -- that means something."

"When my wife told me he'd called, I thought it was a hoax," said Sydney Hall from Connecticut. "Then he called back and I heard this thick British accent and I could tell right away he wasn't kidding."

But a handful of artists have yet to be found, among them solo vocalist J.D. Bryant, who is believed to have returned to his native South Carolina, and Bill Dennis, reportedly a deejay at WHUR at some point. Nobody even knows the names of three Baltimore high school girls who were Les Chansonettes. And, of course, there's the mystery of the Cautions. As Rix put it, AB Jones and his group mates "have eluded me for 12 years."

You might assume that AB Jones has been keeping an intentionally low profile. Not so, he says.

"I'm in Laurel," he explained when I called his cell phone recently. "But I'm moving back to the city tomorrow."

I found Jones after a few weeks of networking through Theotrice Gamble, who knew a guy who had a friend who'd run into AB not long ago. After chatting on the phone, we met at the apartment that was his new home in Southeast Washington. There were plenty of unopened boxes on the floor, as well as keyboards and a four-track tape recorder for home studio demos.

"I'm still writing songs, doing some producing," he said as he cleared some space for a chair. "I've been working with some rappers who are really terrific."

Jones is 6 feet 7, soft-spoken, and slowed by rheumatoid arthritis that recently ended his long career as a truck driver. He had moved to Laurel to raise a family with his wife, now deceased, but with his kids grown, he was glad to return to the city. Shrine's overseas renaissance was news to him.

"I had seen signs, people offering money for Shrine stuff, one on Central Avenue," he said. "It tickled me at the time. But I don't own a copy of either of our singles. I gave them to friends a long time ago. So I didn't bother calling the number. I just moved on."

The history of the Cautions seemed fresh in his mind. He met the other members -- Joe Clyburn, Albert Nicks, Billy Blanchard and Julius Hayes -- when he was 14 and hanging around the playground of Stuart Junior High School. "We were just a bunch of dropouts," he said, laughing. But they could sing and dance like the Temptations, and through a local promoter, the quintet performed in hospitals, other schools and, soon enough, in local clubs.

Once they heard about Shrine, they paid an impromptu visit to 3 Thomas Circle, walking through the front door and straight into Eddie Singleton's office. Singleton auditioned the group that day and loved what he heard.

"We sort of became his pet project," Jones remembered. They recorded six songs for Shrine, four of which were released, and the group was soon opening for some big stars, including Wilson Pickett. But "Watch Your Step," the first release, didn't get much attention, nor did a follow-up. A year after Shrine closed, the Cautions split.

Told about England's passion for "Northern soul" and the small manhunt he'd inspired, Jones seemed amazed. I'd brought along the Ace reissue of Shrine's catalogue, which contains five Cautions tracks, and we put a disc in a boombox in his bedroom. Staring at the floor, he listened, for the first time in more than 30 years, to the sounds he had recorded as a teenager.

"It's all right," he said, as "Watch Your Step" plays. He said it as if he meant, "It's only so-so."

"We didn't have a lot of funding, and it was like rush-rush. On this song, I can tell that Joe is hoarse." After taking in the other songs, he stood up slowly and smiled. Mostly, it was reliving the camaraderie of the band, something that he can do only in memory now. All but one of the Cautions are dead.

"I feel good," he said as he escorted me out the door. "I'm glad this happened."

Why did Shrine fail? According to British collectors, there were about 7,000 soul labels in the United States in the '60s, and most of them never turned a profit. A handful made a killing. Shrine was in a long-shot business.

But the label's singers and management contend that some blame lies with Berry Gordy. In the '60s, Motown was the strongest force in soul, and the theory is that Gordy -- loath to compete against his ex-wife and her new husband -- muscled DJs and distributors to ignore Shrine singles. The record industry was then a street fighter's game, and Motown certainly had all the right weapons for a brawl. In the mid-'60s, it made history with a torrent of top-sellers by the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, the Four Tops, the Temptations and young Stevie Wonder. The label had money to spread around and sought-after tunes that every station wanted to play.

Singleton says he has no doubts that Gordy worked to undermine Shrine. He says a local DJ, the late Paul "Fat Daddy" Johnson, visited him one night to tell him so.