Wiley And The Checkmates at The Hideout
The Southern soul band brings the funk and some crazy-ass dance
People who are able to do what they love, especially during hard times, know they're lucky—and vintage soul crooner Herbert Wiley is no exception. The smile never left his face during his We Call It Soul vinyl release show on Saturday at The Hideout.
The crowd was mixed—twentysomethings shoving tables out of the way to start an early, mini-version of The Hideout's notable Saturday night dance party; middle-agers on dates bobbing their heads with delight to The Checkmates’ dirty, full-bodied licks. But Wiley seemed to be enjoying himself most of all. He knocked his knees. He flapped his arms. He thrust his pelvis in ways that would make Elvis blush. He sang classics such as James Brown’s “Cold Sweat,” as well as a full roster of Checkmates originals, with charming, un-self-conscious joy, unabashasedly telling the audience he just wanted them to be happy.
The current incarnation of The Checkmates is a career reboot for Wiley, who started out nearly 50 years ago on the Southern chitlin' circuit, where he performed with the likes of soul legends Otis Clay and Percy Sledge. But Wiley set aside his love of music to run his family's shoe business and to support his family.
About seven years ago, Wiley caught a punk band rehearsing in a storefront down the block from his shoe shop—and that, as one of his bandmates put it, gave him the itch. He closed up shop, reformed the band and set out on tour. Proving his love of good music spans genres, Wiley brought together performers as diverse as former Bob Dylan backup singer Regina McCrary and Silver Jews keyboardist Tony Crow for We Call It Soul.
Wiley’s sometimes seven-piece backing band, The Checkmates, may not have looked the part of gritty Southern soul musicians but they certainly sounded it. Before the show, the youthful two-man brass section, subs for the regular sax and trumpet players, politely sipped cocktails at the bar, demurely protecting their suits from spills. But once on stage, the rich tones the pair produced resonated through the intimate space, crashing against the audience like the wind from a late-summer thunderstorm. Drummer Anthony Wortham, or "Young Funk" as Wiley called him, drove one song into another, providing a back beat that kept Wiley dancing.
Though Wiley’s voice doesn’t have the rib-shaking intensity of a Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, the depth and authenticity of his energy made his performance eminently more engaging than more technically skilled musicians who are emotionally vacant. Percussionist Matty Crockett announced Wiley’s arrival by saying he was bringing a whole lot of trouble to Chicago. What he really brought was a whole lot of glee.
