The record in context

By 1968, Dusty Springfield’s British pop career was fading. The hits were smaller, the moment was moving on, and she made the bravest decision of her life: she signed with Atlantic Records, flew to Memphis, Tennessee, and placed herself in the hands of producers Jerry Wexler, Tom Dowd and Arif Mardin, backed by the Memphis Cats — the same studio band behind Wilson Pickett and Aretha Franklin — with the Sweet Inspirations on backing vocals.

The sessions at American Sound Studio in September 1968 were famously tense. Springfield, a notorious perfectionist, was intimidated by the musicians and unhappy with her vocals; legend holds that she re-recorded much of her singing later in New York. But the tension produced a miracle. The album Dusty in Memphis, released in early 1969, is now ranked among the greatest albums ever made — though at the time it was a commercial failure.

Its one undeniable hit was “Son of a Preacher Man,” written by John Hurley and Ronnie Wilkins. Aretha Franklin had reportedly been offered it first. Springfield’s version reached the Top 10 on both sides of the Atlantic, and a quarter-century later Quentin Tarantino put it on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, introducing it to a generation that had never heard of Dusty Springfield — and making it, finally, the biggest record of her life.

Listen closely

Listen first to the groove. The Memphis Cats play it with a lazy, loping swing — Reggie Young’s guitar flickers, the bass walks, the drums shuffle — and it sounds less like a studio band executing a chart than like a group of friends playing for the joy of it. This is the sound Atlantic’s rhythm section gave to everyone from Elvis to Neil Diamond, and it fits Springfield like it was tailored for her.

Then listen to the vocal, which is a masterclass in acting. The song is a memory — a woman recalling a teenage romance with the preacher’s son — and Springfield plays both the remembering adult and the remembered girl. The verses are conversational, almost spoken in places; the chorus opens up into pure sensual pleasure. When she sings “the only boy who could ever teach me was the son of a preacher man,” the satisfaction in her voice is complete and unapologetic.

Finally, listen for the details that make it immortal: the way she bites off “stealin’ kisses from me,” the gospel lift of the Sweet Inspirations behind her, the famous “oh yes he was” ad-libs that sound improvised because the feeling is real. Every element is in its right place, and none of it sounds laboured — the paradox of a record that was famously difficult to make.

Springfield spent the rest of her career being asked about this song, and she never seemed to tire of it. She knew what it was: the moment a British pop singer became a soul singer, not by imitation but by conviction.