(CNN)Nearly 90 years ago, a peddler and part-time preacher arrived at a makeshift recording studio in Dallas carrying a strange instrument and a fierce aversion to spiritual hypocrisy.
Album offers new clues about 'gospel's great disappearing act'
The producer Columbia Records had sent down from New York was baffled by the man's contraption, cataloging it simply as a "novelty." But Columbia liked Washington Phillips' songs enough to record him five times from 1927-1929, in sessions that produced some of the era's most beautiful and beguiling gospel music.
Phillips' records sold decently. His first moved more than 8,000 copies, a nice number for "race records," as they were called at the time. "Washington Phillips tells that Old Time Religion," Columbia announced in advertisements, even though his lyrics castigated established churches, a rarity for gospel records. The melodies Phillips strummed on his lyre-like instrument mellow the prophetic condemnations, like a soapbox preacher standing next to a carousel ride.
After recording 18 songs (two are missing), Phillips faded into obscurity. It was thought that he died insane in 1938, paranoid and haunted by divine revelations. He was "gospel's great disappearing act," said his biographer.
Last month, though, Dust-to-Digital, an Atlanta label that specializes in unearthing rare and early recordings, cleared the cobwebs of myth and supposition, shedding welcome light on Phillips' mysterious life. In addition to the 16 newly remastered songs, "Washington Phillips and His Manzarene Dreams," includes a new biography by Michael Corcoran, a former music critic who scoured the hot plains of East Texas, hunting down details.
"So many early artists were underappreciated," said Lance Ledbetter, Dust-to-Digital's co-owner. "We want them to get the respect they should have gotten when they were around."
Washington Phillips cast a spell over the people of Simsboro, Texas, a small town full of churches and the descendents of freed slaves.
"The word that came up most often was 'peculiar,'" said Corcoran, who tracked down the few people who remember Phillips.
He was a Main Street mystic, one of those ageless eccentrics who haunt small-town America like real-life Boo Radleys. When he wasn't shooing kids away from his mulberry bushes, he was playing music for them, or showing them how to eat a fish like a sandwich and spit out the bones. In the few photos of Phillips, he looks stern and a little sad, as if disappointed by our downward drift into sin. The people of Simsboro thought he would never die.
Phillips farmed a bit, and sold ribbon cane syrup and herbal remedies from his mule-driven cart. Graced with little formal education, he nonetheless seemed to know things that other people didn't. "He was an enlightened person," his second cousin, Earl Phillips, told Corcoran.
His real passion was music. In 1907, Philliips' unique instrument drew the attention of the Teague Chronicle, the white newspaper in a town a few miles from Simsboro. It was a box about 2 feet by 3 feet, 6 inches deep and strung with violin strings, the paper reported.
"He is as black as the ace of spades, but the music he gets out of that roughly made box is certainly surprising." Phillips called that musical box a "Manzarene," according to the newspaper.
Corcoran and other music sleuths have spent decades trying to figure out exactly what a Manzarene is, and whether it was the instrument Phillips played on his recordings. An excavated picture from 1927 shows Phillips holding two fretless zithers, neither of which look anything like the newspaper description.
Even the name of Phillips' instrument is mysterious. It sounds like Nazarene, as in someone who lived in Nazareth, like Jesus. Corcoran supposes that Phillips might have named his instrument in homage to the Church of the Nazarene, a Protestant denomination starting to tear through Texas in the early 19