'Soul of America'

Before he got a record deal and before he became the subject of a documentary billing him the "Soul of America," Charles Bradley was just another regular performer at small Brooklyn bars. A common enough back story for a musician, except for the fact that Bradley wasn't perfecting his own songs in the process. He was a James Brown impersonator, donning a wig and a cape and going by the stage name Black Velvet.

Today Bradley tours regularly (he is one of the headlining artists at the upcoming Burnaby Blues and Roots Festival) and has released two albums under his own name. The documentary Charles Bradley: Soul of America tells the story of the transition from the days of Black Velvet until now, following Bradley in the lead up to the release of his first album, 2011's No Time for Dreaming.

Performing his own songs and backed by the Menahan Street Band, Bradley has by no means disowned Brown's influence. In concert, Bradley wails, dances and drops to his knees like Brown, while the repeated "get on up" in the title track on No Time for Dreaming is as obvious an homage to the godfather of soul as one can imagine.

Son of a soul music revival

But Bradley's songs, for which he writes the lyrics, have also revealed deeper layers in the now 65-year-old's voice, placing it somewhere between Brown's raw delivery and Otis Redding's raspy, quivering croon. In some cases, when the music written by Menahan guitarist Thomas Brenneck pushes him there, a Curtis Mayfield sound can also be heard.

Bradley fits neatly into the soul music revival of recent years, led by artists like Mayer Hawthorne and Bradley's label-mate Sharon Jones. But even after considering that convenience, the fact that Bradley released a hit album under his real name at 62 remains an improbable feat, particularly since, watching Soul of America, what stands out as much as Bradley's talent is how little he otherwise fits into any personality type that we would associate with such a compelling performer.

Consider for a moment, as a contrast, the recent documentary 20 Feet From Stardom that takes as its subject several back-up singers who never reached the limelight after decades in show business. Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, and Lisa Fischer -- three of the singers that 20 Feet focuses on -- may not have achieved all the success they desired, but even in interviews they have the demeanour and charisma of stars. (In one fantastic sequence, director Morgan Neville gets sternly rebuffed after requesting to turn off the music in Clayton's car. Clayton asks, "How can you logically have a diva not have her music on?") The three singers' inability to become household names highlights the unpredictability and often injustice of the music business, not any deficiencies on their part.

There's plenty of injustice to Bradley's story too, it just doesn't fall at the feet of the music industry. When it comes to his unexpected career, Bradley came out of nowhere in more ways than one. After growing up poor and spending part of his teenage years on the streets, Bradley first performed a James Brown impersonation when he was 18, after which there was no further build up to a career. A move to L.A. in the '70s brought him no closer to making music full time and only led to near fatal health problems. To get where he is now, he showed up at Daptone Records in the mid-2000s and said, "I hear you're looking for singers."

In interviews, meanwhile, Bradley lacks the bearing of a star and the self-assurance and confidence one expects from bandleaders. There's often a childlike manner to his behaviour, whether in his giddy enthusiasm at showing off his picture in the New York Post or in the timidity that he regularly displays. But physical resemblance aside, Bradley impersonating James Brown on a nightly basis is frankly unimaginable. Until you watch him perform, that is. The transformation on stage is astounding, and the main fault of Poull Brien's documentary is that it doesn't, or wasn't able to, capture more of his live performances.

A long way to the top

Overall, the film suffers from a low production value, while at times Brien also shows bad taste by sensationalizing Bradley's poverty. Still, Bradley is such a unique figure that he carries the movie a good distance himself. Many artists say they don't belong in the circles of the talented and famous without ever displaying their discomfort. Bradley never makes any such claim. But when you watch him interact with Sharon Jones after a concert it's clear just how out of his element he is, even if when he performs it's equally clear just how much he deserves to be there.

The film ends with Bradley's hope that more touring and recording will help him move out of the projects, but Gabriel Roth, producer and Daptone co-founder, notes in a moment of honest reasoning the difficulties that still await him. "I don't think it's a done deal," he says. "I don't think it's easy. I think a lot more people got to buy his records. He's got to sing a lot more shows. He's got to make a lot more records."

It's a long way to the top, in other words, and it's still unclear whether Bradley's story will best encapsulate the aspirational dreams of America's soul, or just its tendency toward long-term disenfranchisement.

In the meantime though, near-indistinguishable copies of the Motown sound or riffs on Marvin Gaye's Got to Give It Up have their charm and place, but it's better to see singers like Bradley, the 57-year-old Jones, or the stars of 20 Feet -- all of whose voices were never heard or acknowledged in soul music's heyday -- get a share of the spotlight, however briefly, on the second go around.

'Charles Bradley: Soul of America' plays at Vancouver's Rio Theatre on Tuesday, August 6 at 9 p.m.; Thursday, August 8 at 9 p.m.; and Friday, August 9 at 7 p.m. More screenings will be announced soon.