Behind the Groove

A pop miscellany where The Virginian-Pilot's music and entertainment writer Rashod Ollison explores the artists and sounds of today and yesterday.

Category: Music

■ 25 May 2012 | 1:51 PM

Do It With All Your Heart: Dee Dee Warwick Shines in the Background

Having a superstar sibling opens and closes doors. Folks will inevitably compare you to the sister or brother already out front, blazing paths and garnering acclaim.

Aretha, for instance, had two enormously talented sisters. Erma, the oldest, had a glorious, jazz-dusted voice and model-ready looks. Baby sister Carolyn was an affecting singer and supremely gifted songwriter. She wrote “Angel” and “Ain’t No Way” for Ree. But neither sister received the marvelous production and promotion Aretha got.

Dionne Warwick had a younger sister whose voice boomed and enthralled, even in the background. Dee Dee Warwick was nurtured in the Baptist church, the same place that shaped Dionne and many black singers of their generation.

About five years younger than Dionne, Dee Dee was there in the background when her sister launched her recording career back in ’62. She’s on the mic with their aunt Cissy Houston on “Don’t Make Me Over,” “Walk on By” and other Dionne classics.

Dee Dee was part of a loose collective of background singers that early on included her older sister, Cissy, Doris Troy and Judy Clay. In the early ’60s, they provided churchy echoes for a slew of artists: Dinah Washington, Connie Francis, and a young Aretha, back when she was on Columbia chirping show tunes.

While Dionne received top-shelf production and promotion at Scepter Records, Dee Dee signed with Mercury around 1964. She released a string of impressive singles, most of which received healthy spins on black radio. But sales were modest at best.

There was no confusing the sisters. After “Don’t Make Me Over” and the underrated follow-up “This Empty Place,” Dionne sanded away the fiery gospel edges of her approach. She melted beautifully into the tricky orchestrations of Burt Bacharach and added dignified emotion to the lyrics of Hal David.

Although there were similarities in the upper reaches of their ranges, Dee Dee was a very different singer. She was mainly influenced by Mahalia Jackson. Dee Dee roared where Dionne purred. Her alto was powerful. Even singing with equally commanding vocalists in the background, Dee Dee was clear and usually rose above everybody else.

But she never received material tailored specifically to her style. She recorded original versions of songs that became smashes for others like “You’re No Good,” a hit for Betty Everett and later a No. 1 single for Linda Ronstadt, and “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me,” which the Supremes and the Temptations turned into a hit. She also recorded “Alfie” a year before pop and R&B radio leapt on Dionne’s 1967 version.

Dee Dee’s talent was rich, but it wasn’t often showcased properly. Like several great artists of the era (Baby Washington and Dusty Springfield come to mind), Dee Dee was often buried under ornate arrangements.

Sometimes, though, the pretty orchestrations clicked with her raw approach. “Ring of Bright Water,” perhaps the most sublime ballad you’ll ever hear about an otter, was used as the title theme of a cheesy 1969 family flick. Also that year, Dee Dee released two of her finest recordings: “That’s Not Love,” a blue-lights-in-the-basement ballad she co-wrote with Ed Townsend; and “Foolish Fool,” a tough soul number where she threatens a silly woman trying to take her man. Chaka Khan did a faithful version on her last album, 2007’s Grammy-winning Funk This.

At the start of the ’70s, Dee Dee switched to Atco Records, a subsidiary of Atlantic. Seemed like a logical move: The label was home to some of the most gospel-charged singers in pop, including Aretha and Donny Hathaway. The partnership immediately bore fruit in the summer of 1970, when “She Didn’t Know (She Kept on Talking)” sealed the Top 10 on the R&B chart.

But Dee Dee languished at Atco, and she returned to Mercury in ’72. She released a flurry of fine uptown soul numbers, including the dynamic “I Haven’t Got Anything Better to Do,” later covered by Esther Phillips and Natalie Cole, and a swaggering version of “I Who Have Nothing.”

For the remainder of the ’70s and throughout the ’80s, Dee Dee recorded for several small labels but scored no hits. She made her living doing mostly session work. As Dee Dee’s records went unnoticed, Dionne continued to pack venues around the world. Dee Dee was often on stage with her, standing behind the rhythm section and singing in the background.

Her peers gave her long overdue props in 1999, with a Pioneer Award from the Rhythm and Blues Foundation. By that time, Dee Dee’s health was beginning to fail. She died in a New Jersey nursing home in 2008. She was 66.

Dionne’s star undoubtedly opened a few doors for Dee Dee. Unfortunately, her talent never got to shine as brightly.

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■ 22 May 2012 | 5:00 PM

I Should Know; I've Done It: Loleatta Holloway Runs Away

Disco at its most feverish is akin to gospel – the sanctified kind, where the beat gallops and tambourines threaten to fly off into space. The rhythm takes charge, and mighty voices swell and soar. I told a friend once that disco was nothing but gospel with glitter.

Sylvester, who was raised in the church, absolutely embodied that definition. But before he rose to fame in the late ’70s, Loleatta Holloway, another disco vocalist singed by holy fire, took club heads to church. Her string of dance classics on the Gold Mind label, between 1976 and 1980, boasted sweeping production by Norman Harris, an unsung architect in the Philly Soul sound.

He oversaw much of Loleatta’s output on Gold Mind, a subsidiary of Salsoul Records, the often thrilling New York City disco hit factory in the mid ’70s through the early ’80s. (I vividly remember the cartoonish cloud and rainbow label.) Loleatta’s titanic voice was the ideal vehicle for such enthralling productions, anchored by a relentless four-on-the-floor beat, awash with zipping horns and strings.

But Loleatta didn’t initially plan on becoming a disco diva. The Chicago native had been nurtured on the city’s potent gospel circuit in the 1960s. She once sang with the famous Caravans, alongside the great Albertina Walker. Loleatta’s first recordings in the early ’70s were soul workouts typical of the era. She scored a Top 10 R&B hit in 1975 with “Cry to Me.”

But Aware, the small label that released the record, went out of business before it could build on the momentum. The next year, just as disco was bubbling from the underground to the mainstream, Norman signed Loleatta. The genre became a global phenomenon in 1977, with defining hits by the Bee Gees, Gloria Gaynor, Thelma Houston and disco’s queen, Donna Summer.

Also that year, Loleatta scaled Billboard’s dance chart with “Dreamin’” and “Hit and Run,” both peaking at No. 3. The latter, a personal favorite, showcases all the elements that made Loleatta and Norman a brilliant match in the studio. The arrangement swings, and Loleatta’s voice is powerful enough to spin Saturn’s rings.

Before 1977 came to a close, she fronted the fabulous Salsoul Orchestra on “Runaway,” a strutting number that encapsulates New York City disco at its best. Loleatta handles the lush track with equal amounts of sass and swagger, as gospel and Broadway elements glint here and there.

The next year, Loleatta shared the mic with the underrated Bunny Sigler on the sweet soul ballad, “Only You.” It climbed to No. 11 on the R&B chart and is a fine example of Loleatta at her most playful and sexy.

But Loleatta knew on which side her bread was buttered. She soon returned to the glitz and groove of disco. But at the dawn of the ’80s, dance music was driven back underground, and disco’s flagship artists either faded to black or found refuge in other styles. Ironically, Loleatta scored her signature hit in 1980.

The volcanic “Love Sensation” topped the dance chart and became one of disco’s most sampled tuned. It served as the basis for “Good Vibrations,” the 1991 smash by actor Mark Wahlberg, back when he was a bare-chested rapper wannabe known as Marky Mark. Loleatta made an appearance in the video, singing the chorus.

It was the closest she came to pop fame. Loleatta was a goddess to club heads and revered by discerning soul lovers, but she never achieved the crossover success of some of her disco peers. She recorded and performed sporadically until last year, when heart failure killed her. She was 64.

Loleatta seared disco with unbridled gospel – or maybe she brushed away some of the music’s glitter to reveal its churchy roots. Either way, her big, big voice lacked pop polish. She also didn’t have a sexy or eye-catching image. Unassuming and full-figured, Loleatta looked like she stepped out of a Baptist choir and made little concessions to glamour.

But with such a wonder flying from her throat, maybe she didn’t need much distraction or ornamentation. The music kidnapped you anyway.

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■ 14 May 2012 | 2:30 PM

Catching Falling Stars: The Stylistics Sell Romantic Fantasies

In 1971, with the Vietnam War raging and cities aflame with protests, most young black men had neither the time nor inclination to lie in high grass and ponder the sky. Yet on the cover of the Stylistics’ self-titled debut released that year, the five members look so tranquil in the sun, stretched out in a field.

Curtis Mayfield, Edwin Starr and Marvin Gaye scaled the charts with protest music that challenged religion and American “politricks.” But the Stylistics crooned dreamy love songs, adrift on an aural cloud of strings and sitars, and became a sensation. The intoxicating blend of the group’s powder sugar harmonies and Thom Bell’s immaculate production clicked, and the debut is the strongest album the Stylistics ever made.

Side A opens with “Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart),” a marvel from the pen of the great Linda Creed. Many have covered the tune, but Russell Thompskins, Jr., the group’s lead singer, owns it, hands down. His diamond falsetto, pure and precise, rides Thom’s celestial arrangement, shadowed by the group’s sympathetic harmonies. “Betcha By Golly, Wow,” the third track, is one of the most hypnotic songs in the pop/soul canon, with perhaps the silliest title. There’s a pinch of pathos in Linda’s lyrics, which the Stylistics glaze over.

Five years later, Phyllis Hyman would launch her career with a version that supplants the wonder with sorrow. The song’s fantastical promises (“write your name across the sky/anything you ask I’ll try”) come with a price. Give yourself over completely to such illusions and watch what happens. But in the hands of the Stylistics, we’re smiling and bursting through cumulous clouds. The single enraptured more than a million record buyers.

“Country Living,” a jaunty tune extolling tall grass and fresh air, embodies the LP’s cover. The first side closes with “You’re a Big Girl Now,” the album’s first single, and one of few Stylistics hits that pushes the group’s harmonies upfront. The track boasts an attractive earthiness, thanks to that urban blues guitar in the mix.

Flip the LP over and the first cut sends you sailing. “You Are Everything” is as sublime as pop/soul got in 1971. That genius opening sitar line has been sampled ad infinitum over the years. Again, Russell is the lovesick guy, who can’t shake the love illusion he’s swallowed whole. Now, he’s hallucinating and imagines the woman’s face in the sky. See what happens when you give yourself over so completely? Betcha by golly wow, indeed.

“People Make the World Go Round,” the album’s centerpiece, is masterful and a welcomed break from all the fluffy lust. It’s basically a solo track for Russell, as he surveys the world around him – all the greedy capitalists and disgruntled working class. But he croons without a trace of anger. The undulating rhythm suggests the carousel Russell alludes to in the lyrics. Thom also remembers his Caribbean roots, adding sparkling marimba to the arrangement.

The album’s last two songs, “Ebony Eyes” and “If I Love You,” bring us back to the bittersweet taste of love, aglow with Thom’s sun-kissed arrangements.

The debut was a smash, peaking at No. 3 on the R&B chart and No. 23 on the pop list. It sold gold and established the Stylistics as an important group in the Philly Soul movement taking shape at the time. In 1971, no other group of grown black men made lust sound so spectacular and innocent, so delicate and free.

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■ 08 May 2012 | 6:03 PM

You Say You Wanna Drop by to See Me?: Diana Ross Shows Us Who's the Boss

In 1979, Diana Ross was arguably the biggest black female superstar on the planet. She’d had huge hits with the Supremes and on her own. She’d done movies and garnered an Oscar nomination. She’d dazzled on Broadway and taken home a Tony.

But three years, a lifetime in pop, had passed since her last big hit. For new energy she turned to old friends: Nick Ashford and Valerie Simpson. They were behind her first solo smash, 1970’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” They also had produced one of her best and most overlooked albums, 1971’s Surrender, which I blogged about last year.

By the time Nick and Val re-entered the studio with Diana, they were well-established as a hit act, with a string of smashes and gold albums over on Warner Bros. Diana wanted a sound that was fresh and classy, with a nod to the current disco sound, but she didn’t want to morph into a club queen. Please, she was The Sepia Pop Diva. Besides, that chick from Boston – what’s her name? – yeah, Donna Summer covered that territory brilliantly.

On The Boss, which hit the streets in the spring of ’79, Diana sounded re-invigorated and focused. Her previous efforts, 1977’s Baby It’s Me and 1978’s Ross, were studded with good performances. (The former album is mostly solid.) But a certain piquancy and dramatic flair, essential ingredients to any Diana classic, went missing. Nick and Val brought them back.

The LP opens with one of Diana’s best dance cuts, “No One Gets the Prize.” The intro is all suspense and drama, with Nick and Val on background vocals and Diana hitting high notes nobody thought was in her range. Then the rhythm gallops, awash with swirling strings and strutting horns. Diana dismisses her competition: an aggressive broad who tries to take her man. She admits that both were silly, competing for his affection, and now he’s “gone, gone, gone.” But Diana still sounds like a winner. “Watch it now,” she tells her nemesis.

The title of the next track, “I Ain’t Been Licked,” cracks me up for reasons I can’t get into here. But it’s another solid Nick and Val production that marries Broadway bombast and Baptist fervor, and Diana delivers it with a wide smile in her voice. Side A closes with the title cut, which works as a double declaration in a way. Lyrically, Diana sings of how she (finally) figured out that love isn’t something you can always control. It liberates, yes, but often we bare deep scars for that freedom. They heal and we evolve. The title track also seems to work as a thinly veiled message to Diana’s haters: Listen, it’s 1979, and my career has opened doors and set new standards. Give me my props. I’m a real boss. That is all.

Side B reveals more of the “soulful side” critics say Diana didn’t show too often. (Years later, Whitney Houston, who followed the path Diana blazed, received the same condescending and perhaps covertly racist backlash.) Diana-style soul has nothing to do with churchy affectations. It conveys something street but elegant, uptown and downtown, with style to spare. But emotion imbues it all.

“It’s My House” is a prime example. The song is another declaration of independence, cloaked in Nick’s nicely detailed lyrics and metaphors. The song resonates because of Diana’s restraint. The groove is so smooth, so seductive she just rides it, crooning with a delicious mix of womanly confidence and girlish coyness. “You say you wanna drop by to see me sometime,” she asks the guy. Sure, come on over. But please know this: It’s my house. And I live here. Don’t you see my name on the ceiling above? But you can rest easy, darling. No contempt or hang-ups. It’s all built for love.

“Sparkle” is a feathery Quiet Storm ballad and one of Diana’s most supreme cuts. The album closes with “I’m in the World,” an airy ballad and another nuanced declaration of independence and self-worth. Diana’s crystal voice blooms like a rose.

The Boss was a hit, peaking at No. 10 on the R&B chart and No. 14 on the pop side. It became the first Diana Ross album to receive an official gold certification. It’s also a gem in a large and sometimes disjointed catalog. In 1979, Diana let everybody know she was clear about who she was as an artist.

And she remains a boss.

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■ 01 May 2012 | 4:18 PM

Don't You Understand What You're Doing to the Man?: Jerry Butler Delivers the Ice

Most pop/soul connoisseurs recognize the ‘70s as the era of great artistic blossoming (and withering) of some of the genre’s titans. In the early part of the decade, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin and Curtis Mayfield – towering names who found fame in the ‘60s – came into their own with a string of landmark albums, where all the nuances of their talents coalesced.

Actually in 1965, Otis Redding’s Otis Blue had upended the industry belief that soul acts weren’t “album artists.” Granted, the LP subscribed to the hits-and-filler model for albums at the time. But Redding’s emerging confidence and electric connection with the Stax house band tied it all together.

Three years later, Jerry Butler, whose acclaim rested on a handful of classic singles, made a similar statement of artistic confidence with The Iceman Cometh, his eleventh album. One of the smoothest baritones in pop, Jerry was at the peak of his powers in 1968. His laidback, full-bodied approach had earned him the nickname “Iceman,” which I always thought was interesting. Jerry had a cool, dignified image, sure, but there was always something intense and smoldering about the way he sang, especially on the heartbreak numbers.

The Iceman Cometh teems with such songs, all written or co-written by Jerry. The album was also the first full-length production of two friends from Philly: Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff. They were a few years away from establishing the legendary Philadelphia International Records. Kenny and Leon had done production work throughout the ‘60s. But on The Iceman Cometh, they refined their approach and introduced their signature debonair funk. The sound fit Jerry like the tailored ivory suit he sports on the album’s cover.

The LP opens with one of Jerry’s greatest hits, “Hey, Western Union Man,” which has an almost novelty gloss, like the hits from the ‘50s, the era that informed most of Jerry’s style. Backed by a galloping backbeat and strident strings, Jerry's urgency is palpable. The guy needs to get a telegram to his baby right away. “Tell her that I missed her for hours and hours,” he sings. Sending a telegram seems so quaint – and, yes, antiquated – in a digital age, where most relationships play out via texts and Facebook.

Jerry wrestles with the sweet memories of his lady love on “Only the Strong Survive,” the big hit off the album. “There’s gonna be a whole lotta trouble in your life,” he croons. “But only the strong survive/You gotta be strong.” As Jerry slides into the chorus, the rhythm picks up. The female background vocalists give a spirited call-and-response straight out of the church.

“Just Because I Really Love You,” another downhearted ballad, sparkles with nice touches, like the soprano imitating a trumpet in the intro. The horns strut over a stomping Motown beat on “Lost,” and they sway gorgeously on “Never Gonna Give You Up,” my all-time favorite Jerry joint, and a hit off the album.

“(Strange) I Still Love You” is the LP's most haunting ballad. As Jerry croons, the strings rising and falling behind him, I see him standing there trying to hold it together. Ever the “Iceman,” he delivers the brokenhearted melody, a tear trailing his cheek, and his voice never cracks or wavers. Margie Joseph almost bested him with her soul-suffused version, which appears on her overlooked 1974 classic, Sweet Surrender.

Toward the end of the album, Jerry finds his strength again, and the arrangements pull more on his gospel roots. On “Go Away – Find Yourself,” he sounds almost like a Baptist preacher, calm and reassuring, as he eases into benediction. He tells his moody woman, “Go away, find yourself/Find out who you really are.” The kiss off is fire and ice.

“I Stop by Heaven,” the closing song, opens with a swelling organ. Over a waltz-like rhythm, Jerry sings about finding heaven in the redeeming love of the woman he had spent most of the album grieving.

The Iceman Cometh was an artistic and commercial triumph for all involved. It peaked at No. 2 on Billboard’s R&B chart and made it No. 29 pop. The album also earned three Grammy nominations. The next year, Jerry, Kenny and Leon collaborated on Ice on Ice, another hit album, but it wasn’t as cohesive as its predecessor.

Just a few years later, some of Jerry’s peers, particularly his old childhood buddy Curtis Mayfield, cemented their legends with game-flipping albums. But in 1968, Jerry already had done his part to expand soul, all without breaking a sweat.

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■ 24 April 2012 | 5:04 PM

Always Something to Get Over: Oleta Adams Offers a Hug

America was in the thick of the Persian Gulf War. And millions seemed to find solace in a sparse, gospel-tinged ballad from a petite powerhouse, discovered by British rock stars in a Kansas City bar.

Oleta Adams’ version of Brenda Russell’s “Get Here” became something of an anthem in 1991, nearly a year after her impressive debut, Circle of One, hit stores. Brenda’s version, recorded about three years earlier, veered dangerously close to corny, sung in an almost cutesy manner. Pulling from her deep gospel roots, Oleta reinvented the song, crooning it with an ache and resonance that Brenda couldn’t seem to find in her own lyrics. The arrangement – airy, deliberate and haunting – underscored the tension and passion in Oleta’s delivery.

The single sailed into the Top Ten, and Circle of One went gold. It also did big business overseas, topping the album chart in the UK. Oleta garnered a Grammy nomination.

But she never fully delivered on the promise of Circle of One. Oleta came like a hot wind from nowhere, the antithesis of the standard for female pop performers. She was no video-ready vixen, like Vanessa Williams; couldn’t dance like Janet or Paula Abdul. Plus, she possessed an almost overwhelming mahogany voice, with glints of Mahalia Jackson’s power and Sarah Vaughan’s fluid phrasing. It was a sound that didn’t neatly fit anywhere, and Oleta needed thoughtful material and sympathetic arrangements to shine. Too often, she received neither.

In the mid ‘80s, just a few years before Oleta became an international sensation, she had been discovered by Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith of Tears for Fears. They were in Kansas City on tour and heard Oleta singing and playing piano in a hotel. They approached her after her set. Oleta appreciated the kind words and all, but by that time, she’d been struggling for a decade. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks, guys. I have another set here. Excuse me.

Two years later, Roland and Curt remembered Oleta’s rich sound and contacted her. She was prominently featured on the band’s 1989 album, The Seeds of Love. She belts behind them on the hit single “Woman in Chains.” Oleta went on tour with Tears for Fears, opening shows, singing and playing piano for the group.

After the tour, she signed a deal with Fontana Records. Roland and Tears for Fears producer, Dave Bascombe, oversaw Circle of One, Oleta’s finest album. At the time of its release, the artist was in her late 30s and no amateur. She had been singing professionally since the 1970s, and the control and assuredness drive the album.

Sometimes, the production is too smooth for its own good, but it never clashes with Oleta’s tidal wave alto. “Rhythm of Life,” the first single, is a moody groove that would have been at home on a Tears for Fears album. The title track, an engaging uptempo cut about escaping the claws of loneliness, swells with gospel fervor. “You’ve Got to Give Me Room,” a pensive ballad and one of five strong numbers on the album written by Oleta, recalls early Roberta Flack, circa Chapter Two.

Oleta flirts with jazz on “I’ve Got a Right,” and “Will We Ever Learn” sways and melts beautifully after a climactic middle. “Everything Must Change,” a faux-philosophical chestnut that had been done by Randy Crawford and Sarah Vaughan, receives an operatic reading, backed by a minimalist, molasses-slow arrangement. And the album ends with the soaring “Don’t Look Too Closely,” one of Oleta’s finest compositions.

Subsequent releases, namely the 1993 follow-up Evolution, tried to shoehorn Oleta into a schlocky Anita Baker sound that banked much of her gospel fire. Four years later, she released a gospel album, Come Walk with Me, with vibrant vocals but meandering production.

In modern pop, there aren’t many comfortable places for Oleta, possessor of such a commanding, mature and irrevocably black sound. But when the nation needed a warm aural embrace, her arrival was appreciated. She left a great impression.

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■ 18 April 2012 | 4:52 PM

You Got It Goin' On (Wha-Wha): Lil' Kim Brings It Hard Core

The CD seemed to be in everybody’s dorm room. Or if you had wheels, it was definitely in the car. Lil’ Kim’s 1996 debut, Hard Core, was my generation’s answer to Rudy Ray Moore’s Eat Out More Often or Millie Jackson’s Live and Uncensored, the kind of uncut nasty party record you brought out only for your funkiest friends.

By the time Hard Core dropped, the Brooklyn rapper’s over-the-top antics weren’t relegated only to the underground. Stylish expensive videos, not an option for Millie and Rudy Ray, helped sell more than 2 million copies of Kim’s album. Heavily censored singles received regular play on the radio. And her association with Biggie Smalls, one of hip-hop’s most beloved rappers, certainly didn’t hurt.

Unlike many of my friends, hip-hop was only a marginal love of mine. I’ve always understood its nuances and recognized flashes of brilliance within the genre. But it never informed much of my outlook the way it did for so many of my homeslices. I’ve always loved a good sense of humor in music – the nastier the better. And Lil’ Kim delivered plenty of wit over finely crafted tracks ablaze with sassy funk samples. As a child baptized early in The Funk, Kim had me right away.

Her pornographic, put-it-on-the-glass persona made classy Essence subscribers worry, worry, worry about the reach of her influence. Soon after Hard Core became a sensation, Kim appeared on the cover of the progressive black women’s magazine. The article inside, however, wasn’t an interview but a heavy-handed “open letter” criticizing her for placing too much power between her legs, among other things.

Hard Core was laden with explicit sexual fantasies that were as lewd and juvenile as those of her male peers, who garnered respect and sold millions of units. Kim embodied one of the few roles available to women in hip-hop: the oversexed, money-hungry ho. The scars she bore were nowhere near the surface of her skin, to paraphrase Nona Hendryx. She was ever loyal to the streets and her man, ride or die. She defaced herself and numbed her feelings. Her femininity was a not-so-concealed weapon. If you have a heart, she will absolutely break it.

On Hard Core, Kim seems to relish the role, leavening the darkness and explicitness with humor. It’s all reminiscent of the X-rated jokes drunk relatives swap when they think the kids aren’t listening. The language slashes and burns. It also bears witness.

“No Time,” the first single, is something of a personal mantra I appropriated soon after it became a smash. Really, who has time for fake ones? And who wouldn’t want to sip Cristal with real ones? Take out the gross materialism of “Queen B@#$H” and “rich” could mean many things: rich in love, rich in health, rich in intellect. Wouldn’t you want to stay that b@#$h?

But after Hard Core, fantasy and reality seemed to blur for Kim. Several plastic surgeries have shockingly changed the inviting, pug-nosed girlish face that graced the debut’s cover. She went to jail for a year after lying to a jury about a friend’s involvement in a shooting.

Three albums followed Hard Core. And although each featured great moments, none made as bold and cohesive a statement as the debut. It remains one of the few hip-hop albums I spin that still sounds fresh. And I still play it for my funkiest friends.

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■ 16 April 2012 | 4:01 PM

Come On and Just Let Me: Meshell Ndegeocello Finds Peace Beyond Passion

It had been done before: the dense mix of in-your-face sexuality and unblinking interrogation of religion, all woven into a funky and fluid musical tapestry. Prince was an obvious influence. But Meshell Ndegeocello has always been her own artist with her own vision.

In 1996, the singer-songwriter-bassist released Peace Beyond Passion, her second album on Madonna’s Maverick label. It deepened and expanded the soulfully disparate approach of her acclaimed debut, 1993’s Plantation Lullabies. While lyrically gnarly, peppered with heavy-handed song titles, the album was, in many ways, more inviting than its predecessor.

Peace Beyond Passion also firmly established the fierce, ever-restless Meshell as a critical darling – embraced by discerning music lovers as she remains mostly a mystery to the mainstream.

When her sophomore record came out, I had just graduated high school and was on my way to college. My musical tastes had always leaned toward the vintage side. What attracted me to Meshell was how the music echoed the past while staying fresh. She was the antithesis of the standard for black female singers: no flowing weave, no revealing get-up, no bad girl/good girl complex. Meshell rocked a bald head, dark lipstick and tattoos. She was openly bisexual. She often highlighted that in her music, but she didn’t allow her sexuality to cage her or become an easy marketing ploy.

Meshell sang of her romantic and sexual desires for women and men with a warm sincerity. Peace Beyond Passion introduced her as a master seductress. It’s hard not to yield to her croon on the languid “Stay.” The caress of her mink-soft voice and the deep massage of her bass create a soul nirvana. It continues on “Bittersweet,” with a sudden, jazz-like tempo change toward the end that melts me every time.

But Meshell explored much more than sex on Peace Beyond Passion. The lead single, “Leviticus: Faggot,” delves into the story of the oppressive role religion plays in the life of a gay teen. Not exactly light lyrical fare for an R&B song, or any song for that matter. But musically Meshell has never been afraid of the dark. Her unflinching explorations of man’s inhumanity to man continues on “Deuteronomy: Niggerman” and “Ecclesiastes: Free My Heart.”

The second single was “Who Is He (And What Is He to You),” a smooth, funky remake of the Bill Withers classic, with no gender change.

Peace Beyond Passion peaked at No. 15 on Billboard’s R&B chart and remains Meshell’s most commercially successful album. Subsequent releases have been challenging and rewarding, especially 2003’s rock-and-reggae-suffused Comfort Woman.

Peace Beyond Passion revealed more of Meshell’s graceful side, as she killed softly with a musical brew that was biting and inviting all at the same time.

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■ 10 April 2012 | 3:00 PM

A Butterfly Caught Up in a Hurricane: Smokey Robinson Creates a Quiet Storm

Smokey Robinson was sad.

In 1974, the singer-songwriter had retired from performing and taken an executive position at Motown, the fabled label founded by his best friend, Berry Gordy. But Smokey, whose ‘60s hits with the Miracles helped build the company, didn’t like the monotony of the gig in Motown’s finance office. He missed the stage and studio.

Shortly after leaving the Miracles in 1972, Smokey put out two solo albums that did moderately well. By mid 1974, the Detroit legend had grown restless. His label mates – Stevie Wonder, Eddie Kendricks and Marvin Gaye – were releasing influential hits that sat atop the charts for weeks at a time. Even the Miracles were doing better without him. Fed up with his moping, Smokey’s wife, Claudette, convinced him to get back into the studio.

The result was his most-inspired and perhaps his finest effort: A Quiet Storm. Released in March 1975, the LP is an exquisite seven-song suite, with songs extolling love’s light and exploring its darkness. Musically, Smokey pushed the smooth swooning style that had made him a star. He added pronounced jazz overtones and subtle layers of funk, and in the process, created a genre of adult urban music.

The album begins with the title cut, one of the most influential in Smokey’s vast catalog. The wind that blows through the entire album, connecting the pastel songs, opens the track. A moody bass and economical Fender Rhodes anchor the arrangement, leavened by floating modal harmonies. Smokey’s serpentine Sarah Vaughan-influenced croon breathes life into the evocative lyrics. He’s a butterfly caught up in a hurricane. The touch of his lady love brings rainbow rings.

“A Quiet Storm” became the name of a national radio format, originated in 1976 by Melvin Lindsey at WHUR-FM in Washington DC. Smokey’s cut became the introductory song to many Quiet Storm programs across the country – romantic music played after hours that braided elements of jazz and soul.

The album spawned Smokey’s first solo smash, “Baby That’s Backatcha.” The song was something of a departure for the caramel-smooth crooner. Riding an aggressive funk groove, layered with polyrhythmic hand percussion and a jazz-kissed flute, the song is a vinegary kiss-off. But Smokey’s style is so breezy and refined, the sting feels more like a caress. It topped the R&B chart in the spring of ’75.

“Wedding Song,” originally written for and performed at the 1973 wedding of Jermaine Jackson and Berry’s daughter, Hazel Gordy, melts into the suite and gives way to “Happy,” a molasses-slow rendition of the original version recorded by Michael Jackson in 1973.

The album closes the opposite way it began. “Coincidentally” is a chunky dance-floor filler that sounds like a lost track from a blaxploitation flick.

A Quiet Storm blew into Billboard’s R&B Top 10 and peaked at No. 7. On the pop side, the album made it to No. 36. In many respects, the album still sounds like 1975, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Its influence remains strong. Quiet Storm stations still exist across the country, sending out aural rainbow rings deep into the night.

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■ 05 April 2012 | 5:25 PM

I Had Your Love in the Palm of My Hand: The Sexy Introduction of Teddy Pendergrass

Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff knew he had platinum potential. Teddy Pendergrass had been finely showcased on several hit singles, when he was a member of Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes. Initially the drummer for the group, the tall and sexy Philadelphia native was brought to the front microphone. His commanding gruff baritone powered classics like “If You Don’t Know Me By Now,” “The Love I Lost,” “Bad Luck” and “Wake Up Everybody.”

With such an impressive string of hits between 1972 and 1976, a solo career for Teddy seemed inevitable. Plus, tensions had arisen between the budding young star and Harold Melvin. So during the Bicentennial Year, Teddy declared his independence and split.

Other labels showed interest, but the singer wisely signed a solo deal with Philadelphia International Records, returning to the arrangers and producers who knew his style best. Kenny and Leon, the label’s chieftains, immediately went to work on Teddy’s debut.

The self-titled effort hit stores in the summer of 1977, and it was a dazzling introduction to Teddy Pendergrass, the solo star. The approach, however, wasn’t drastically different from what he had done with the Blue Notes. The debonair rhythms strut, wrapped in a lush horns and strings. As always, Kenny and Leon made sure to put a message in the music. Side 1 opens with “You Can’t Hide from Yourself,” one of the funkiest odes to self-responsibility ever waxed. Teddy once had aspirations of becoming a preacher, and he summoned the holy fire on just about everything he sang, especially on the empowerment anthems.

He calmed the storm on the love songs, caressing melodies with his vocal velvet. He could be downright tender, as he is on the undulating “Be Sure” and the regret-laced ballad “And If I Had,” one of Teddy’s best performances.

Side 2 kicks off with the album’s first single, the exuberant “I Don’t Love You Anymore.” Teddy makes falling out of love a fiesta, backed by celebratory horns and vibrant Afro Cuban-inspired percussion. After a recent breakup, I danced around in my living room to this and tried to absorb the liberation in the music. I was still lovesick, but the song helped me “fake it to make it.”

The next cut, “The Whole Town’s Laughing at Me,” the second single, is a gorgeously restrained performance. The regret simmers, as Teddy lays bare a vulnerable side that black male singers weren’t ashamed to show back then. “Easy, Easy, Got to Take It Easy” is as smooth and suave as the title implies. The album closes with “The More I Get, the More I Want,” a gutsy Latin-tinged number that disco DJs jumped on.

The self-titled debut, which sported a GQ-smooth shot of Teddy in a trench coat and ivory scarf, peaked at No. 5 on Billboard’s R&B chart and No. 17 on the pop list. Barely a month after its release, the album was certified gold. At the close of 1977, it had gone platinum.

The album would become the first in a string of platinum sellers for Teddy, before an infamous 1982 car crash left him paralyzed from the waist down. Although he staged an impressive comeback just two years later, Teddy never returned to the glory of his early solo period. He died of respiratory failure on January 13, 2010. He was 59.

More than 30 years before, Teddy Pendergrass was the voice and face of black American male sexiness. His debut couldn’t have been a better showcase.