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.” Honestly, I’m not sure if it came from something Pitt said or from a random Tweet or from a clever writer at “Entertainment Tonight.” For all I know it might not even have been about Brad Pitt. Maybe it started with Johnny Depp. Or Jeff Bridges for that matter. Regardless of its source or subject, however, it serves its purpose — to describe a person whose particular skills are betrayed by some more dominant feature.
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, for however much those two wanted to disappear, they were also obsessed with their image and cultural standing. Michael Jackson was crippled by anxiety, but also, he could not not put on a show. Roy Orbison hid behind those sunglasses, but they didn’t stop him from getting on stage so the world could marvel at his voice. You get the point — 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. It seems almost axiomatic to suggest that lead singers cannot desperately, fundamentally desire to be backup singers or session players. Kurt Cobain may have chafed at his own celebrity, but he could never have been a rhythm guitarist for some twee punk band on K Records. Why? Because he was a lead singer — a frontman. That’s how it works. That’s the rule. But, like all statutes, there are very rare exceptions. And in the case of Rock and Roll frontmen, there is one glaring outlier.
The one exception to this rule is a guy who sounds like Bob Seger and Darryl Hall at the same time. Who once looked like the love child of bearded, post-Beatles McCartney and a soulful puppy. A guy who fronted bar bands and bounced around the L..A. studio scene before his favorite band on earth (Steely Dan) invited him to join them. First on some records. And then on tour. Which made him known, but not famous. And which also exceeded his wildest dreams. Until, just a few years later, through a very strange twist of fate, but also on account of his one in a billion voice, Michael McDonald found himself singing lead for the most popular band in all of America.
In more ways than I can count, Michael McDonald always reminded me of my uncle Frank. Similar ages and builds. Both sported thick mustaches and (for a while at least) luxuriant black manes. Like McDonald, my uncle could handle the bass parts in harmonies and the Eric Burdon parts when it was time to sing lead on an Animals’ cover. Moreover, Frank was the kind of guy who could just pick up an instrument and play it — seemingly without any formal training. And, according to family legend, he once played drums for a band that opened for Aerosmith at the Hampton Coliseum in the mid-Seventies.
Though he never had a hit record and never won a Grammy or even had a record deal, for that matter, I’ve no doubt that my uncle Frank could play keyboards and guitar about as well as Michael McDonald. I would even bet that, in another life, McDonald’s career in music would have been a lot like Frank’s had it not been for one significant difference. McDonald had a rich, raspy baritone that could stretch into a tenor — all the way up into a fairly high tenor — without turning into a falsetto. McDonald could sing the fuck out a song. In fact, seemingly any song. And my uncle could not. Which is why Frank was stuck (poorly) imitating Levi Stubbs in his living room and Michael McDonald became Michael McDonald.
That was Michael McDonald’s incomparable feature. He could sing almost any part of any song as well or better than the next best guy. It was his voice, not his fingers, that attracted Fagen and Becker. And it was his voice that helped him step in and rescue a massively popular band that was on the verge of implosion. In the whole history of Rock and Roll, there is really only one other Rock band who changed lead singers and styles and went on on to achieve greater success. And that was Genesis, who survived Peter Gabriel’s departure, made a sharp turn towards Pop, and thrived with Phil Collins singing lead. It’s Genesis and The Doobie Brothers, who, in 1976, were saved by the voice of Michael McDonald.
All the while — from his time as a session musician through his days with The Doobie Brothers through his solo star turn — McDonald felt like an imposter. Like the guy who wasn’t sharp enough to cut it with Steely Dan in the first place but who got the gig on account of his voice. Like the interloper who was asked to join a commercially thriving act due to a health emergency. Like the guy who was bound to disrupt that band’s chemistry and, ultimately, ruin a good thing.
McDonald saw himself as a worker, not a frontman. He was convinced that his good fortune was a result of unusual luck, tireless commitment and the generosity of others. In part, he was right of course. But, mostly, he could not hear what the rest of us heard — that goddam voice. Though tonally different from, say, Otis or Aretha or Ray, McDonald had the sort of voice that could carry a song on its own, unadorned. And yet, he felt compelled to either surround himself was sprawling bands or to operate behind the scenes, where he could be heard but not seen.
Throughout the late Seventies, while still with the Doobies, McDonald continued to guest on hit singles for others, two of which would go on to define Yacht Rock — the made-up genre which McDonald became inexorably tied to. His work on Kenny Loggin’s “Is This It” and Christoper Cross’ “Ride Like the Wind” provided great meme fodder, but they also supplied weight and gravity to lite, poppy rockers that might have otherwise sailed away. Moreover, those guest spots confirmed that, for all the success of his primary band, McDonald was always more comfortable as a role player than as a frontman.
“More comfortable,” however, is not the same thing as “better.” By the early Eighties and despite his aversion to the spotlight, McDonald was a star. And so, shortly after The Doobie Brothers (temporarily) disbanded, and one month before their (not really) farewell concert, he did what all famous lead singers do when their band breaks up. In the summer of 1982, McDonald released his wildly popular solo debut, “If That’s What it Takes.” Anchored by the slow burn, quiet storm single, “I Keep Forgetting,” McDonald’s album featured half of Toto, both Kenny Loggins and Christopher Cross, and two dozen of LA’s finest studio musicians. It is a solo album in name only. The band is massive and expert to the point of being overqualified, suggesting that McDonald did everything in his power to deflect the spotlight via the talent of others.
By the mid-Eighties, McDonald’s star had come back down to earth. Whereas The Doobies were reliable arena-fillers, “the Michael McDonald show” proved to be a relatively weak concert draw. He married and, very happily, slowed the pace and shrunk the scale of things. In 1985, he made a return to the airwaves on “Yah Mo B There,” a duet with James Ingram, which, many years later, became a punchline in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin.” Just a year later, however, McDonald’s second solo record landed with a thud.
It did not come as a complete surprise. McDonald’s preference for something quieter, closer to home was plain to see. Simultaneously, he’d been market corrected by more contemporary R&B — Luther Vandross, Keith Sweat and the like — as well as the MTV ready, electro-Funk turns of Phil Collins and Genesis. In 1978, Michael McDonald was the right man for the right job at the right time. Not long after, however, audiences had cooled on his molasses soaked R&B at the very same time that McDonald had tired of trying so hard. By the end of 1985 it was fair to wonder if McDonald hadn’t finally gotten his wish of fading back into his former, less conspicuous role — singer, not star. And whether he finally had the perfect excuse to head back home and, maybe every once in a while, record a modest Adult Contemporary album for fans in between appearances on the songs of his friends and heroes. It sounded like a pretty good plan. In fact, it almost sounded like McDonald had planned it that way.
That plan, however, was briefly derailed in 1986 when McDonald agreed to record the theme song to “Running Scared,” a film starring Gregory Hines and (a surprisingly muscular) Billy Crystal as drug-busting buddy cops from Chicago. “Sweet Freedom” is an endearing slice of mid-Eighties pop culture — a moment when McDonald, The Pointer Sisters (“Neutron Dance”) and Bob Seger (“Shakedown”) were all being asked to fuse Funk, R&B and New Wave, and when action comedies reigned supreme at the box office. That combination of McDonald’s Pop fusion and a shirtless Billy Crystal proved undeniable. “Sweet Freedom” became an unexpected Pop hit — the last one of McDonald’s career.
The commercial valley was not terribly problematic for McDonald. He still made music. He still toured. Just less. After his flukish soundtrack hit but before his semi-ironic reclamation as a Yacht Rock hero, McDonald released a string of low profile, commercially irrelevant albums. The first and third of those records, “Take it to Heart” (1990) and “Blue Obsession” (2000), were both delayed and then nearly pulled from shelves at the last moment when labels panicked over their (lack of) commercial prospects. In between, however, came “Blink of an Eye,” an earnest portrait of McDonald in middle-age — a man of quiet faith (if not religion) and family. A man who’d traveled a great distance via a fleet of Doobie Liner jets across the cocaine-laced peaks of stardom to rediscover himself on the other side.
The first thing you notice about McDonald’s fourth solo album is that he does not appear on its cover. Instead, we see a portrait of two young black siblings, eyes closed, the younger child gently hugging their older brother from behind. It’s a picture that has not aged particularly well, evoking both the insincerity of Bill Clinton’s “I feel your pain” and the white savior-ness of 1988s “Human Rights Now” concerts. In place of McDonald’s sad eyes and salt and pepper beard, which appeared on most of his previous records, we are given something less personal, but deeply serious. Many years after its release and with the benefit of time, it presents mostly as a bad haircut — as a relic of the early Nineties. But, also, first impressions do sometimes matter.
Over forty musicians appear on “Blink of an Eye.” Over a dozen horn players show up. A similar number of backing singers are credited. But neither of those statistics were particularly surprising. There are “saxy,” slow jam motifs throughout, which require a melange of saxophones (and trumpets and, apparently, a flugelhorn). Similarly, the Gospel influences necessitates a full choir behind McDonald. What did surprise me, though, was the six keyboard players credited (not including McDonald), alongside four bassists and — wait for it — nine guitarists. It’s probably that last number that most confounds, because while “Blink of an Eye” is many things, it is absolutely not a guitar album. It is at times an awkward, electronic take on Reggae and Carribean music. It is also a contemporary Gospel R&B album. And, perhaps most of all, it is a glacially, slow, slightly depressing blue eyed Soul record. But it is not — not even for a moment — a Rock and Roll record. Or even a Blues album. A couple of guitarists would have sufficed. But nine suggests the obvious: McDonald didn’t simply need to hire a band, he needed to blend into a crowd.
Unfortunately for him, that was just not possible. It’s his name (though not his face) on the cover. Moreover, “Blink of an Eye” is still, first and foremost, a vocal showcase. Although there are exactly zero hits on the album, and while there are really no transcendent songs, there are many times when McDonald’s performance elevates something that is otherwise banal — cloying even — to become something quite beautiful.
If the player count on the album is formidable, the sound on the record is anything but. The keyboards are more windchime than Hammond (though there is still plenty of Hammond). The guitars have tasteful, dinner party funk vibes. Tonally, it’s not so far from Phil Collins “No Jacket Required” but spiritually it’s much closer to “…But Seriously” or even “Both Sides” — slower, heavier and restrained to the point of sounding depressed. Unlike “No Jacket Required” but a lot like “Both Sides,” the drums very lightly snap more than slap. And yet, in spite of its many shortcomings, when McDonald goes on a vocal run, none of that matters. “East of Eden,” for instance is a languid, lightweight ballad about lost faith and the fate of the world with gooeyness like:
The world goes mad around us
As I stand by and watch you sleep
In the hope that harm won't find us
I pray the lord our souls to keep
Does he see us here?
Are we precious in his sight?
Or are we merely dust on this tiny ball?
He hurled out into the night
But in the back half, when McDonald leans in — when his faith buckles, when he starts to ask those big, stupid questions, and when he stretches his baritone up towards the sky — I’ll be damned if I didn’t almost spit out my Cheesecake Factory Chablis special. Christ, this guy can sing.
What “Blink of an Eye” lacks in rhythm and melody — which is actually quite a bit — it makes up for in feeling. It’s a record largely devoid of dynamic and melody but full of little moments. A groove will click. Some alto sax will break through. But, most of the time, it’s just McDonald doing what he’s always done — singing the shit out of a song. The difference between great McDonald tracks and most of “Blink of an Eye,” is a matter of ingredients. With The Doobies, Steely Dan, Kenny Loggins and even on “Sweet Freedom,” there is some swing to the Pop — either Jazz or Funk — that lifts up the heavy weight of McDonald’s instrument which, in turn, provides a counterbalance to music that might otherwise sound “off.” Steely Dan’s “Peg” could pass for a middle of the road Al Jarraau song without the coat of McDonald. And “Takin it to the Streets” would be a coked up mess if Tom Johnston were singing it. It’s that pairing of something melodically angular and slightly unpredictable with a voice that is so steady and reliable that makes those songs what they are.
On the other hand, when he’s experimenting with Casio Reggae, as he does on “I Stand for You” and “What Makes a Man Hold On,” the odd steadiness of the meter means that there’s no angle for McDonald to grab onto. And it’s not just the ill-advised, Carribean-inspired numbers that miss the mark. When McDonald gets real slow — slower than “I Keep Forgetting,” slower than Slow Jams — the effect is neither soulful nor sexy. It’s just kind of sad. “I Want You” is, ironically, devoid of desire. And the album’s seven minute closer, “For a Child,” is a ponderous downer, full of flatulent horns, gassy synth and no discernible rhythm. “For a Child” is too despondent to groove. And “I Want You” has no idea what it really wants.
At its occasional best, however, “Blink of an Eye” gets outside of its sorrow and beyond the flaccid Funk. It never gets to Earth Wind and Fire but, on “More to us Than That,” it’s close to Earth Breeze and Flicker. Maybe? The great irony (or tragedy, I suppose) is that the album sounds great. It’s clean and warm. The playing is sharp and neat. And the singer is still one of the all timers. But the alchemy is off. The ingredients don’t taste good together. And I think it's all on account of McDonald’s reluctance. He sounds like a man stuck between really not wanting to be the star and desperately not wanting to suck. It’s easy to understand both of those positions, but it’s hard to get excited about what’s in the middle.
Because he never acted like a big star, because by 1999 he really wasn’t a big star, and because he had the perfect voice that could pull it off, Trey Parker enlisted McDonald to sing “Eyes of a Child” for the “South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut” soundtrack. It was the first of a litany of Michael McDonald jokes — some very funny, many of them not — that the singer willingly participated in. It was also the beginning of the singer’s fourth act. First he was a session guy. Then he was the singer in a band. And then he was a solo artist. But, by 2005 he was splitting time between his life as a family man, his career as an occasional Adult Contemporary artist, and, finally, his role as the central figure in a viral mockumentary and faux musical genre known as “Yacht Rock.”
McDonald is the heart and soul of Yacht Rock. Whereas Loggins and Cross could be dismissed as “guilty pleasures,” and whereas Steely Dan could only be taken very, very seriously, McDonald is the comfortable middle. He appreciates sincere fandom but he’s also happy to be appreciated ironically. Which is why, since 2005 — since the Yacht Rock web series debuted and since Paul Rudd’s “Yah Mo B There” meltdown in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin and since Jimmy Fallon’s impersonations — he has reemerged not as a former Doobie or former Pop star but as an affable older dude with an incredible voice,and a bunch of friends who are important to men (and women, but really mostly men) of a certain age.
If Brad Pitt really is a character actor in a leading man’s body then, alas, Michael McDonald is a session musician with a lead singer’s voice. Pitt eventually got his Best Supporting Actor Oscar for a movie that rewrote Los Angeles in 1969. And, in time, McDonald got his family, his high profile duets, and a recurring spot in a low budget web series that reimagined LA circa 1979.