On the outside chance that you’ve set to heart each and every cover that the Rolling Stones and Otis Redding ever worked out, O.V. Wright isn’t an unknown figure. Of course, there probably aren’t too many folks who have the sort of time – apart from myself – to commit to memory the various appropriations that have, over time, rendered some note worthy figures to footnotes.

With “That’s How Strong My Love Is,” Wright had an assured hit. After the two subsequent covers, a frugal record buying public decided it appreciated the two higher profile acts to Wright’s original. Nonsense. The tenor of the original version isn’t quite as rollicking as it is in other versions. But Wright’s voice, as similar as it is to Redding’s, imbued the tune with a different quality over unique musical backing.

Wright, coming out of a gospel background and wrangled by some two-bit imprint from the south, didn’t ever hit it big. Maybe your cool aunt remembers him, but probably not. Even working in a time that counted a few too many soul singers making the rounds, Wright’s career was cut short by his own proclivity for substances. Doing time during the ‘70s didn’t help matters as the singer was put away on some drug charges. Even after getting out, though, Wright wasn’t able to find too much success and eventually passed away an all but forgotten figure in soul music during the early ‘80s.

It’s odd that the singer never found success, even if his best shot at stardom was usurped by those copy cats. But even as Wright set songs to tape with the Hi Records backing band – the group that supplied Al Green with those sugary soul tracks – the market just didn’t find him. It’s not for lack of effort as the singer’s discography counts any number of proper full lengths and cobbled together retrospectives.

Some efforts, obviously, come off a bit better than others. But it’s a compilation of b-sides, Eight Men, Four Women, that really points to what the man was capable of. Over the ten track duration of the disc, various soul sub-genres get played out. And it shouldn’t be any surprise that each is turned in with more than passable chops and enthusiasm.

The lead off title track arrives as a ghostly rumination about love replete with female backing singers to add a bit of forlorn support. What the disc then moves through are a series of tracks that could have been tremendous hits for any higher profile singer.

“Nickel and a Nail” flirts with funk in that Al Green kinda way with Wright’s voice occasionally reaching its breaking point and getting a bit more raspy than some folks might care for. Of course, to the initiated, it’s just some deeply felt soul shouting that works out pretty well. And even the inclusion of the throw away dance appropriation “Monkey Dog” can ruin the track listing here.

Unfortunately, Wright’s name probably won’t be resurrected any time soon. But if you make it through Ghostface Killah’s Ironman, you might be pleasantly surprised.