Any time an artist exited the elevator and entered the halls of the sixteenth floor at 75 Rockefeller Plaza the climate would change. Maybe not for the executives, who were safely ensconced in offices, but definitely for us assistants, who were lined up in a row of cubicles, diligently protecting our bosses and over-eagerly smiling whenever the “talent” arrived. For instance, when Metallica would show up, the skies would darken and thunder would rumble. When Third Eye Blind visited, the temperature dropped and people scattered. And when Busta Rhymes and the Flipmode Squad appeared, thick clouds of smoke would engulf the floor. But when Huey Lewis stepped off the elevator, the sun would shine and it was exactly seventy-two degrees.

By 1997, Huey Lewis was no longer a Pop star. Closer to fifty than forty, he’d cleaned up the casual back party mullet from “Fore!” and added an inch (but really just an inch) of good life girth to his waistline. He wasn’t the same guy from “Sports.” No dayglo, pink tank top under a double-breasted blazer. He could not reliably be accused of being “New Wave.” At the same time, he wasn’t giving Heartland Rocker. In the Eighties, Huey answered the question: “What if Elvis Costello and Johnny Cougar and Bruce Willis were all the same person?” But more than a century later, he seemed to be answering: “Who would be the greatest step-dad of all time?”

In his khakis and bomber jacket, Lewis was both incredibly handsome and completely familiar. He looked like the best looking, most popular, scholar athlete at a thirtieth high school reunion. Like a guy that you either knew or wanted to know. The women at Elektra Entertainment Group naturally gravitated towards him, while men wanted to shake his hand and talk Bay Area sports. He radiated confidence. But more so, he radiated ease.

I’m sure it wasn’t easy. I’m sure it required a lot of hard work. Those early lean years. Then finally breaking through. Those hits. Those tours. The fame. The fade. Success like that — multi-platinum, top of the charts success — never comes easy. And yet, Huey made it look like it was. Some of that was no doubt performance — beneath the five o’clock shadow and permanent tan was a heady, nervy thinker. Some of it was environmental — Lewis was from scenic, affluent Marin County, where problems are never so big and where it’s always wine o’clock. And, no doubt, some of it was genetic — Huey really was a handsome, smart, athletic and musical guy. He really was an all-state high school baseball player. He really did go to an Ivy League university. And, ultimately, he really did choose a different path — one that involved busking his way around Europe, palling around in London’s Pub Rock scene and then finally, on the cusp of thirty, finding his way back home as the frontman of Huey Lewis and The News.

If Bruce succeeded on account of his effort, Michael on account of magic, Prince on talent and Madonna on savvy, Huey’s superpowers were both less spectacular and more blunt. On the one hand, he could not write like Bruce, dance or sing like Michael, play like Prince or shape-shift like Madonna. On the other hand, he was practically everyone’s “type.” A guy’s guy. A ladies’ man. His synth hooks implied New Wave, his melodies leaned R&B and his harmonies were straight Doo-Wop. In a blazer he looked like a movie star. In a leather jacket he was a Rock star. And in a sleeveless t-shirt, on MTV, he was a bonafide Pop star.

Huey’s magnetism was plain to see — he was handsome, easy going, and talented in so many ways but never too talented. Some people debated Michael vs. Prince. Some folks clutched their pearls when Madonna came on the radio. Some even found The Boss to be a bit much. You may not have loved all of his songs, but everybody — and I mean everybody — liked Huey Lewis. We liked him in 1982 on “Picture This.” We really liked him in 1983 on “Sports.” And in 1985 on the “Back to the Future” soundtrack and in 1986 on “Fore!.” Even when his star faded, when the hits dried up and The News were no longer newsworthy, Huey Lewis had a one hundred percent approval rating.

Between 1982 and 1988, Huey Lewis and The News had a dozen top ten Billboard hits and sold tens of millions of records around the world. Rapidly and seemingly out of nowhere, Huey Lewis and The News became the white, male faces of MTV. We pumped our firsts to ”The Power of Love,” “Do You Believe in Love,” “Heart and Soul” and “The Heart of Rock and Roll.” We winked back to ”I Want a New Drug” and “Hip to be Square.” But their appeal was not that they were game changing or rule breaking. To the contrary, Huey’s voice — slightly hoarse, a little strained and with a hint of a lisp — possessed an everyman quality. When his songs played on the radio, any guy in any Ford, Toyota, Buick or Mercedes could reasonably sing along. The News played with the economy of The Cars or The Attractions, but without the sharp edges.

But in 1997, when he transformed the sixteenth floor at 75 Rock into a balmy welcome back step-dad party, Huey Lewis was just a part time star. He was in town doing press for his greatest hits package and was two years removed from his last studio effort — an album of Fifties and Sixties R&B covers. The Nineties were intentionally slow, commercially lean years for Lewis and The News. Which is why I was slightly surprised at the climate changing effect of his office visit. It was not so much that I’d forgotten about Huey so much as I’d forgotten about (or at least underestimated) his preternatural charisma. That night, I went home and told my roommate, and then my girlfriend and then my parents and siblings about my brief encounter. About how he lit up the room. About how every single person was smiling from ear to ear from the moment he entered until the end of the day.

Eventually, my smile faded, I went back to work answering phones, putting most people on hold, patching a select few through and not thinking so much about Huey Lewis. Three years later, I was working for myself, fifty blocks but a world away from Rockefeller Center, obsessing over records from Touch & Go and Matador and Jade Tree and everything that bore no relationship to Huey Lewis. In fact, for some time, it’s possible that I forgot about my Huey encounter altogether. But then came 2000, and Huey returned with a casual vengeance.

In January of 2000, Christian Bale (onscreen as psychopath, Patrick Bateman) murdered Jared Leto (playing insufferable Yuppie, Paul Allen). The film, based on Bret Easton Ellis’ best selling novel, “American Psycho,” was a minor hit, weird and dark enough to scare away mainstream audiences but pulpy enough to attract art house film goers, literary types and horror fans. Since its release, “American Psycho” has endured in popular consciousness — for its social satire and its campy performances. But also for Huey Lewis. When Bale’s character murders Leto’s, he expounds on the virtues of Huey Lewis and The News while “Hip to be Square” blares in the background, drowning out the carnage.

Patrick Bateman’s strident defense of Huey was both totally unnecessary and oddly convincing. But perhaps not quite so convincing as Lewis’ next film appearance. “Duets,” directed by Bruce Paltrow and starring quite possibly the most in demand actress in the world at the time (his daughter Gwyneth) was a flop. The star studded cast included Paul Giamatti, Scott Speedman and Maria Bello. But despite of the talent assembled and the charming premise — estranged father and daughter reunite at mom’s’ funeral and embark on a karaoke filled roadtrip — ”Duets” failed to excite pretty much anyone. It’s a silly, sloppy movie that I can’t remember why or where I saw it. In fact, it was so forgettable that I could barely describe its plot. In writing this article, I remembered virtually nothing about the film — nothing, that is, except for Huey Lewis. It’s not that he out-acted (he did not) or out-sang (he kind of did) his castmates. It’s not that he turned in a low key great performance (nope) or elevated a mediocre film (nope again). It’s that — just as he’d been four years earlier in midtown Manhattan — he was offhandedly, effortlessly charming. So much so that, even after the film quickly exited theaters, Huey’s onscreen duet with Gwyneth — a cover of Smokey Robinson’s “Cruisin’” — topped the Adult Contemporary charts and scored malls, restaurants and wine bars around the world.

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 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. 

That was the version of Huey Lewis who (re)appeared on “Plan B,” his eighth studio album with The News but his first since 1994. In 2001, Lewis was a part time actor slash one time Pop star who retained all of the faculties of his youth but very little of the obsessiveness. Whereas “Sports” and “Fore!” were remarkably tight affairs, distinguished by the Bob’s (Clearmountain and Ludwig) engineering flair, “Plan B” is exceptionally loose. The inspiration is not Elvis Costello or Nick Lowe but rather Fats Domino and Allen Toussaint. Twentyish years earlier, Huey Lewis needed a record deal because he needed his songs to be heard. In 2001, though, he made a record because he could — because he had a first rate horn section available and because it sounded like a good time.

Which is not to suggest that “Plan B” is sloppy or even inessential, but rather that it’s not the same band or composer who made “I Want a New Drug” and “Power of Love.” This is the guy who casually lit up the sixteenth floor of 75 Rock in 1997, further removed from his Greatest Hits package and a lifetime away from his initial ascent. This was not so much a band in decline as one admiring their own sunset. Johnny Colla was still on rhythm guitar. Bill Gibson was still on drums. Sean Hopper was still on keys. And, most importantly, Huey Lewis — the most likable frontman of his Eighties Pop class — was still singing the songs and leading the band.

What most separated the twenty-first century News from previous incarnations — and what separated it from Bruce Willis’ musical foray (see “The Return of Bruno”) or, for that matter, any first rate bar band — was “The Sports Section.” Marvin McFadden on trumpet, Ron Stallings on tenor sax and Rob Sudduth on baritone sax bring Huey’s R&B to life. The horns sharpen the blues. They funk up the rhythms. And they elevate these songs from professional homage to real Friday night at the juke joint vibes.

At its occasional worst, “Plan B” can sound like late Van Morrison — workmanlike and perfunctory. But whereas Van, even at his absolute worst, provides a strange, jazzy mysticism, Huey lacks the deep musicality and formal mastery to upend the form. What he possesses in spades, however, and what Van sorely lacks, is unending charisma. Huey sounds like a good hang. He can’t not. During the fade in on "We're Not Here for a Long Time (We're Here for a Good Time)," a crowd is piped in to simulate a party scene. It could be a Sam & Dave show from the Sixties. Or a Fats Domino gig from the Thirties. Or even a Sly Stone show from the Seventies. Huey cannot sing like any one of those men. And yet, through sheer magnetism, he can conjure the boundless joy of classic Rhythm and Blues.

Though most of “Plan B” is uncomplicated, well executed, unlucky in love fare (the title track, “My Other Woman” and “I Ain’t Perfect”), the record jumps a level when Huey tweaks the formula. “Thank You, No. 19” leans into The Funk, “The Rhythm Ranch” is chock full of Zydeco and “Let Her Go and Start Over” brings a little bit Country, a little bit R&B, “Easy Like Sunday Morning” energy. These three — the best songs on “Plan B” — are not among the thirty best Huey Lewis and The News’ songs. But they are a reminder of the singers’ unique appeal — a capacity to simultaneously play things completely straight (handsome white guy playing Rock and Roll and Rhythm and Blues) and slightly off kilter (handsome white guy playing Rock and Roll and Rhythm and Blues while also playing with New Wave, Soul Music and his own persona).

In the end, “Plan B” is a charming record because Huey Lewis is an exceedingly charming guy fronting a band overqualified for the job but still thrilled to do the job. It’s much straighter than his peak fare, but it’s never completely straight because Huey Lewis is never completely straight. Like how his smile is both explicitly earnest and implicitly wry. Or like the cartoonishness of his name — “Huey” is fun, funny, unthreatening. It’s like how his sturdy jawline is undercut by the vulnerability of his lisp. It’s that he’s a scholar who's also an athlete who’s also a singer who’s also an actor who’s also just a regular guy. It’s his unique capacity to be comfortably and consistently himself while also being exactly whatever we want him to be. America’s answer to Nick Lowe. Marin County’s answer to Johnny Cougar. Marty McFly’s greatest critic. Gwyneth Paltrow’s absentee Dad. No matter where you go, Huey Lewis is there. And it’s always sunny and seventy-two degrees.

by Matty Wishnow