Huey Lewis and The News “Plan B”
The Nineties were a fallow period for Huey Lewis and The News. Following a decade wherein they released nine albums, the band mustered just two over the next ten years. His platinum-selling, chart-topping days were a thing of the past, but his transition from Heartland New Wave to aging Mom-and-Dad-core was both graceful and inevitable. In some ways it made much less sense that Huey Lewis was ever a bonafide Pop star and more sense that he was a charming screen presence who occasionally put out R&B albums. By 2001, at the age of fifty, Huey had finally achieved his pop culture destiny, settling into his rightful place as Bruce Willis’ less theatrically — but much more musically talented — cousin.
Teddy Pendergrass “Truly Blessed”
That was the conundrum Teddy faced in in the late Eighties — if and how to sing about sex from a wheelchair. After his accident, he was still a young man, closer to thirty than to forty. His sparkling smile was intact. His face was unscathed — in fact, he looked as handsome as ever. And while it is much harder to sing while seated, it is by no means impossible. As for everything else — the gliding onstage, the bend of the hips, the undressing, the working up a sweat, the showering and the burning hot oils — those were a lot more complicated. But Teddy did the work and made the transition. No, he was not the same person who drove a Maserati to perform at an arena full of women. He was something much less iconic but also much more sympathetic. He was an underdog — a redemption story.
Van Morrison “What’s It Gonna Take?”
“Somebody said it was about the data.” It’s just one, of many, unimaginable lines from “What’s It Gonna Take?” There are other stranger lyrics on this album. Angrier couplets. Sadder admissions. But it’s the way he sings that last word — “Day-Tah.” Sharp consonants. Accent on both syllables. It’s not simply that I could not connect the guy who had spent decades searching for the mystic to this much older guy searching for statistical confidence. It was also the precision of his enunciation. The greatest singing mumbler, growler, la la la-ler I have ever heard was legendary for how he almost never enunciated — how he was more interested in sound and feel than in the words themselves. But with that single line, it became obvious to me that something was off. Very off. That a switch had flipped. And while I feared the worst for the rest of the album, I clung the thinnest strand of good faith. I hoped and prayed that there were other, plausible explanations for the Day-Tah.
Michael McDonald “Blink of an Eye”
There’s an aphorism that goes something like, “Brad Pitt is a character actor in a leading man’s body.” In music, there’s no direct equivalent for the Pitt aphorism. There are, of course, shy or mercurial singers — Bob Dylan and David Bowie fit that bill. But, solo artists, almost by definition, cannot be reluctant frontmen because they have no “back” to blend into. They are not part of a group — they are the show. The same applies to lead singers in bands, albeit for different reasons. There is really no such thing as a grudging frontman. A lead singer has to want it. Privately, they can be shy and awkward like Farrokh Bulsara, but when they hit the stage they have to be Freddie Mercury. That’s how it works. But, like all statutes, there are very rare exceptions. In the case of Rock and Roll frontmen, there is one indisputable outlier — a guy who sounds like Bob Seger and Darryl Hall at the same time. Who, once upon a time, looked like the love child of bearded, post-Beatles McCartney and a soul puppy. A guy whose voice is as rich as a yacht but who always preferred to be in the background, heard more than seen.
Buster Pointdexter “Buster’s Spanish Rocketship”
The prevailing discourse has always been that Buster Pointdexter was “the act.” That the tuxedo, giant pompadour, martini glasses, Jump Blues, and Eighties Club Med by way of Fifties Havana vibes was David Johansen having a go at everyone. That ten years after the demise of The Dolls — the world’s greatest band that never had a chance — and years after working his way around the world with the David Johansen Band and ending up exactly where he started (nowhere), he needed to make us laugh so we wouldn’t cry. Buster Pointdexter was supposed to be a serious good time, but also in no way serious. It was a gag. A costume. Closer to Tenacious D than to The Dolls. But what started out as a lark — a mildly embarrassing side hustle even — became a career. What’s more, Buster was not a phase. He was not an alter ego or an id. Looking back now, Buster Pointdexter was the thing.
Billy Preston “You and I”
If 1979 marked the end of Billy Preston’s run as a Pop star, it was a beautiful finish. “Late at Night,” his first record for Motown and his last of the decade, found The Fifth Beatle after dark, conjuring a quiet storm. “With You I’m Born Again,” the album’s hit single, was a duet with Syreeta Wright that explained everything from Barbra Streisand to Luther Vandross. By 1982, however, “Billy Preston the superstar” was done. Lionel Richie, Prince and, mostly, Michael Jackson, had taken over his corner. The new music spigot was shut off. Guest work dried up. And, one day, the ubiquitous sideman found himself buried under a mountain of cocaine and bad decisions. And so, in 1997, as legal and financial problems mounted and rumors and innuendo swirled, Preston escaped six thousand miles from the bright lights of Hollywood into the open arms of a past prime Italian Electro Pop group named Novecento.
Willy DeVille “Backstreets of Desire”
When Dylan went from folkie hobo to poet in black turtleneck and shades, it seemed like affect. When Bowie went from Ziggy to Thin White Duke, it felt like an art project. And when Madonna went from Material Girl to S&M Barbarella, it came off like a marketing stunt. But Willy DeVille was the genuine article — a real life shapeshifter. The man born William Borsay Jr., from Stamford, Connecticut, would become a Spanish Harlem pimp, a Bowery gutter prince, a riverboat gambler, and a Navajo mystic. In 1992, somewhere between the Bayou and his eventual return to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, he briefly wound up in Los Angeles. And, in spite of crippling addiction and decades of commercial disappointments, Willy made one of the great, barely heard Roots Rock albums of the decade. “Backstreets of Desire” might read like something from Springsteen’s swamps of Jersey, but it sounds like the Los Angeles that made Los Lobos, Tom Waits and Warren Zevon.
The Isley Brothers “Masterpiece”
In response to Marvin Gaye’s third act and to Luther Vandross’ debut, The Isley Brothers began to move away from Funk and Disco. “Between the Sheets,” from 1983, was a massively successful turn to the bedroom, but also the last album to feature all six Isley Brothers (counting in-law, Chris Jasper). Mounting debt and creative tension ultimately led to the departure of the younger trio, leaving the middle-aged brothers to carry on. Without Ernie’s electric guitar or Chris’ writing and arrangements, however, change was inevitable. Their eventual pivot, entitled “Masterpiece” and released in 1985, featured the three senior Isleys on the cover wearing tuxedos. Ron is seated on a red velvet and gilded chair that looks a lot like a throne. Rudy is standing stage left, holding a regal walking stick. Eldest brother, Kelly, is stage right, mustached and assured, even as he approached sixty and was beginning a battle with cancer. The title and the cover of “Masterpiece” said precisely what they needed to say: classy, but still a little horny.
Booker T and the M.G.’s “That’s the Way It Should Be”
We are living in the golden age of music documentaries. In the last year alone, we got “Get Back,” “The Summer of Soul” and “The Velvet Underground.” Before those, there was the one about Ronnie James Dio and the one about Sparks and the Alanis one and the Poly Styrene one and, oh, that Karen Dalton one. It seems like every year, as part of the battle for streaming service supremacy, we get dozens of new additions to the canon. But the one that, for some reason, has yet to be made is the one about the bi-racial house band for Stax Records who made Otis Redding sound like Otis Redding and who were, in their own right, among the most important, but least documented, bands in R&B history. In 1994, seventeen years after their “last” album, they returned to make it final. Even in middle-age, Booker T. and the M.G.’s were flawless but soon forgotten.
Kool and The Gang “Still Kool”
Many artists straighten out and lighten up as they age. Phil Collins comes to mind. Early Genesis fans could not have imagined “Against All Odds” in the same way that “Sussudio” lovers could not have fathomed “You’ll Be in My Heart.” Similarly, there’s a massive chasm between Cream’s “Tales of Brave Ulysses” and Clapton’s “Change the World.” And yet, compared with Kool & the Gang, those other paths seem almost linear. After nearly twenty years spent dialing down their Jazz and cleaning up their Funk, Kool & the Gang made their way to the top of the charts and into every birthday party, wedding and bar mitzvah the world over. Then, their ensuing hits, from “Joanna” through “Cherish,” got so light that the group began to sound like El DeBarge fronting Chicago. Two decades later, though their classics survived in Hip Hop samples, Kool & the Gang had basically floated away.
Funkadelic “First Ya Gotta Shake the Gate”
When it comes to George Clinton, nothing is simple. Memories are unreliable. Facts are covered in Funk. Dusted with glitter. Stored on old, warped floppy discs, under piles of drugs, in the basement of a barber shop in New Jersey. By 2014, when Clinton turned seventy-thee, the story of Parliament-Funkadelic was something in between a cold case and a myth. Part of me thought that they were the single greatest influence on contemporary Pop music. Another part was convinced that they were the biggest tragedy in the history of Rock and Roll. I thought I’d never know the truth. But then, within a single month, George released his autobiography and Funkadelic released a thirty-three song, three and a half hour, triple album — their first new music since 1981.
Luther Vandross “Luther Vandross”
Luther was the most polite Soul singer to have ever lived. We always knew that Al Green was grooving with euphemisms. We knew Smokey Robinson was being a little too cute. Even Michael Jackson tried to convince us that he was “Bad.” But Luther did none of those things. He was more interested in holding hands and gazing into our eyes over a candlelit dinner and a glass of Chablis. He built his career around silky vocals, a cherubic smile and good manners. But, in 2001, at the age of fifty, he lost half of his body weight, slapped expensive beats on his tracks and started to flirt like a grown up.
The Temptations “Reunion”
By 1982, The Temptations were more an aging institution than a Pop group. Motown’s solution was to bring back David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks for a reunion and to pair them with the songs of Rick James and Smokey. At the time, Ruffin was addicted to crack and Kendricks voice was shot. Quickly and desperately, the seven Temptations assembled to record “Reunion,” an album that should have been an unmitigated disaster but somehow is weirdly delightful.
Hall and Oates “Do It for Love”
Beginning in the 1990s, Hall & Oates’ albums became increasingly sporadic. Sales dried up and it seemed plausible that the duo would coast into retirement. Gradually, however, once-suspicious listeners and critics began to reclaim the band. “What was it,” we all wondered, “about Hall & Oates?” Was it simply Darryl’s voice? Was it their perseverance? Honestly, I’m not sure I would have ever discerned the “it” if Hall & Oates stopped making music when they passed their prime. But because they soldiered on, we ultimately got 2003’s “Do It for Love.” And, on that album, the mystery of Hall & Oates gets unlocked. They were a Boy Band all along.
Smokey Robinson “Being With You”
Smokey Robinson was, in the 1960s, nothing short of everything. He was Carol King, Marvin Gaye, Diana Ross and David Geffen all rolled into one beautiful package. The 70s turned on him just slightly, but, in 1981, at the age of forty one, he returned to the top of the charts with “Being With You.” On the album’s cover, tucked in a striped, v-neck sweater and a couple of gold chains, he smiles at us. His hair has grown out to a casual, “I know I look good” length. His mustache is unconcerned with his lips. His eyes are the kindest shade of gold. He is the version of prime that only comes with middle age, but rarely stays.
Little Richard “Lifetime Friend”
Of Rock’s 50s pioneers, Little Richard proved to be the least enduring. While Elvis kept cranking out hits, Richard made the occasional Gospel record and live album. For decades, he battled crippling drug addiction and struggled for sexual self-acceptance. After his historic early run, much of the 60s and 70s were a messy blur. But then, in 1985, Richard was surprisingly cast in the hit film, “Down and Out in Beverly Hills,” catapulting him back into contemporary popular culture. He pounced on the opportunity and quickly released “Lifetime Friend,” his first (and last) album of Rock and Roll in over a decade.
Rick James “Wonderful”
Do we really know when the end has begun? I’d imagine that pessimists would recognize the signs. Optimists might not see the flares until it’s too late. But even still, I have to imagine they can trace back the eventual conclusion to the early warnings. Rick James, surely, is a third species, living in a fluid meta-space between sounds, genres and cultures and on a constant seesaw of god-like, coke binge optimism and the deep self-loathing and hangover of pessimism. So, while optimists and pessimists both eventually recognize when the end has begun, I’m not so sure that Rick James did. Otherwise, there is simply no explanation for 1988s “Wonderful.” It is the sound of a man dying, basically alone in the studio, and not realizing it.
Stevie Wonder “Conversation Peace”
You don’t say “no” to Stevie. Paul McCartney said “yes.” Prince said “yes.” Barbara Streisand. Pavarotti. Michael Jackson. Tony Bennett. Whitney Houston. They all said “yes” to Stevie. But in 1995, at some point before “Conversation Peace” was released, somebody should have said “no” to Stevie. More than once.
Snoop Dogg “Bush”
In the 2010s, Snoop’s brand went global while his music was obscured by his celebrity and clouds of blissful smoke. 2015’s “Bush” was something of a reclamation record. With Pharrell behind the wheel, they made a chill, LA-themed, (very) Lite Space Funk record. The entire album could soundtrack the “adults only” night in 1978 at an LA skating rink, wherein The Bee Gees jammed with Funkadelic.
Ray Charles “True to Life”
The 1970s saw Ray Charles’ sales dwindle, his chart success regress and his critical adoration fade. And the Ray Charles who signed with Atlantic Records in 1977 was not the same one who signed with the label twenty five years earlier. This one was sober, divorced, a millionaire and forty-seven years old. Fans and critics still hoped that Ray would find some new inspiration, but, those hopes would be repeatedly dashed. 1977s “True to Life,” like most of Rays’ albums from the 70s, reveals a restlessness much more than a breakthrough.