It's not nostalgia for the Sixties because, musically, Sam and Dave could have made this record in the Seventies. In fact it's still feels new. Nor is it exactly my past because at that time Sam and Dave were outside my sphere of experience. So much for my eighteen year old self. Fat lot he knew. Soul was over there: pop was here. Wrong.
The pleasure of soul has outlasted various musics of the moment, because soul had a freshness and wildness that was disciplined to within an inch of its life. It's an ideal instance of art barely suppressing its energy only in order to release it fresh every time. It's like a box being opened and a real daemon leaping out. Open it again and it leaps out at you with the same energy. You need the box.
And soul is art, if by art we mean something that continues to touch us because, however apparently simple its means, we recognise it to be important and substantial. It doesn't have to look clever, though wit, play, overt intelligence and scholarship are no barrier to art either.
Of course soul is about cultural suppression too. It is the strut-it energy of those just breaking out, the black music of America getting a sweet motor under it and roaring off in style without forgetting anything of pain and indignity. Nor do we forget it.