Hardly anybody has soul anymore.
Jack White has it, and he's trying his hardest to spread the word, which is commendable.
Kings of Leon used to have it, and they try to repress it as much as they can so they can sell more records.
Aretha Franklin could read the phone book with more soul than everything every top-40 radio station has played in the last decade, combined.
Quirky artists like the Flaming Lips don't have it, but they're fun enough to be farily interesting (despite me not really liking the Flaming Lips too much).
I'm listening to Cat Stevens' excellent Tea for the Tillerman, which I picked up used for a buck in Seattle last week, and the soul practically drips from the vinyl. (This adds to my oddly-large collection of albums from the year 1970; I'm probably up around ten.)
Blue Rodeo has it. So do the Sadies.
Jon Spencer has a bit, but acts like he has a lot. I wish he had more, and so does he, but that's the way it goes sometimes.
The Black Eyed Peas have none, and they seem to revel in it.