100.3 WHTZ. “Z100” has been the juggernaut of New York radio for decades. But it wasn’t always the case. In the very early eighties they were the butt of jokes, mired at the bottom of the Arbitron Ratings. Then came Scott Shannon and the “Z Morning Zoo.” Within seventy four days of his arrival as program director and morning disc jockey, Z100 went from “Worst to First” -- precisely as their ads had boasted.

How did they do it? Some part of it was certainly Shannon and his co-hosts loud-mouthed, light hearted gags during the AM drive time. Most of it, though, was the programming. Z100 kept a close eye on the ascendant MTV and ensured that their playlist was in sync with the music that was being played, on repeat, for tens of millions of cable TV households. This meant that, in any given hour in 1983, you were likely to hear Michael Jackson, Prince, Bonnie Tyler and The Eurythmics more than once. It meant that if, like me, you were a ten year old waiting for the “deeper cuts,” you only needed to wait ninety minutes for Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” and Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.” While waiting, however, you could always just flip on MTV to hear both of those songs, sandwiched in between Culture Club and Dexys Midnight Runners. In 1983, in and around New York City, there was a musical monoculture -- and Z100 was broadcasting it.

As much as ten year old me loved “Thriller” and “1999” and “Synchronicity,” though, there was one thing that really separated Z-100 from the pack. Every Friday, at 5pm, the station would play their end of week, drive time medley, which consisted of Johnny Paycheck’s “Take This Job and Shove It,” “Bang On the Drum All Day” by Todd Rundgren and, of course, “Shout.” Those first two songs were fun and funny. But “Shout” was something different. It was breathless and delirious and feverish. It sounded religious but, also, I knew that it was played during “Animal House” -- a movie that I was technically not allowed to watch but which I had caught glimpses of on cable. It was that version of “Shout” -- the cover by the fictional Otis Day and the Knights -- that Z100 played. It was that three minute gospel barnburner with its call and response and quiet now and loud now and yeah yeahs that made my Fridays feel like Fridays. I would wait one hundred and sixty seven hours and fifty seven minutes each week for those three minutes.

The Isley Brothers’ recording of “Shout,” released in 1959, is different from the Z100 slash “Animal House” version. It’s mono versus stereo. The first version does, in retrospect at least, sound like something from a 1950s gospel revival whereas the latter is forever situated in a 1960s college party. The Isleys sound almost rudimentary, like they are inventing a new form. The Knights, on the other hand, had twenty years and Robert Cray to help smooth out the edges. My heart raced the first time I heard the Otis Day and The Knights perform “Shout.” But when my father told me that the song was originally done by The Isleys -- the same band that The Beatles covered on “Twist and Shout” and the same band that made “This Old Heart of Mine” and “It’s Your Thing” -- my young mind understood what my ears had already assumed: “Shout” was important. By virtue of which, so were The Isley Brothers. 

I had heard of The Isley Brothers. Even then, at a relatively young age. Even then, when they were well into middle age and were not being played on Top 40 radio. I had heard of them the same way I had heard about The Four Tops and The Temptations and The Supremes. I suspect that I also probably conflated The Isley Brothers with The Everly Brothers. Basically, I knew that these were black bands from the past and that I was not black and from the present.

Sadly, that was (and still mostly is) how the music industry worked in 1983. There was music recorded by black artists, played on radio stations and sold in stores that were designed for black listeners. There was Country radio and retail for people who lived in the south. And there was Rock and Pop radio and retail for white people who lived on the coasts, in the midwest and, here and there, in between. Music would occasionally cross over. Country stars would make their way onto the Pop charts. R&B songs would do the same. And “Shout” was one of those rare instances. On the other hand, and in spite of its monumental greatness, in 1959 the track didn’t even make it into the Billboard Top 40.

1983, however, was the year that genres imploded. Beginning with “Thriller,” the Billboard Pop charts looked as diverse as they ever had before or since. Journey and Styx were right next to Billy Joel and Hall & Oates, who were nestled just beneath Eddie Rabbit and Crystal Gayle who were, in turn, eclipsed by Prince, Eddie Grant and Culture Club. It was that year and that musical milieu wherein the most important radio station in America broadcasted “Shout” into my boyhood bedroom every Friday night.

In spite of their (indirect) impact on me, though, I never committed to The Isleys. My nominal allowance wouldn't afford me trips to Tower Records or Sam Goody. I never saw the band on MTV. In fact, I never heard another Isley Brothers’ song on the radio. I knew about “Twist and Shout” because of The Beatles. I knew about their other Pop hits because my father loved Motown. Throughout my childhood and into my young adulthood, I would, of course, hear their names mentioned from time to time. But, given that (like many white, suburban children of the 80s) my interests leaned towards Classic Rock and then jumped ahead to Punk Rock, I managed to miss out on The Isleys’ primes, of which there were several. When they would come up in conversation, I would nod my head, knowing just enough to fake my way through the headlines of the discussion, but ultimately knowing very few of the details. In truth, my blind spot was only modestly embarrassing. I was still mostly unaware of the group’s significance. I didn’t think of them as historically important figures like Robert Johnson or Little Richard or Smokey Robinson or Stevie Wonder. Nor did I think of them as iconic artists like Otis Redding or Al Green. For most of my childhood and young adulthood, and in spite of “Shout,” I didn’t think about The Isley Brothers much at all.

My laziness and my ignorance, however, were ultimately no match for The Isley Brothers. In 1995, I noticed an actor who greatly resembled Ron Isley in a dark suit and sunglasses, performing in the R. Kelly video for “Down Low.” It didn’t take me long to figure out that the actor was, in fact, Ron Isley. That seemingly random guest appearance then reminded me that, the previous year, Biggie had sampled The Isleys for “Big Poppa,” which reminded me that, as recently as the early 1980s, The Isley Brothers were still making hits, which reminded me that they’d had success in the later 70s with ballads "Don't Say Goodnight (It's Time for Love),” which was in the neighborhood of Quiet Storm and may have invented Luther Vandross, which reminded me, on the other hand, that they had once, also been a prolific and wildly successful Funk band in the mid-70s and had even scored a hit with “Fight the Power,” which reminded me how different that band was than the one that made “That Lady,” which reminded me how massive and enduring “It’s Your Thing” was, which reminded me that, for a brief period, The Isleys were a Motown staple, which reminded me that, by the time they recorded “This Old Heart of Mine,” they’d already been around for about a decade and had already influenced John and Paul, which reminded me that I had not even mentioned “Shout.”

My mind struggled to connect the dots. Gospel to Doo Wop. Doo Wop to R&B. R&B to Rock and Roll. Rock and Roll back to Soul. Soul to Funk. Funk to Disco. Disco to Slow Jam. Slow Jam to Contemporary R&B. Contemporary R&B to Hip Hop. The Isley Brothers had made all of those leaps. Had anyone else? As of this writing, Ron and Ernie Isley still perform as The Isley Brothers. It’s been nearly seventy years since they began in Cincinnati, Ohio. I’m not sure if there is any other popular recording group whose career has spanned a longer period, while still retaining at least one of their founding members (possibly The Four Tops and Duke Fakir?). And, even if we could name one other, they could not claim a fraction of the breadth of depth of The Isley Brothers.  

As rich and varied as their music has been, the story of The Isley Brothers could be functionally -- if crudely -- divided into three parts. There’s the period before 1971, when Kelly, Ron and Rudy are the only Isleys in the band where they were a vocal group, making Doo Wop, Soul and R&B music. There’s the period between 1971 and 1984, when younger brothers Ernie and Marvin joined the group, on guitar and bass respectively, along with in-law, Chris Jasper, who played keyboards and who also composed and arranged in many cases. During this second phase, The Isleys forayed deeper into Funk, Disco and Quiet Storm. Finally, there is the period after 1984, when the band reemerged as elder statesman of R&B, celebrated by the likes of R. Kelly, Biggie, Aaliyah, Snoop Dogg, Beyonce and Drake.  

Their transition from a “vocal group” to a “band,” around 1971, is well documented. Between “3+3,” from 1973 to “Between the Sheets,” from 1983, The Isley Brothers released eight platinum selling albums and scored twenty four top 40 R&B hits. And though I grew up just miles away from The Isley Brothers during those years, most of that music was lost on me. I was a combination of too young and too white to hear it. Because of their relative success, however, I was able to circle back and enjoy that second (third?) wave of albums from the band who, along with P-Funk, Stevie Wonder & Al Green, came to define the sounds of R&B and Soul music in the 1970s.

For more than a decade, The Isley Brothers were as known for Ernie Isley’s guitar and Chris Jaspers’ writing as they were for Ron Isley’s lead vocals. But then, in 1984, the three newest comers -- Ernie, Marvin and Chris -- left the band. The reasons for the rupture are not entirely clear to me, though it seems to be some combination of creative differences and financial complications. The younger trio would form Isley-Jasper-Isley, who released a string of successful albums in the mid-80s. Meanwhile, the original trio would soldier on, marching towards death, the church, prison and, ultimately, legend. I knew a lot of what happened after 1995. I knew what happened before 1984. I knew that Kelly Isley died in 1986 and that Rudolph joined the ministry in 1989. That middle-period, however -- between 1984 and 1995 -- was a mystery to me.

To get back to the future, I had to start around 1982, with the release and titanic success of Marvin Gaye’s “Midnight Love.” “Sexual Healing,” with its synthesized groove and slow, round corners, stood in sharp contrast with the sharper edges of DIsco and Funk. “Between the Sheets,” The Isleys’ final hit record with all six “Isleys (including Jasper),” is an unmistakable response to “Midnight Love” and, perhaps to a lesser extent, the arrival of Luther Vandross. By 1984, though, with looming tax problems and creative tension, however, the group had to reinvent themselves. Without Ernie’s electric guitar and Jasper’s writing, where and how would they turn? 

The answers were obvious, but also, complicated. In need of funds to pay off their mounting debts, The Isleys’ signed to Warner Brothers. It marked the first time since 1969 that they would release music for any label other than their own, T-Neck Records. Creatively, they had to account for the losses of Ernie & Chris, and be in conversation with Marvin Gaye’s comeback and Luther Vandross’ rise. It required something slower. Something smoother. Something more vocal with less guitar. Something older and wiser. Something classy, but still a little horny.

Their pivot was entitled “Masterpiece,” released in 1985 and featuring the three senior Isleys on the cover wearing tuxedos, with Ron 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, looking assured, even as he approached sixty and was beginning a battle with cancer that he would eventually lose. The title and the cover photo of “Masterpiece” says precisely what it needs to say: Classy, but still a little horny. 

The move from younger to older was not a seamless one, but The Isley Brothers were literally nothing if not professionals. They hired a crack band. They covered (mostly) great songs. And they played to their one, indisputable strength: Ron Isley’s voice. As he had for three decades, Kelly ran a tight ship, which meant that the performances are uniformly strong and tasteful and that there is nothing desperate or sloppy. “Masterpiece” is obviously not an apt description of the album, but there are no clunkers to be found, either.

In place of the Ernie’s electric guitar, Marvin’s funky bass and Chris’ daring keyboards, we get something akin to Burt Bacharach does Slow Jams. There are horns and (synthesized) strings and lots of Moog alongside slower, slinkier bass lines. On top of it all, though, is Ron Isley, frontman. Rudy and Kelly do occasionally appear -- Kelly even sings lead once and he and Rudy never sound anything less than lovely in the background. But they are only in service of Ron, who shows off every corner of his range and sells every minute of every song. Though on some level “Masterpiece” is trying to say something about age and status, mostly it reminds us of the singular talent of one man. More than any Isley Brothers’ record before it, “Masterpiece” feels like a Ron Isley solo album. 

The album opens with its smoothest groove. The politeness of “May I?” -- its title, its strings, its delicate “ba da ba bas” -- are betrayed by the winking of the beat (which seems very aware of Sade) and the yearning of Ron’s falsetto. They may appear too old or too wise to be nasty, but you know exactly what their intentions are. “May I?” is five minutes of excellent foreplay disguised as a question.

From there, the group sticks to slow jams and slower ballads, rendered sensitively and professionally in each case. As with aging romance, however, there can be a fine line between gentle, sexy and so comfortable that you might fall asleep. “If Leaving Me is Easy,” a cover of the Phil Collins song from “Face Value,” veers into that last category. It’s six minutes of soporific heartache. In the original, Phil’s falsetto is kind of shocking and affecting. But when Kelly Isley (who sings lead on this one) renders the same song, he stays in that deep, warm pocket until you quit feeling the pain and just doze off. It’s pretty and modestly poignant. But nothing more. 

There are several -- albeit not many -- moments on “Masterpiece” that underwhelm. The cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Stay Gold,” does nothing for the original, which was perhaps too sentimental to begin with. “Come to Me” sounds a lot like the theme for a daytime soap opera, except with Ron Isley singing along. And “My Best Was Good Enough” is almost as mediocre and self-satisfied as its title suggests. But those truly are the exceptions. The bulk of the album lands somewhere between beautiful and thrilling.

"You Never Know When You're Gonna Fall in Love" is a good song with a great chorus, bolstered by exquisite backing vocals from Rudy and Kelly, who skate on through, just beneath their brother’s lead. It’s a gorgeous 70s Soul moment, frozen in ember and slowly melted for the next decade. Ron reclaims center stage, though, on “Colder Are My Nights,” which is basically “Ain’t Nobody” by Chaka Khan and Rufus with a fresh coat of paint. And though it’s bassline and melody are familiar, when Ron switches from his lower register to falsetto, it’s nothing short of breathtaking.

“Masterpiece” closes first with “Release Your Love,” which is basically a throbbing erection rendered through R&B, and then with "The Most Beautiful Girl," a song that Charlie Rich turned into a Country hit in 1973, but which The Isleys transform into something worthy of Otis Redding. The horns sound like they are straight out of Stax Studios and the otherwise spare instrumentation allows Ron to build dynamics in the same way Otis did. The better comparison might even be Van Morrison. Except whereas Van speeds up and slows down and repeats himself in his search of the mystic, Ron is searching for something else. She’s beautiful and she has long, black wavy hair.

Though it featured no hits and sold poorly compared to their previous albums, “Masterpiece” has aged gracefully. In setting their sights on Marvin Gaye and Luther Vandross, who had, undoubtedly, been inspired by The Isleys’ themselves, the vocal group that became a band became a vocal group once again. In fact, they became more of an “act” than a “group.” “Masterpiece” is the “Ron Isley Show.” The transition was both sensible and necessary. Kelly’s health was failing and Rudy’s interest in Pop music was waning. Though he was always the front man, Ron had spent three decades in the middle of a family affair. “Masterpiece” marked the end of that run. Kelly died in 1986. And Rudy retired from music in 1989.

As much as the changes were necessary, they proved to be shrewd as well. As the 1980s became the 1990s, Slow Jams (Keith Sweat, Babyface, etc.) and Boy Bands (Boyz II Men, Jodeci, Bell Biv Devoe) emerged as the dominant forms of contemporary R&B. Through the benefit of hindsight, “Masterpiece” proved to be just slightly ahead of its time. Its timelessness was not lost, however, on R. Kelly, who forged a wildly successful partnership with his idol in the mid-90s. Between 1996 and 2006, and with the assistance of Kelly, The Isleys put out a string of platinum-selling albums, including “Mission to Please,” which reached the top spot on the Billboard charts. By that time, Ernie Isley had rejoined Ron (along with Marvin Isley for a handful of years) and “The Isley Brothers” had become a contemporary R&B act once again.

Time nearly caught up with The Isley Brothers. Marvin passed away in 2010. Ron served three years in prison, from 2007 into 2010, for tax evasion. R. Kelly was revealed to be as monstrous as he was talented. “Baby Makin’ Music,” from 2006, was a smash hit, but, just months later, Ron Isley was behind bars. For over a decade, there were no Isley Brothers’ albums. It seemed likely that, after sixty years, the story had run its course and ended as something closer to a tragedy than a love story. It could have been an ignominious end to one of the most thrilling and complicated epics in popular music.

But, of course, they returned. Sporting shades, a white beard, a black and gold custom suit and a walking stick, eighty year old Ron Isley and his nearly seventy year old brother, Ernie, recently began their latest comeback. There was an unlikely “Tiny Desk Concert” for NPR. There was a triumphant, three hour VERZUZ battle against Earth, Wind & Fire. And there were reports about a forthcoming album featuring Drake, Beyonce, Rick Ross, Snoop and Alicia Keys. When it eventually is released, it will mark the eighth decade of new music from The Isley Brothers. Perhaps more so than any other group, their history is the entire history of Rhythm and Blues.

It was all there, in “Shout.” John and Paul clearly heard it in 1959. I heard it in 1983. And while you may not know their story or you might think that you don’t know their music, provided that you’ve heard The Beatles or Prince or Michael Jackson or Marvin Gaye or Al Green or Keith Sweat or Bruno Mars, then you’ve heard The Isley Brothers.

by Matty Wishnow