You can hear it in the first four bars. That wah-wah guitar pedal starts scratching like a nervous heartbeat, and then the brass kicks the door down. It’s 1972. Harlem is a pressure cooker. And Bobby Womack—a guy who had already lived ten lives by the time he was thirty—is about to howl one of the most honest songs ever recorded. Across 110th Street isn't just a movie theme. It’s a sociological report.
Most people recognize the hook because Quentin Tarantino gave it a second life in Jackie Brown. You see Pam Grier moving through the airport, looking cool as hell, while Womack sings about the "pimp's road" and the "pusher's stick." But if you only know it as a cinematic backdrop, you’re missing the real story of how a gospel prodigy turned R&B outlaw captured the desperation of a whole era.
110th Street was the border. In the early 70s, it was the unofficial line between the affluent Upper West Side and the raw, neglected reality of Harlem. To cross it was to change worlds. Womack knew that world. He didn't just sing about the struggle; he sounded like he was currently trying to outrun it.
The Making of a Soul Anthem
Bobby Womack was in a weird spot in 1972. He was technically a superstar songwriter—the guy who wrote "It's All Over Now" for the Rolling Stones—but he was also a bit of a pariah in the industry after marrying Sam Cooke’s widow. People were wary of him. He had this raspy, tobacco-stained voice that didn't fit the "pretty" soul mold of Motown.
When director Barry Shear was making the film Across 110th Street, he needed a sound that matched the grit of the footage. The movie is a heist-gone-wrong flick starring Anthony Quinn and Yaphet Kotto. It’s violent. It’s bleak. It’s muddy. J.J. Johnson was handling the score, but they needed a title track that could bridge the gap between Hollywood orchestration and the actual streets of New York.
Womack delivered something that felt like a documentary.
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The arrangement is actually quite sophisticated. You've got these lush strings that feel like a classic film score, but they’re pinned down by a rhythm section that sounds like it was recorded in a basement. It’s that tension—the beauty and the dirt—that makes the song work. Honestly, the lyrics are pretty dark. He talks about being "broke, busted, disgusted," and "agents working for the state." This wasn't the "Peace and Love" vibe of the late 60s. This was the "Wait, things are actually getting worse" vibe of the 70s.
Why 110th Street Became a Geographic Symbol
Geography matters in music. Think about how Compton or Detroit are used as shorthand for specific struggles. In 1972, Across 110th Street served as a warning and a battle cry.
If you lived south of 110th, you were in a different Manhattan. If you were north of it, you were in a place where the infrastructure was crumbling, the heroin epidemic was peaking, and the police felt more like an occupying force than a public service. Womack’s lyrics, "You can find it all on 110th Street," wasn't an invitation. It was an observation of a closed loop of poverty.
The song resonates because it doesn't judge. It just observes. When he sings about the "pimp's road," he isn't glorifying it. He’s saying that when you’re trapped behind a geographic and economic wall, the options for "making it" become incredibly narrow. It’s a song about the lack of choice.
The Tarantino Effect and the 90s Revival
Let's be real: a whole generation would have forgotten this track if not for the 1997 release of Jackie Brown. Tarantino has this uncanny ability to take "forgotten" B-movie artifacts and make them seem like the coolest thing on the planet.
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By putting Bobby Womack over the opening credits, Tarantino did more than just pick a cool song. He signaled the mood of the entire film. Jackie Brown is a character who is tired. She’s been around. She’s smart but stuck. Using a song about the struggle to survive in 1972 for a woman trying to survive in 1997 worked perfectly.
Suddenly, Across 110th Street was everywhere again. It started appearing in commercials, other movies (like American Gangster), and hip-hop samples. But the song is surprisingly hard to sample well. Why? Because the groove is so organic. Womack’s vocal delivery is so erratic and emotional—he moves between a whisper and a scream—that you can't really "loop" it without losing the soul.
Technical Nuance: That Womack Sound
If you’re a musician, you know that Bobby’s guitar playing is half the magic. He was a "lefty" who played a right-handed guitar upside down and didn't restring it. That means his chords sounded different. The voicings were unique.
On this specific track, the interplay between the bass and the percussion creates this forward-leaning momentum. It feels like walking. Specifically, it feels like walking with a purpose through a neighborhood where you need to keep your head on a swivel.
Womack’s voice is the other technical marvel. He had that "gospel grit." You can hear the influence of the church in the way he riffs, but the subject matter is purely secular. It’s the sound of a man who knows the Bible but is currently living in the "jungle."
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Common Misconceptions
People often think this was a massive #1 hit. It actually wasn't. It peaked at #19 on the Billboard Black Singles chart and only #56 on the Hot 100. It was a "cult" hit that became a standard over decades. It took time for the world to catch up to how good it actually was.
Another mistake is thinking the song is just about crime. It’s actually about the economics of crime. Womack isn't singing about wanting to be a gangster. He’s singing about how "the family's got to eat." It’s a subtle distinction, but it’s what gives the song its heart. It’s a survivalist anthem, not a criminal one.
The Legacy of the "Last Great Soul Singer"
Bobby Womack died in 2014, and by then, he was recognized as one of the last links to the golden age of soul. He had survived addiction, industry blackballing, and health issues that would have leveled a normal human being.
Across 110th Street remains his most enduring legacy because it is timeless. You could release this song today, change a few slang terms, and it would still describe the wealth gap in any major city. It’s a piece of social commentary wrapped in a killer groove.
The song taught us that you can tell a painful story and still make it sound beautiful. It taught us that the "border" isn't just a line on a map—it’s a mindset.
How to Truly Appreciate Across 110th Street
If you want to get the most out of this track, don't just stream it on your phone speakers while you're doing dishes. Do it right.
- Listen to the full album version: Most people only know the 3-minute edit. The long version has more room for the orchestration to breathe and lets the J.J. Johnson influence shine through.
- Watch the movie's opening: Even if you don't watch the whole film, the opening sequence of the 1972 movie Across 110th Street provides the visual context that Womack was writing for. It’s bleak, handheld cinematography that mirrors the song's tension.
- Compare it to "Inner City Blues": Listen to Marvin Gaye's "Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)" right after Womack. They were recorded around the same time. You’ll hear two different ways of dealing with the same social pressure—Gaye is smooth and ethereal; Womack is raw and desperate.
- Check the lyrics for the second verse: Pay attention to the line "I'm the victim of a hungry child / I'm the victim of a man that's wild." It’s a powerful acknowledgment of how environment shapes behavior.
The best way to honor Womack is to recognize that he wasn't just a "singer." He was a chronicler of a very specific, very difficult American experience. When you listen to that track, you aren't just hearing a song; you're hearing the sound of a man trying to cross his own 110th Street.