PHILLY SOUL WEEK
"Break Up To Make Up" / The Stylistics
It was hard to pick just one Stylistics song to gush about. When the starry-eyed "Betcha By Golly Wow" came out in 1971, I wasn't sure what to think -- it teetered right on the verge of cheesy. But 1972's "I'm Stone in Love With You" sealed their sound, adding a gentle rollick to the beat that convinced us these guys were hip. (Ever sit in the back of a VW Beetle with half-a-dozen loopy teenage girls trying to match that octave jump on "you-oooo"?) And in 1974, the Stylistics hit their height with "You Make Me Feel Brand New," the most glorious melodic line ever written for Russell Thompkins' angelic falsetto.
But I realized I had to go with "Break Up To Make Up," a 1973 hit that sums up everything I feel about Philly soul. There's no question that it's schmaltzy and overproduced, with a stately waltz tempo that pours on the emotions even more. On top of that, it features the default Philly soul plot line, a romantic complaint song by an injured male -- a situation I really can't relate to. When I recall the song, it's like thinking about a rich pastry when you're not hungry. All that whipped cream! The custard filling! The chocolate drizzles on top! But play 30 seconds of the thing -- take just one bite -- and you remember all over again how beautiful it is.
That long lush intro may overstay its welcome, but remember, on the AM radio you'd never hear it all -- the DJ would always take advantage of it to cram in a little more chatter. That ooze of strings and vibes is there just to set the tempo and the mood -- a musical palate cleanser, wiping away whatever sassy trash you were listening to previously. And then Thompkins' voice sails in, stepping sorrowfully by thirds down the scale: "Tell me what's wrong with you now / Tell me why I / Never seem to make you happy / Though heaven knows I try." Two lines of straight time, followed by two lines of complicated syncopation, as if he's tripping over his own feelings. That gorgeous vocal doesn't need much of a setting -- a light tick of hi-hats, a whisper of vibes, that's all.
Then it gently slides into the chorus: "Break up to make up, that's all we do / First you love me, then you hate me / That's a game for fools." Maybe you've been lucky enough never to be in a love affair like this, but I know people who never have any other kind of relationship. Personally I run for the hills when the fights start, which may be why Thompkins' wistfulness strikes home with me. The arrangement is just brilliant (Thom Bell, I'm assuming, though Kenny Gamble also had a hand in this song, along with Bell's usual lyrics partner Linda Creed). Listen to how the other Stylistics cling to the rueful melody, while Thompkins' melismatic descant shimmers above it, as if his heart is running away with him.
Thom Bell -- who'd begun producing the Stylistics when Thompkins was barely out of high school -- vanished from their lives in 1974 and their career faltered in the States. They did have a second career in Europe, as evidenced by the Simply Red cover of "You Make Me Feel Brand New" (someone keep those guys from mucking around with the Philly classics!), but their sound never evolved significantly. The Stylistics were Philly soul's new kids on the block -- they hadn't previously toiled in the R&B backwaters for ages -- yet they still wore the matching suits, still did the hand motions and twirls behind the mic stands, stepping effortlessly into the mold that Bell and Gamble & Huff had laid down. In the end, even Russell Thompkins' extraordinary voice wasn't enough without the genius producers pulling the right strings. For better or worse, Philly Soul was a producer's genre. But who's to say that's a bad thing?
Showing posts with label philly soul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philly soul. Show all posts
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
PHILLY SOUL WEEK
"If You Don't Know Me By Now" /
Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes
I must have heard this song a million times without ever knowing who sang it. That name, Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes has such a vintage ring to it, and not by accident -- Harold Melvin formed his first version of the Blue Notes way back in the mid-1950s, the doo-wop era, which explains those multilayered vocal harmonies. But the sound is so modern, with that sexy slow tempo and the rich production, that I'd never have associated this song with an ancient doo-wop group. If you'd asked me a week ago if I'd ever heard of Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, I'd have said no. But the songs? Oh, yes, I know them very well.
And now that I've read up on them, I'm convinced that somebody oughta make a movie about this band -- it's like Dream Girls all over again. From 1954 on, Harold Melvin steered his band through numerous personnel changes and label shifts, scoring a handful of regional R&B hits. Melvin had gradually ceded lead vocal duties; in the late '60s his lead singer was a guy called John Atkins. On tour with a band called the Cadillacs, however, Melvin was impressed with the Cadillacs' young drummer, Teddy Pendergrass -- so impressed that he lured him over to join the Blue Notes' backing band, and when Atkins left in 1970, Melvin swiftly promoted Pendergrass to the job. With his soulful baritone, Pendergrass was a natural star. It wasn't long before the kingmakers of Philadelphia, Leon Huff and Kenny Gamble, came a-calling.
A string of hits followed -- "If You Don't Know Me By Now," "Don't Leave Me This Way," the uptempo "The Love I Lost" (often cited as the first true disco recording) -- finally bringing crossover acclaim to Melvin's band. And of course -- anybody see this coming? -- eventually Teddy Pendergrass got tired of being in a band with another guy's name at the top and went solo in 1976. Harold Melvin & the Blues Notes left the Gamble-Huff empire and continued to record and tour for years, but their heyday was over, while Teddy Pendergrass became a genuine sex symbol and crossover music star.
I never liked "The Love I Lost" -- to me, that was heading into Commodores territory, and the clicking beat seemed at odds with the stated subject of the song. Or maybe it was just too much of an earworm, and I hated having my brain taken over by that hooky refrain. But "If You Don't Know Me By Now" stays on the sweet side of soul, and I love it.
It's actually a brilliant formula, the way the backing vocalists keep repeating that title line over and over, while Pendergrass croons and emotes over it. He's practically rapping here, if you think about it. Drenched in a shimmer of strings, the doowop chorus is like the part of his brain that just can't get past this heartbreaking thought, that maybe his woman really never will trust him. Counterpointed against that is his freeform lead vocal line, the agitated conversation he's having with his woman, pleading, admonishing, protesting.
It's the tried-and-true Philly combo of the sensitive male with his leonine masculinity and wounded male pride. Listen to the outrage and despair encoded in Pendergrass's voice, that little rasp at the edge. Wowie.
"If You Don't Know Me By Now" /
Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes
I must have heard this song a million times without ever knowing who sang it. That name, Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes has such a vintage ring to it, and not by accident -- Harold Melvin formed his first version of the Blue Notes way back in the mid-1950s, the doo-wop era, which explains those multilayered vocal harmonies. But the sound is so modern, with that sexy slow tempo and the rich production, that I'd never have associated this song with an ancient doo-wop group. If you'd asked me a week ago if I'd ever heard of Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, I'd have said no. But the songs? Oh, yes, I know them very well.
And now that I've read up on them, I'm convinced that somebody oughta make a movie about this band -- it's like Dream Girls all over again. From 1954 on, Harold Melvin steered his band through numerous personnel changes and label shifts, scoring a handful of regional R&B hits. Melvin had gradually ceded lead vocal duties; in the late '60s his lead singer was a guy called John Atkins. On tour with a band called the Cadillacs, however, Melvin was impressed with the Cadillacs' young drummer, Teddy Pendergrass -- so impressed that he lured him over to join the Blue Notes' backing band, and when Atkins left in 1970, Melvin swiftly promoted Pendergrass to the job. With his soulful baritone, Pendergrass was a natural star. It wasn't long before the kingmakers of Philadelphia, Leon Huff and Kenny Gamble, came a-calling.
A string of hits followed -- "If You Don't Know Me By Now," "Don't Leave Me This Way," the uptempo "The Love I Lost" (often cited as the first true disco recording) -- finally bringing crossover acclaim to Melvin's band. And of course -- anybody see this coming? -- eventually Teddy Pendergrass got tired of being in a band with another guy's name at the top and went solo in 1976. Harold Melvin & the Blues Notes left the Gamble-Huff empire and continued to record and tour for years, but their heyday was over, while Teddy Pendergrass became a genuine sex symbol and crossover music star.
I never liked "The Love I Lost" -- to me, that was heading into Commodores territory, and the clicking beat seemed at odds with the stated subject of the song. Or maybe it was just too much of an earworm, and I hated having my brain taken over by that hooky refrain. But "If You Don't Know Me By Now" stays on the sweet side of soul, and I love it.
It's actually a brilliant formula, the way the backing vocalists keep repeating that title line over and over, while Pendergrass croons and emotes over it. He's practically rapping here, if you think about it. Drenched in a shimmer of strings, the doowop chorus is like the part of his brain that just can't get past this heartbreaking thought, that maybe his woman really never will trust him. Counterpointed against that is his freeform lead vocal line, the agitated conversation he's having with his woman, pleading, admonishing, protesting.
It's the tried-and-true Philly combo of the sensitive male with his leonine masculinity and wounded male pride. Listen to the outrage and despair encoded in Pendergrass's voice, that little rasp at the edge. Wowie.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
PHILLY SOUL WEEK
"Only The Strong Survive" / Jerry Butler
The Ice Man. The Dream Merchant. If anybody could embody the smooth strength of the Philly Sound, it would be Jerry Butler.
Funny thing is, once I started to research Jerry Butler, I got all confused, because Jerry Butler isn't even from Philly. (Neither are the Spinners, I discovered to my chagrin -- in the UK they're even known as the Detroit Spinners, and they started out as a Motown group.) Jerry Butler is apparently a Chicago man through and through -- grew up in the Cabrini projects, got his start there in the late 1950s with the Impressions. He still lives in Chicago; he's even a city alderman, believe it or not. But in 1967, when Butler switched to Mercury Records, he teamed up with Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, and the rest was Philly soul history.
Butler came to the partnership with plenty of hits under his belt, mind you. His first song, "Your Precious Love," which he wrote himself, went gold in 1957; in 1962 he scored a huge hit with Bacharach & David's "Make It Easy On Yourself," long before Tom Jones came along; hell, the guy even co-wrote "I've Been Loving You Too Long" with Otis Redding in 1965. But the association with Gamble and Huff led to Butler's finest work -- his golden era, so to speak. The mainstream AM stations I grew up with didn't play his stuff as much as they did the Delfonics and the Stylistics and the O'Jays, but the more I listen to it, the more I'm loving it.
As far as Philly soul classics go, Butler's 1968 album The Ice Man Cometh set a gold standard that Philly artists would strive to equal for years. It snared three Grammy nominations and produced four hit singles. The fourth, "Only The Strong Survive" -- which Butler wrote with Gamble and Huff -- hit #1 on the R&B charts in the spring of 1969, and even climbed to #4 on the regular pop charts. It was HUGE.
Talking intros don't always work in pop records. The Shangri-Las pulled it off beautifully ("You get the picture?" "Yes, we see"), but I think of Barry White's spoken interludes and just shudder. On this song, though, it totally works -- I love how it begins with Jerry talking, confiding in us, passing on the words his mother comforted him with after his first heartbreak.
And as he segues into singing, Butler's voice is so smooth, so suave, we're swept right along. Yet he knows when to betray a little catch in his throat, or an intake of breath that's just this side of a moan. Even while he's counseling the need for manly strength, we realize what a sensitive soul he is, feeling every twinge of hurt in his romantic troubles.
It would have been so easy to make this song bombastic or sorrowful -- give it the full-on gospel treatment -- but no, this is a soul record, so Gamble and Huff set a lightly tripping jazzy tempo. Light is the key word: The arrangement here (courtesy of Thom Bell, who'd soon become a powerhouse producer himself) is a model of taste and restraint. Wonderful offbeat curlicues of guitar accent the end of lines, and a vibraphone pings in the background, setting up a rhythmic counterpoint. Back-up singers reiterate softly, like the echo of memory, and strings provide only a gentle underlying hum. Percussion is almost nonexistent; the bass only steps in for the chorus. The whole thing glides confidently along, a perfect demonstration that he's already learned the lesson his momma taught him. He's like an elegant tap dancer, one long fluid motion from his shoulders and wrists to his lightning quick feet.
At this point in his career Butler was such a pro, such a seasoned singer, that he really could just sit back, as relaxed as Nat King Cole or Perry Como, and let the song pour out. He fiddles just enough with his phrasing, with the textures of his vocal, to paint all the emotions he needs. That's why I love this video clip (that set looks so familiar -- the Mike Douglas Show?), so we can see his ultra-cool stage delivery in action. The Ice Man indeed.
"Only The Strong Survive" / Jerry Butler
The Ice Man. The Dream Merchant. If anybody could embody the smooth strength of the Philly Sound, it would be Jerry Butler.
Funny thing is, once I started to research Jerry Butler, I got all confused, because Jerry Butler isn't even from Philly. (Neither are the Spinners, I discovered to my chagrin -- in the UK they're even known as the Detroit Spinners, and they started out as a Motown group.) Jerry Butler is apparently a Chicago man through and through -- grew up in the Cabrini projects, got his start there in the late 1950s with the Impressions. He still lives in Chicago; he's even a city alderman, believe it or not. But in 1967, when Butler switched to Mercury Records, he teamed up with Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff, and the rest was Philly soul history.
Butler came to the partnership with plenty of hits under his belt, mind you. His first song, "Your Precious Love," which he wrote himself, went gold in 1957; in 1962 he scored a huge hit with Bacharach & David's "Make It Easy On Yourself," long before Tom Jones came along; hell, the guy even co-wrote "I've Been Loving You Too Long" with Otis Redding in 1965. But the association with Gamble and Huff led to Butler's finest work -- his golden era, so to speak. The mainstream AM stations I grew up with didn't play his stuff as much as they did the Delfonics and the Stylistics and the O'Jays, but the more I listen to it, the more I'm loving it.
As far as Philly soul classics go, Butler's 1968 album The Ice Man Cometh set a gold standard that Philly artists would strive to equal for years. It snared three Grammy nominations and produced four hit singles. The fourth, "Only The Strong Survive" -- which Butler wrote with Gamble and Huff -- hit #1 on the R&B charts in the spring of 1969, and even climbed to #4 on the regular pop charts. It was HUGE.
Talking intros don't always work in pop records. The Shangri-Las pulled it off beautifully ("You get the picture?" "Yes, we see"), but I think of Barry White's spoken interludes and just shudder. On this song, though, it totally works -- I love how it begins with Jerry talking, confiding in us, passing on the words his mother comforted him with after his first heartbreak.
And as he segues into singing, Butler's voice is so smooth, so suave, we're swept right along. Yet he knows when to betray a little catch in his throat, or an intake of breath that's just this side of a moan. Even while he's counseling the need for manly strength, we realize what a sensitive soul he is, feeling every twinge of hurt in his romantic troubles.
It would have been so easy to make this song bombastic or sorrowful -- give it the full-on gospel treatment -- but no, this is a soul record, so Gamble and Huff set a lightly tripping jazzy tempo. Light is the key word: The arrangement here (courtesy of Thom Bell, who'd soon become a powerhouse producer himself) is a model of taste and restraint. Wonderful offbeat curlicues of guitar accent the end of lines, and a vibraphone pings in the background, setting up a rhythmic counterpoint. Back-up singers reiterate softly, like the echo of memory, and strings provide only a gentle underlying hum. Percussion is almost nonexistent; the bass only steps in for the chorus. The whole thing glides confidently along, a perfect demonstration that he's already learned the lesson his momma taught him. He's like an elegant tap dancer, one long fluid motion from his shoulders and wrists to his lightning quick feet.
At this point in his career Butler was such a pro, such a seasoned singer, that he really could just sit back, as relaxed as Nat King Cole or Perry Como, and let the song pour out. He fiddles just enough with his phrasing, with the textures of his vocal, to paint all the emotions he needs. That's why I love this video clip (that set looks so familiar -- the Mike Douglas Show?), so we can see his ultra-cool stage delivery in action. The Ice Man indeed.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
PHILLY SOUL WEEK
"Didn't I (Blow Your Mind?)" / The Delfonics
Yesterday's song, "Expressway to Your Heart," may have been an uptempo funkfest, but here's the flip side of Philly soul: The lushly produced, grindingly slow love ballad, paving the inevitable road to Barry White.
Having this song come on at a school dance was every girl's secret terror, at least if her date for the evening was a guy she wasn't really interested in. (Oh, yes, my children, that used to happen, back in the days before obligatory hook-ups took all the fun out of dating around.) You simply cannot dance to this song without some serious pelvis shifting, and it ALWAYS turns out to be slower than I remember. The thing that saves it is the sweet earnestness of Wilbert Hart's tenor. As he leads off the song (his brother William will soon take over with his urgent falsetto), he's laying it all on the line -- "I gave my heart and soul to you / Didn't I do it baby, didn't I do it baby?" It would be so easy to turn this into a put-out-or-shut-up demand, but the Delfonics keep it safely on the side of a lovestruck plea.
Naturally, it being 1970, the phrase "blow your mind" already had its drug connotations, though the Delfonics pretty much skirt that too, apart from a stoned shimmer of xylophones and harps and strings. My two favorite bits: the insistent dit-dit-dit of horns after the chorus, before his heart bursts into the repeated title phrase of the refrain; and the sadder-but-wiser anguish of the last verse, as he ruefully tells her, "Ten times or more, yes, I've walked out that door / Get this into your head, there'll be no more." Despite all that heavy breathing, it's definitely a break-up song, edged with bitterness. For a long time I thought he was blowing her mind with his marathon lovemaking (eeeuw, gross!); now I realize that what really shocks her is that he's found the strength to walk out on her. Doormat no more.
This song was enough of a crossover hit -- #3 on the R&B charts but also #10 on the pop charts -- that it got plenty of play on the AM radio stations I listened to in 1970. I clearly remember singing along to all those lagging "didn't I's?". Yet I don't think I could have told you who sang this song -- I could never tell the Delfonics apart from their soon-to-be-developed imitators, the Stylistics and the Spinners. (Developed, in fact, by the Delfonics' soon-to-be ex-producer Thom Bell, another giant of the Philly scene, who wrote this song with William Hart.) The Delfonics were the originals, however, and the prize horses in Bell's stable for a while, ever since their 1968 single "La-La (Means I Love You" had gone gold.
From the mid-70s on, the Delfonics were a revolving door of talent, with sometimes two competing line-ups performing simultaneously -- one starring William Hart and the other Wilbert Hart. (Brother bands -- need I say more?) The sound quality of the video below isn't great, but it gives you an idea of their stage act, with the two Hart brothers and their high school friend Randy Cain trading off vocal honors, then blending their voices together into a dazzle of harmony.
I hadn't heard this song in years; I was surprised how well it's held up. Oh, sure, it sounds dated -- for one thing, it's way too clean for modern radio. But the musicianship of this track is incredibly solid, and it's a benchmark of studio finesse. If the Beatles could hole up in the studio and turn out dense layered masterpieces, why couldn't the folks at Cameo Studios in gritty Philadelphia? After all, they already had the dance moves down.
"Didn't I (Blow Your Mind?)" / The Delfonics
Yesterday's song, "Expressway to Your Heart," may have been an uptempo funkfest, but here's the flip side of Philly soul: The lushly produced, grindingly slow love ballad, paving the inevitable road to Barry White.
Having this song come on at a school dance was every girl's secret terror, at least if her date for the evening was a guy she wasn't really interested in. (Oh, yes, my children, that used to happen, back in the days before obligatory hook-ups took all the fun out of dating around.) You simply cannot dance to this song without some serious pelvis shifting, and it ALWAYS turns out to be slower than I remember. The thing that saves it is the sweet earnestness of Wilbert Hart's tenor. As he leads off the song (his brother William will soon take over with his urgent falsetto), he's laying it all on the line -- "I gave my heart and soul to you / Didn't I do it baby, didn't I do it baby?" It would be so easy to turn this into a put-out-or-shut-up demand, but the Delfonics keep it safely on the side of a lovestruck plea.
Naturally, it being 1970, the phrase "blow your mind" already had its drug connotations, though the Delfonics pretty much skirt that too, apart from a stoned shimmer of xylophones and harps and strings. My two favorite bits: the insistent dit-dit-dit of horns after the chorus, before his heart bursts into the repeated title phrase of the refrain; and the sadder-but-wiser anguish of the last verse, as he ruefully tells her, "Ten times or more, yes, I've walked out that door / Get this into your head, there'll be no more." Despite all that heavy breathing, it's definitely a break-up song, edged with bitterness. For a long time I thought he was blowing her mind with his marathon lovemaking (eeeuw, gross!); now I realize that what really shocks her is that he's found the strength to walk out on her. Doormat no more.
This song was enough of a crossover hit -- #3 on the R&B charts but also #10 on the pop charts -- that it got plenty of play on the AM radio stations I listened to in 1970. I clearly remember singing along to all those lagging "didn't I's?". Yet I don't think I could have told you who sang this song -- I could never tell the Delfonics apart from their soon-to-be-developed imitators, the Stylistics and the Spinners. (Developed, in fact, by the Delfonics' soon-to-be ex-producer Thom Bell, another giant of the Philly scene, who wrote this song with William Hart.) The Delfonics were the originals, however, and the prize horses in Bell's stable for a while, ever since their 1968 single "La-La (Means I Love You" had gone gold.
From the mid-70s on, the Delfonics were a revolving door of talent, with sometimes two competing line-ups performing simultaneously -- one starring William Hart and the other Wilbert Hart. (Brother bands -- need I say more?) The sound quality of the video below isn't great, but it gives you an idea of their stage act, with the two Hart brothers and their high school friend Randy Cain trading off vocal honors, then blending their voices together into a dazzle of harmony.
I hadn't heard this song in years; I was surprised how well it's held up. Oh, sure, it sounds dated -- for one thing, it's way too clean for modern radio. But the musicianship of this track is incredibly solid, and it's a benchmark of studio finesse. If the Beatles could hole up in the studio and turn out dense layered masterpieces, why couldn't the folks at Cameo Studios in gritty Philadelphia? After all, they already had the dance moves down.
Monday, April 26, 2010
PHILLY SOUL WEEK
"Expressway to Your Heart" / Soul Survivors
Why Philly Soul Week? Why not? I've had this particular song stuck in my head for several days, and when I went to the iTunes store to download it, I got sidetracked by all these other artists I had completely forgotten about. A full week's worth of cool tracks!
But let's begin with "Expressway" -- one of those records I remember hearing on the AM radio back in 1967, dancing to, singing to, without ever fully appreciating. Funkier than Motown, edged with urban grit, it would have been a hard sell for me in 1967, still in my British invasion haze and trending more and more toward psychedelia and California sunshine pop. I was way too young, and too suburban, to enjoy the raw energy of a song like this. But that the beauty part of music -- you come to the older stuff when you come to it, no questions asked.
Oddly enough, the core of this band was white -- the Ingui brothers, Richie and Charlie. (Go here for a video of Richie and Charlie Ingui reminiscing about their part in the Philly soul scene.) You sure couldn't tell that by listening to them, though. I always had the impression that the Philly scene was more integrated than Detroit, maybe because of an interview way back when with white boys Daryl Hall and John Oates, who grew up in its shadow. At any rate, it was the genius of songwriters/producers Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff -- both black -- that moulded the Ingui brothers and their band into a tight soul unit. This was Gamble and Huff's first really big hit, paving the way for a decade at the top of the charts -- not a bad place to start.
I love how the sections alternate -- that funky bass-propelled verse ("I been trying to get to you . . . " pivots on the beat of a drum into a sweet exhalation of organ and tambourine, as Richie's urgent chant melts into Charlie's velvet bass croon ("I was wrong, mmm, I took too long . . ."). How Righteous Brothers is that? And I love how the bridge -- again, practically a capella -- repeats the back-up singers' "too crowdeds" until they sound like car horns themselves.
Gamble and Huff knew how to work a metaphor, and this one is sheer brilliance. The idea is that our hero couldn't get to his girl's house in time, and another guy showed up instead and stole his girl's heart. (That rhyme of "I got caught in the rush hour" with "A fellow started to shower / You with love and affection" is so bad it's good.) Meanwhile our hero is stuck in traffic, getting steamed -- "I thought I could find a clear road / But I found stoplights instead." I've been stuck in traffic in Philly myself, crawling along on those snaking expressways that promise to funnel you out of the grimy inner city. It's torture.
So what kind of girl betrays her boyfriend just because he's late? The answer is, no kind of girl. Of course this isn't real, it's just a metaphor for how hard it is to get through to a popular girl. Maybe he realizes too late that he didn't try hard enough -- he didn't deliver all the "love and affection" he might have. (Some men never do understand the simple power of, oh say, flowers and chocolate, or at least plenty of sweet talk.) He got distracted by outside forces, and now she won't give him the time of day.
But that gear-shifting bass, the hiss of percussion, those honking "too crowdeds" all underscore the traffic metaphor to a T. Forget GPS, Sirius Radio, power windows, and climate control; this is the Traffic Jam from Hell. I can't think of another song except "Summer in the City" that so perfectly evokes asphalt and trash and un-airconditioned swelter. Listening to this song, I almost break into a sweat; I suspect if I wiped my brow, flecks of burnt rubber and black exhaust would come off.
The Soul Survivors weren't entirely one-hit wonders -- they're still performing, with a different line-up, and had some modest chart success with a couple of later songs. Still, they never topped this debut single, and it's been covered by just about everybody. On youTube, I even found a clip of Bruce Springsteen singing this, which IMHO is just wrong. (Funk does not come naturally to The Boss.) All the covers lack something, somehow. The genius wasn't all Gamble and Huff -- the Inguis & Co. simply blistered out this song. Now that I live in a city -- or more importantly, now that I drive in a city -- I know exactly where they're coming from.
"Expressway to Your Heart" / Soul Survivors
Why Philly Soul Week? Why not? I've had this particular song stuck in my head for several days, and when I went to the iTunes store to download it, I got sidetracked by all these other artists I had completely forgotten about. A full week's worth of cool tracks!
But let's begin with "Expressway" -- one of those records I remember hearing on the AM radio back in 1967, dancing to, singing to, without ever fully appreciating. Funkier than Motown, edged with urban grit, it would have been a hard sell for me in 1967, still in my British invasion haze and trending more and more toward psychedelia and California sunshine pop. I was way too young, and too suburban, to enjoy the raw energy of a song like this. But that the beauty part of music -- you come to the older stuff when you come to it, no questions asked.
Oddly enough, the core of this band was white -- the Ingui brothers, Richie and Charlie. (Go here for a video of Richie and Charlie Ingui reminiscing about their part in the Philly soul scene.) You sure couldn't tell that by listening to them, though. I always had the impression that the Philly scene was more integrated than Detroit, maybe because of an interview way back when with white boys Daryl Hall and John Oates, who grew up in its shadow. At any rate, it was the genius of songwriters/producers Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff -- both black -- that moulded the Ingui brothers and their band into a tight soul unit. This was Gamble and Huff's first really big hit, paving the way for a decade at the top of the charts -- not a bad place to start.
I love how the sections alternate -- that funky bass-propelled verse ("I been trying to get to you . . . " pivots on the beat of a drum into a sweet exhalation of organ and tambourine, as Richie's urgent chant melts into Charlie's velvet bass croon ("I was wrong, mmm, I took too long . . ."). How Righteous Brothers is that? And I love how the bridge -- again, practically a capella -- repeats the back-up singers' "too crowdeds" until they sound like car horns themselves.
Gamble and Huff knew how to work a metaphor, and this one is sheer brilliance. The idea is that our hero couldn't get to his girl's house in time, and another guy showed up instead and stole his girl's heart. (That rhyme of "I got caught in the rush hour" with "A fellow started to shower / You with love and affection" is so bad it's good.) Meanwhile our hero is stuck in traffic, getting steamed -- "I thought I could find a clear road / But I found stoplights instead." I've been stuck in traffic in Philly myself, crawling along on those snaking expressways that promise to funnel you out of the grimy inner city. It's torture.
So what kind of girl betrays her boyfriend just because he's late? The answer is, no kind of girl. Of course this isn't real, it's just a metaphor for how hard it is to get through to a popular girl. Maybe he realizes too late that he didn't try hard enough -- he didn't deliver all the "love and affection" he might have. (Some men never do understand the simple power of, oh say, flowers and chocolate, or at least plenty of sweet talk.) He got distracted by outside forces, and now she won't give him the time of day.
But that gear-shifting bass, the hiss of percussion, those honking "too crowdeds" all underscore the traffic metaphor to a T. Forget GPS, Sirius Radio, power windows, and climate control; this is the Traffic Jam from Hell. I can't think of another song except "Summer in the City" that so perfectly evokes asphalt and trash and un-airconditioned swelter. Listening to this song, I almost break into a sweat; I suspect if I wiped my brow, flecks of burnt rubber and black exhaust would come off.
The Soul Survivors weren't entirely one-hit wonders -- they're still performing, with a different line-up, and had some modest chart success with a couple of later songs. Still, they never topped this debut single, and it's been covered by just about everybody. On youTube, I even found a clip of Bruce Springsteen singing this, which IMHO is just wrong. (Funk does not come naturally to The Boss.) All the covers lack something, somehow. The genius wasn't all Gamble and Huff -- the Inguis & Co. simply blistered out this song. Now that I live in a city -- or more importantly, now that I drive in a city -- I know exactly where they're coming from.
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