Otis Redding: he was only twenty-six

Today marks the anniversary of Otis Redding’s death. He was only twenty-six. He didn’t even make it to the so-called Club 27, the age we’ve come to associate with musicians who die young.
That number never really sits right with me. Because his voice doesn’t sound young. It sounds lived-in. Worn. Like someone who already knew too much about love, longing, devotion, and loss.

I don’t remember the exact moment I first heard Otis. I think it was after Etta James. I adore her. And once you fall for a voice like that, you start listening differently. You start searching without quite knowing you’re searching. And then Otis appears. And that’s it. You don’t really go back.

A lot of people don’t know this, but Respect was his song first. His version isn’t an anthem. It’s quieter, almost vulnerable. A man asking to be seen, asking for something simple. When Aretha Franklin took it, she turned it into power. I love that both versions exist. They speak to each other.

His first and only number one hit came after he was already gone. (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay. He recorded it just days before the plane crash. You can hear something shifting in it. More space. Less urgency. That unfinished whistling at the end, because the lyrics weren’t done yet. It sounds like someone pausing, looking out, already half elsewhere.

And then there are the songs that stay with you because they hurt in the right way.

These Arms of Mine.
Try a Little Tenderness.
I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now).
Pain in My Heart.
I’ve Got Dreams to Remember.
My Girl.

That voice. The grain. The ache. It gives me actual frisson.

People are often surprised when I talk about Otis. Because when I talk about music, it’s usually prog rock or prog metal. Long songs. Complex structures. Dark atmospheres. Music that builds slowly and then overwhelms you. That’s what people expect from me. But this is just as much me. The soul, the passion.

Last August, we were on holiday in the Netherlands. I walked into a record shop, which I rarely do. I know myself too well. I see too many albums I want and don’t need. And on family holidays, I don’t like spending money on myself. But they insisted. The teenagers. My husband.
So I went in. Focused. Almost stern. Looking for something and nothing. And everything too.

The first record was obvious: Jeff Buckley – Grace. A classic. A given. If I had found Tim Buckley, I would have taken that too.

Then I saw Otis. No hesitation. No doubt.
Just this quiet certainty: I have to have this. This belongs with me.

I added Dire Straits – Love Over Gold and stopped there. I could have found many more. But this had to do.

Once we were home, Otis went on the turntable.
Loud. The way his music deserves to be played.
There’s pain in his voice, but there’s also warmth. Humanity. Nothing clever for the sake of being clever. Nothing hidden. Just truth.

He was only twenty-six. And he left behind music that still feels painfully alive.

If you don’t know where to start, start anywhere. Put on Dock of the Bay. Then I’ve Been Loving You Too Long. Let it build. Let it take its time.

You should listen to him.