A few years after Marvin dimmed the lights and slowly sauntered from “What’s Going On” to “Let’s Get it On,” but still a few years before Rick James got freaky and Prince got really freaky, Teddy Pendergrass had it all figured out. He understood just how far you could push romantic love into the realm of carnal pleasure without tipping into obscenity. He, like Jackie Wilson, James Brown, Otis Redding, Al Green and, of course, Marvin, recognized that gospel revelation and sexual transcendence were similar in ways that everyone knew but no one would admit. He realized the power of his husky baritone, his million dollar smile, his manicured beard (which he stole from Marvin) and his tall, lithe glistening frame. He intuited that somewhere between Soul and Funk there was a new form, tailor made for Seventies dance floors, just waiting to be born. Yes — Teddy Pendergrass got it. And he had it. Which is why, between 1977 and 1981, he was the biggest R&B star in all the world.

It’s hard to fully describe Teddy’s success on the basis of traditional metrics. He never had a multi-platinum album. He only had one single reach the top forty on the Billboard Hot 100 charts. He was never a critics darling like his predecessors — James, Marvin and Al — and he was never a crossover Pop star like his acolytes — Rick and Prince. He’s not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But Teddy tallied a dozen top ten R&B hits, a dozen more that reached the top forty and became the first R&B singer to score five consecutive platinum-selling albums. All between 1977 and 1981

Teddy Pendergrass was occasionally (if problematically) referred to as “The Black Elvis” for a number of reasons: his flair for opulence (he had a Graceland-esque estate outside of Philadelphia), his love of Gospel, the way he moved his hips and the way he glimmered and shined. His nickname, of course, implied a deeper, darker truth about America — that Teddy was like Elvis, but Black. And that distinction assumed the segregation that defined so much about American culture, including its music.

Though a lot had changed since Jackie Wilson, and though even more has changed since Teddy’s heyday, the popular music industry has always been organized around race. For as long as there have been radios, there have been separate radio formats for Black music. There are separate departments inside record labels devoted to Hip Hop and R&B. For decades there was a Chitlin’ Circuit, which were generally owned by Black entrepreneurs and which booked almost exclusively Black performers, but which existed due to the the lack of opportunity and safety elsewhere. And so, Teddy’s success was both massive and constrained. If you listened to WDAS in Philly, or watched “Soul Train” or saw him at the Apollo Theater, you understood his monumental importance. But if you did not get to see or hear him up close, you might know his name but know almost nothing about the man or his music.

There are countless reasons why Teddy Pendergrass should be a household name and nearly as many as why he is not. As for the latter, there’s the fact that his most famous song — the song that nearly reached the top of the Pop charts and which perhaps best demonstrates his vocal mastery — is “If You Don’t Know Me By Now,” released in 1972 and credited to Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes. And while it is true that the group was formed around Harold Melvin, who sang while Teddy played drums, waiting in the wings, by 1972 the percussionist had become the lead vocalist and undeniable frontman. Which is also why he went solo, took off the suit and tie — and then the shirt as well — and pivoted form Doo-wop inspired Soul to sexy, upscale R&B.

And it was the electric, sexualized charge of Teddy Pendergrass — solo artist — that perhaps best explains his appeal and the limitations of that appeal. Ultimately, Teddy thrived and survived as a “genre artist” because of (white and racist) fear of (black and male) sexuality. It was the same force that framed James Brown and Al Green. It’s the force that Prince spent a lifetime trying to undo. It’s a force as old as America. But more so than any of those men, Teddy embodied that thing which was the very source of hegemonic anxiety: he was a terrifically handsome, talented, wealthy man singing in ways and about things that had not been done before. At least, not to that extent.

In 1973, on “You Sure Love to Ball” from “Let’s Get it On,” Marvin Gaye sang:

Oh baby, please turn yourself around

Oh, baby, so I can love you good

That same year, on “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby,” Barry White sang:

It feels so good

You lying here next to me

Oh, what a groove

You have no idea how it feels

My hands just won't keep still

But, in 1979, on “Turn Off the Lights,” Teddy and his special friend make their way towards the shower before taking things three steps further and maybe one step too far:

Turn 'em off and come to me

You see tonight I'm in, a sexy mood, mood, baby

And light a candle

Girl, there's something I, something I, something I, something I wanna do to you, baby

Yes, I do

Would you mind if I asked you to?

Would you rub me down

Would you rub me down in some, in some burnin' hot oils, baby

Yeah

I swear I'll return the same thing

The same thing to you, baby

So, this is where things tilt from sensual to freaky. Teddy doesn’t just want to soap up and get down, he wants to bring in burning hot oils. Burning hot. Any reading makes it clear that this song, which was a #2 R&B radio hit, travels past seduction, past practice baby-making into full on S&M territory. “Turn Off the Lights” walked on scalding hot wax so that Rick’s “Superfreak” could jog and Prince’s “Sister” could run. But it was more than just his brazen lyrics. It was how he gradually peeled off layers of clothing in concert. It was his 1978 “Ladies Only” tour wherein (female) fans were given chocolate teddy lollipops. It was all that sexiness combined with the brawny baritone and the feathery falsetto combined with the self-possession combined with the opulent mansion and the fancy cars that relegated Teddy to a lane defined by race.

In 1977, Teddy’s manager and ex-girlfriend Taazmayia "Taaz" Lang was murdered outside her home, in what was a suspected hit ordered by Philly’s “Black Mafia.” But the tragedy only served to corroborate the idea that Teddy’s success, which was correlated to his sexuality, was somehow unsafe — an insidious narrative that was unspoken but understood and which would be the subtext to the tragedy which ultimately came to define the final chapter in Teddy’s life.

On the night of March 18, 1982, six months after the release of “It’s Time for Love” — his (fifth consecutive) platinum selling album — Teddy was involved in a car crash that left him paralyzed from the chest down. He never walked again. The headline was that an R&B star had nearly died. The news stories explained that Pendergrass had driven his new Rolls Royce into two trees, after losing control and crossing two lanes of traffic, while in the company of a transgendered companion, just one week after crashing his Maserati. But neither the headlines nor the text that said as much as the gossip and subtext. The gossip suggested that drugs or alcohol were involved. Teddy himself implied that he thought somebody — maybe even the Philly police — had tampered with his car’s brakes. While the story was unspeakably sad and shocking, the subtext was obvious. If that subtext were a headline, it would have read: “Black Man Stricken Down for Being Too Sexy.”

After a duo of rushed out albums by Philadelphia International, featuring songs he had recorded before his crash, and following months and months of rehabilitations, Teddy began his comeback in earnest, from the seat of a wheelchair. Having moved on from Philadelphia International to Asylum Records, he made music with Luther Vandross and sang a duet with young Whitney Houston. In 1985, he performed live for the first time since his accident, in front of more than a billion people who tuned in to watch the historic Live Aid concert in Teddy’s home town. Slowly but steadily, more records followed. Gold but not platinum records. Good but not great records. As he approached forty, Teddy had lived several lives: pre-teen pastor, Philly Soul drummer, understudy turned frontman, pre-Disco star, sex symbol and tragedy.

However, during the postscript to the story — which ended up being longer than the story itself — Teddy was validated by a new generation of slow jamming, self-proclaiming sexual dynamos. With Teddy sidelined, Al Green making gospel music, Luther sticking to Quiet Storm and Barry White functioning as lovable punchline, a younger crew of sexually motivated R&B artists emerged. Fully grown up Bobby Brown returned in 1986, topping the charts in 1986 with “Girlfriend,” and then again two years later with “My Perogative.” Keith Sweat scored a number one R&B hit in 1987 with “I Want Her.” There was Jodeci, Silk and a long list of others up through and beyond R. Kelly making Slow Jams, New Jack Swing or, frequently, both.

Meanwhile, Teddy Pendergrass was busy rehabbing and putting the pieces of his life back together. In time, and to the surprise of many, he came back. Those first albums after his accident were modest affairs, warmly but not hotly received. Because of his paralysis, Teddy’s comeback could never be like Elvis’ or Tina Turner’s. It did not culminate in Grammy awards or Vegas residencies. But in most every other way, it was even more spectacular. Those first comeback albums were more modest and more tentative than his pre-accident work — lacking the vocal and pelvic force of his Seventies prime. Where there were strings before, there were more synthesizers on the other side. Where there was once hot desire, there was now warm faith.

That was the conundrum Teddy faced as he stared down middle age — 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 bending of the hips, the undressing, the working up a sweat, the showering and the burning hot oils — those were all 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 and a redemption story.

If “You Don’t Know Me by Now” was Teddy’s first peak and “Close the Door,” from 1978, was his second, then “Joy,” from 1988 was his third. Six minutes of slow, steady groove, chanting, purring something beyond satisfaction but just short of pleasure, “Joy” reached the top of the R&B singles charts and stayed there for two weeks. Though it’s eminently soulful, it’s not exactly a Soul ballad. And though it really takes its time, it’s not really a Slow Jam. There are traces of New Jack Swing in the beats, but they are really more a whiff — a suggestion of things to come.

Three years after “Joy,” Teddy returned with “Truly Blessed.” Forty-one at the time of its release, his eleventh solo album came out during the dawn of Hip Hop’s mainstreaming — a year after Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer took the Pop charts by storm — and during the adolescence of New Jack Swing. “Truly Blessed” is a bad haircut with a good heart. If Arsenio Hall went to church in 1991, this would have been the soundtrack. Musically, it is curious about those New Jack rhythms, but spiritually it’s interested in a higher power. Which is quite the tightrope act — middle-aged sex symbol, grateful to be alive, singing PG-13 devotions with computer animated beats, from the seat of a wheelchair.

And yet, Teddy mostly pulls it off. Whereas his earlier “comeback” albums had been shorter, smaller affairs, the success of “Joy” emboldened Teddy and his new label, Elektra, to go for it on “Truly Blessed.” In 1991, “going for it” meant more expensive beats, nine guitarists, a giant horn section and (get this) thirty-one backing singers. The girth of the band, and especially the insistence of those backing vocals, confirm the obvious while trying to obscure it: Teddy had lost some power and range. In truth, the decline would not have been so noticeable without all of his accompanists. While his baritone may have dropped a few pounds of heft, it’s relative ease befit the singer’s middle age. And while his falsetto was not quite as silky as it once was, its rougher edges conveyed work and wisdom. If there is a problem with the vocals on “Truly Blessed,” it’s much more what the record tries to hide or gild than it is the lead singer’s instrument.

That being said, it’s not as if the extra vocalists doom the album. It’s more that they sometimes get in the way. And there are, of course, exceptions. For example, Minnie Currey completely steals the show in the second verse of the slow, quiet storm, “With You,” only to have Teddy steal it right back in the third. And while the “Al Green meets Sister Act” gospel of “Glad to Be Alive” is more quaint than inspired it’s not the fault of Lisa Fischer, who absolutely sings the shit out of the song, goading Teddy to heights he can no longer reach.

The issue with “Truly Blessed” — if there is one at all — is less the singing and playing and more the tension between its natural form and those nurtured by the market. The album succeeds — even thrills — when it does not feign modernity. “It Should Have Been You” is a good ole fashioned R&B ballad that’s a tick too polite to qualify as a Slow Jam. It’s unconcerned with Bobby Brown and unaware of Master P. It’s just Teddy, in his element, romanticizing the lover’s lane not taken. It’s slow and steady and familiar and it also raced up to the top of the R&B charts, making it the last number one hit of Teddy’s lifetime.

In fact, the best song of the record is likely it’s least rhythmically adventurous. “It’s Over” is straight Quiet Storm, toiling in the windchimes and tenderness domain of Lionel Ritchie’s “Suddenly.” The melody is light as a feather. The horns are smooth and jazzy. And the singer is consumed by passion, not because of new love or lust but the inverse — because it’s over, and he knows it and that feels like a tragedy. It’s not the most dynamic vocal on the record, but it is the most convincing. By the end, Teddy is fully testifying. The light he’s seen is not god or heaven but rather death and rebirth -- the end of one life cycle and the start of a new one. Though it is ostensibly about the end of a love affair, it sounds equally like the turning of the page from his early Eighties zenith to his new reality.

As much as it delights, however, “It’s Over” exposes the bug that “Truly Blessed” never resolves. It works best when it resists the urge to sound contemporary. It grooves best when it grooves slowly. It sounds most beautiful when its aging, broken singer is unadorned. Conversely, the slicker and sharper its beats get, the less it grooves. That’s the challenge not just of this record, but of New Jack Swing in general — how to thrust, swing and groove all at once. It’s an awkward combination that rarely succeeds. When it works, we get “My Prerogative.” But when it fails, as it often did and like Teddy does on "We Can't Keep Going On (Like This)" and “Don’t You Ever Stop,” it can sound like Arsenio Hall trying to teach Elaine Benes from “Seinfeld” how to dance.

After “Truly Blessed,” Teddy released three more studio albums (though one was a Christmas record) and one live album. His final years featured a second marriage, charity work and nods from Babyface, Kanye and countless others. He died just shy of his sixtieth birthday, which means that he outlived Jackie Wilson, Marvin Gaye, Rick James, Luther Vandross and Barry White, and that he lived almost exactly as long as Prince. And yet, he was survived by all of those men. Today, unless you there in the Seventies or unless you are from Philly or listen to old school Slow Jam shows or playlists, the name Teddy Pendergrass lives on as a “that sounds familiar and I know I should know who that is but” kind of name. He was not visionary like Marvin or talented as Prince or freaky as Rick. He couldn’t soar like Luther or get low like Barry. But he was the biggest R&B star in America for half a decade and was more desired, if not more desirable, than any of his predecessors, peers or acolytes. That’s his appeal, his undoing and his tragedy — his desirability.

by Matty Wishnow