Marvin Gaye: Trouble Man

MARVIN GAYE: TROUBLE MAN (1972)

1) Main Theme From Trouble Man (2); 2) 'T' Plays It Cool; 3) Poor Abbey Walsh; 4) The Break In (Police Shoot Big); 5) Cleo's Apartment; 6) Trouble Man; 7) Theme From Trouble Man; 8) 'T' Stands For Trouble; 9) Main Theme From Trouble Man (1); 10) Life Is A Gamble; 11) Deep-In-It; 12) Don't Mess With Mister 'T'; 13) There Goes Mister 'T'.

General verdict: A soundtrack, but not so much to a movie as to the artist's own troubled relations with the world at large.

A peculiar fact of Marvin's career is that he only acted as sole writer and producer on two full LPs in his lifetime, and the first one of these was a soundtrack — although even here, the pro­posal to compose it came from Motown, what with «blaxploitation» movies being all the rage in the early Seventies and soundtracks such as Shaft and Superfly being legitimately counted among the great masterpieces of contemporary R&B and all. Most of those actual movies had far more social value for their time than artistic merits, and allegedly Trouble Man, a crime flick about a private detective exploring the bowels of life on the black-and-white fringe, was no exception. But the soundtrack has survived, and despite its predictably low share of actual songs, endures as sort of a minor classic in the Marvin Gaye canon.

Since, unlike Isaac Hayes and Curtis Mayfield, Marvin's emphasis was almost always confined to the soul aspect of the business rather than to the harsh-rockin' grooves, Trouble Man emerges or, rather, looms as an anthemic suite of suspense, foreboding, dark alleys, shady deals, neuroses, panic attacks, and necrologies. In fact, it makes for a perfect companion to What's Going On: if that record was more of a general prayer for the healing of the world's troubles, Trouble Man opens up an actual window on those troubles themselves — it is grim, bleak, mournful, with not really a single melody or vocal piece that would offer a ray of light; sorrow and melancholy are probably the sweetest emotions that could be associated with this music.

The centerpiece is ʽTrouble Manʼ itself, a song whose lyrics apply equally well to «Mr. T», the movie protagonist, and to Marvin himself. Compositionally, it's not much to speak of — a crude, simple blues-rocker that might as well be written by Bad Company; what matters is the arrange­ment — half-muted, creepy-sinister bass, piano, guitar and brass that seem to be stalking the listener from the shadows — and Marvin's falsetto delivery: this is not the tender-loving kind of falsetto, but rather the painfully-weeping kind of falsetto, the get-your-balls-in-a-vice-for-three-and-a-half-minutes kind of falsetto. The key moment of the song is the key change from "there's only three things for sure — taxes, death and trouble" to "this I know, baby, this I've known, baby"; the way he says it, you almost get the feeling that Marvin Gaye truly knows more about taxes, death and trouble than anybody else, even if it might be factually incorrect. There's also a musically impressive rise and cliff-jump at the end of each chorus — not on progressive rock level, perhaps, but a good suspenseful hook that finally turns the melody into something bigger than a proto-Bad Company blues rocker.

Several variations on the same melody are made into two different versions of the ʽMain Theme From Trouble Manʼ, not very different from each other and featuring extended sax solos from different session musicians. However, the other instrumental tracks are surprisingly diverse and actually seem to show a bigger interest in pure music-making on Marvin's part than even What's Going On. There are some smooth funky grooves on which Gaye himself is credited for playing synthesizers (ʽT Plays It Coolʼ, ʽT Stands For Troubleʼ); ballads (sometimes with minimal vocals) that walk a thin line between smooth jazz and avantgarde classical (ʽPoor Abbey Walshʼ, with its paranoid dissonant piano chords unexpectedly breaking the smoothness of the flow); Moog solos that sound as if they were taken out of prog-rock's textbook (ʽDeep-In-Itʼ); and sentimental passages that seem influenced by Sixties' soundtracks to French romantic movies (ʽDon't Mess With Mr. Tʼ). None of this stuff is truly breathtaking on its own, but the tracks do fall together in such a way that the album looks like a musical portrait — of one man's physical hassles and never ending spiritual torment.

It seems obvious to me that the album might have gained even bigger acclaim if its soundtrack status never existed in the first place — it is definitely more of a soundtrack to Marvin's own state of mind and, even bigger, to the state of things in the world of 1972's black America than to some long-forgotten movie about an African-American private detective. And it offers an excellent reflection of Gaye's character, too: the man was never about anger or violence as he was about sorrow and pity, so that Trouble Man spends most of its time weeping rather than cursing, mourning rather than calling to action — the title character is a person hopelessly locked in a karmic cycle with little hope of redemption. Even if there are musical elements here that instantly date the package (the use of this particular mix of strings, horns, and Moogs is a bit of a musical cliché), it still stands out from the typical fare of 1972, just because the artist has bothered to put a little bit more of his own soul in the music than was usually required for such matters.

But the more you think about it, the more unsettling it becomes — it's as if the naïve inner child of What's Going On, asking his innocent questions and hoping for a little bit of light, has matured here into a psychologically unstable and thoroughly pessimistic desperado. It is no surprise, perhaps, that Marvin would almost completely abandon «socially relevant» subjects in the following years and totally concentrate on amorous subjects instead: Trouble Man is the album of somebody who is so deeply disgusted in the world around him that the only possible solutions are either to take your own life, or to stop paying this undeserving world any attention. Ultimately, I guess, Marvin chose both (if you look at his killing not as an unfortunate accident, but as a sort of inevitable denouement).

Marvin Gaye: What's Going On

WHAT'S GOING ON (1971)

1) What's Going On; 2) What's Happening Brother; 3) Flyin' High; 4) Save The Children; 5) God Is Love; 6) Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology); 7) Right On; 8) Wholy Holy; 9) Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler).

General verdict: The "born again" / "coming out" record for Marvin, a triumph of soul over formula, groove over melody, spirit over shape, question over answer.

Of the two superheroes that managed to throw off Motown's shackles of formulaic oppression in the early Seventies and go on to become legends in their own rights — Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder — Stevie was, fairly inarguably, the musical genius. Marvin was never much of a player, had relatively limited interest in composing throughout the 1960s, and put just about everything he had in his singing. If you are looking for rich, innovative, pattern-rupturing melodies that took R&B to unprecedented (and still unsurpassed) heights, Stevie is your man. If you want Marvin to be your man, well... you have to be looking for something different.

This little preamble is necessary in order to understand why I have never been such an ardent fan of What's Going On as is usually prescribed by, uh, the «musical establishment». If you view this record outside of its historical context, and if you stay away from its lyrical content, it just doesn't really look that magnificent. Its sound is very typical of lush 1970s soul — gentle, soft grooves with soothing brass and luxurious strings, not very much unlike something you might encounter on even, say, a Barry White record. (Robert Christgau, in his original review, shot out a particularly vicious putdown of those strings, and, for once, I'd have to admit that he had his mind more or less in the right place). In all honesty, it does not even seem to me as if Marvin put that much thought and care into the preparation of the instrumental basis for this album: the sessions were fairly loose and spontaneous, with a lot of different people coming and going — something that is subtly reflected in the free-flowing atmosphere of the songs, but does not hint at a whole lot of compositional skill.

Then there is that other side of the story — or, rather, there is the story as such, which, in itself, is so awesome that many people probably fall in love with What's Going On before hearing the first note of this album. The story that tells about a spiritual and creative rebirth of a very much broken down man, depressed by his disintegrating family life, by feeling trapped within a suffo­cating and restrictive musical machine, and, on top of that, by having one of his best friends just die a horrible death at an unbelievably young age. How that broken down man, sick and tired of having to perform formulaic and insincere commercial tunes written for him by other people, found a new meaning in life by completely rejecting those conventions and coming up with a conceptual suite that actually addressed some real issues — war, racism, poverty, inequality, pollution, God, Love, you name it — at a time when hit-oriented factories like Motown still looked largely impermeable to such artistic tendencies. How, eventually, especially after that man's own tragic demise a decade later, the suite came to be regarded as one of the highest achievements in the history of popular African-American music, or even popular music as a whole, and has provided inspiration for several generations of musicians and music listeners.

It's a wonderful story, indeed, and one with which even Stevie Wonder would find a hard time to compete — not even Songs In The Key Of Life, his sprawling encyclopaedia of human emo­tions, can boast such an intense spiritual glow. But, like all such stories, it also begs the question: what really matters? The intention or the realisation? The context or the substance? Our biases and expectations, or our pure, unconditioned gut reaction? How are all these things linked? What's really going on, brother?

If you feel like there's a sacred cow slaughter coming up here, don't: What's Going On has enough spirit in it to withstand any criticism of its melodic content. If anything, Berry Gordy must have felt much like I did upon first hearing the title song and telling Marvin it was a bunch of nonsense — not because he was scared of its political content, but because he did not perceive any serious musical value. It was just a groove, really, with James Jamerson's bassline starting and ending its melodic potential, while Marvin's vocalizing never gelled into a proper hook, instead preferring to dissolve into little pools of falsetto scatting. Yet there was something there to cause its immediate popularity: not the message itself, but probably the soft, peaceful, and very intense feel of sincere pain behind the vocals. Far from being the first R&B protest song, ʽWhat's Going Onʼ still hit some nerve that many previous songs did not, and this can only be blamed on the unexplainable magic of the vocalist.

The fact that songs mostly segue into one another without any breaks, and the fact that mid-tempo syncopated R&B grooves are at the core of almost everything here makes most of What's Going On look like one steady flow of a vast musical river — interrupted and realigned only once, with the Latin-bluesy seven-minute chug of ʽRight Onʼ warily throwing in a different style that is just a tad bit more aggressive (accentuated by some very lively jazzy flute parts). Marvin himself sounds like he is being gently carried by the current, laying all his troubles on you like one huge confession — singing, usually, although he also likes to have fun here by experimenting with his vocals, overdubbing several different Marvins across the board, one time even having them parrot the same lyrics off each other, one set sung, one set recited (ʽSave The Childrenʼ). There is no other way in which the record would speak to me: even if it did yield several formally disjointed hit singles, I can only make peace with it if I take it as a single, prolonged musical oratorio, much more of a single-piece than, say, Jethro Tull's Thick As A Brick.

And, of course, it is precisely that move from a gifted hitmaker to the free spirit behind the musical oratorio that matters most here. What's Going On clicks best if you keep remembering that this is a musical awakening — even the lyrics, very naïve and simplistic on the whole, are those of a man-child who finally got around to shaking off the slumber and looking at this strange world we are living in with brand new eyes. The title of the album, after all, is a question, and the entire suite is an endless series of questions (and in art, as we all know, it usually pays off to ask questions rather than give answers): what's going on? what's happening brother? who's willing to try to save a world? where did all the blue skies go? who are they to judge us? It is not really required, after all, that a naïve musical awakening like that should be filled to the brim with intelligent and complex musical innovation. Just keep on rolling, and asking those questions in that sweet, innocent, amicable manner.

The way-too-overtly religious moments on the record (ʽGod Is Loveʼ, ʽWholy Holyʼ) have be­come the most dated — those intervals where Marvin slips from troubled questioning into zealous preaching feel cheap next to the burning issues — but it is a spiritual record made by an R&B performer, and that pretty much guarantees that some prayers are inevitable. They are short and few, though, and it is interesting that Marvin preferred to end the record not with one of them, but with ʽInner City Bluesʼ, easily the most scared-sounding tune on the album, where the vocals are delivered in little punctuated outbursts, fluttering and panicking: the inner child becoming more and more terrified with reality as questions remain unanswered and the blues begins to set in. Not a «depressing» or «apocalyptic» ending per se, but one that is supposed to leave you perturbed and agitated at the long journey's end.

In the end, I have a nagging suspicion that What's Going On remains one of those albums that everyone admires, but probably rarely listens to — a sort of Pet Sounds for the R&B genre, except that Pet Sounds, the coming-of-age masterpiece for Brian Wilson, actually features uniquely innovative musical textures, whereas for Marvin, the coming-of-age thing was played out in an entirely different dimension; and people do listen to Pet Sounds quite a bit for that reason, while What's Going On must find you in a very special state of mind — like, worrying about the world's problems, yet wanting to remain fairly mellow about it. Most importantly, though, you have to be sure that you appreciate What's Going On not because of some cheap politically correct reason (Important Milestone In Black Music History, etc.), but because of the real reason — because behind it there is a deeply hurting soul that finally, after years of re­pression, has earned the right to let some of that hurt out in public. Real soul, real hurt, real music; not particularly adventurous, but real soul and real hurt do not always have to be adventurous.

Marvin Gaye: That's The Way Love Is

MARVIN GAYE: THAT'S THE WAY LOVE IS (1970)

1) Gonna Give Her All The Love I've Got; 2) Yesterday; 3) Groovin'; 4) I Wish It Would Rain; 5) That's The Way Love Is; 6) How Can I Forget; 7) Abraham, Martin And John; 8) Gonna Keep On Tryin' Till I Win Your Love; 9) No Time For Tears; 10) Cloud Nine; 11) Don't You Miss Me A Little Bit; 12) So Long.

General verdict: A VERY low dip before the beginning of the resurrection.

If there was one album that really, really did not need to exist at this stage in Marvin Gaye's career, this is it. Not only is this basically just another hastily assembled grab-bag that Motown put out as a follow-up to the success of the title track hit (and not only had this hit itself already been released on Marvin's previous LP at that!), but the last thing that must have been on Marvin's mind at the time was putting out a record of stereotypical, and mostly recycled, Motown love anthems. Tammi went into a coma two weeks after the record's release, Marvin's personal life and psychic condition were in tatters, and yet he had to go into the studio and sing songs with titles like ʽGonna Give Her All The Love I've Gotʼ and ʽGonna Keep On Tryin' Till I Win Your Loveʼ as if nothing was out of order.

Other than the closing pop-rocker ʽSo Longʼ, every other song here had previously been recorded by at least one popular artist — a record low for Marvin, whose R&B albums up to date had always included at least one or two self-penned originals and/or at least a few songs specially written for him by Barrett & Strong, or Ashford & Simpson, or somebody else among Motown's large roster of resident songwriters. You do have the time-honored Funk Brothers team providing the instrumentation, the magnificent Andantes providing the backing vocals, and Mr. Marvin himself striving to reach the usual quality level, so the album is perfectly listenable; the only thing is, there is no good reason to listen to it.

Songs from his Motown brethren are rendered here quite loyally, without any improvements or interesting modifications from the originals — like, what is the point of remaking ʽI Wish It Would Rainʼ and ʽCloud Nineʼ if you cannot uncover anything in these songs that The Temp­tations had not uncovered on their own? Conversely, ʽYesterdayʼ takes a radical departure from Paul McCartney, but ends up suffering from the usual curse inflicted on most R&B covers of white boy pop hits — the results are bloated, over-orchestrated, over-sung, over-emoted, and just generally schlocky (Marvin probably takes his cue from Ray Charles, but at least Ray Charles had his trademark piano and his grizzly voice to make his cover special; Gaye's version is just impossibly sappy and sentimental). He does a better job with The Young Rascals' ʽGroovin'ʼ, largely because the song itself was fairly R&B-ish from the start... but it's not really a very good song in the first place, is it?

One of the tunes, a Dick Holler composition originally recorded by Dion, is ʽAbraham, Martin And Johnʼ, whose meaning and message is pretty self-evident from the title. It is not a good song at all — another piece of not particularly memorable folk-pop schlock with absolutely inane lyrics (apparently, the songwriter thought that simply replacing one name with another would be sufficient basis for four different verses — but where the hell is the reference to Bobby in the title?) — but it is formally a telling precursor to Marvin's socially conscious approach on What's Going On, one of his first, still quite half-hearted, attempts to use his musical platform for some­thing with socially redeeming values; and the arrangement style is actually fairly close to what he would be soon doing on his next album. But even so, the tune inevitably gets lost, surrounded by all the stereotypical recordings around it, and its historical value is best perceived in retrospect.

Indeed, from a contextual point of view, That's The Way Love Is raises far more indignation than any such album that could have been released five or even three years earlier: at an age when the artistic value of the LP was arguably higher than any other time, Motown saddled Marvin with an LP whose filler value exceeded just about anything he'd ever released before (with the exception of his show tune albums, of course). This was like the textbook illustration for «adding insult to injury» — after something like that, the artist usually only has two choices: fade away into embarrassment and irrelevance, or fight like crazy to get his soul back. Lucky for us, the man would have it in him to go for the second choice.

Marvin Gaye (w. Tammi Terrell): Easy

EASY (1969) (w. Tammi Terrell)

1) Good Lovin' Ain't Easy To Come By; 2) California Soul; 3) Love Woke Me Up This Morning; 4) This Poor Heart Of Mine; 5) I'm Your Puppet; 6) The Onion Song; 7) What You Gave Me; 8) Baby I Need Your Loving; 9) I Can't Believe You Love Me; 10) How You Gonna Keep It; 11) More, More, More; 12) Satisfied Feelin'.

General verdict: Fake, but effortlessly enjoyable, songs of fake, but perversely believable, happiness.

There is only one point that ever gets discussed about Easy, the third and last of Marvin's duet albums with Tammi Terrell — namely, whether Tammi Terrell is even present on the album her­self. According to Marvin himself, and this opinion is taken to be the default one, she is not, except for two tracks (ʽI Can't Believe You Love Meʼ and ʽMore, More, Moreʼ) that were originally recorded by Tammi solo and later got Marvin overdubbed on them. Everything else, he claims, was really performed by Valerie Simpson, then released by Motown as part of a typically seedy cash-raising scheme. Surprisingly, Simpson herself has refuted that claim, saying that she did indeed sing with Marvin in the studio as a fill-in, but that later the parts were redone with the real Tammi at the helm.

It is more likely, of course, that Simpson was simply trying to cover up traces of the «crime» (who on Earth would willingly admit to having been an accomplice in a cheap fraud?), but it is also interesting that the crime was at all made possible — because, although I am no voice expert, I frankly cannot tell the difference between Tammi and Valerie, if that is indeed Valerie on 10 out of 12 tracks: if that is her, she is doing one hell of an impersonation. I would guess, perhaps, that by late 1969 the real Tammi would be too worn out to sound that ecstatic and passionate on tracks like ʽGood Lovin' Ain't Easyʼ, but it's not as if everybody in the vicinity were perfectly informed of her condition at the time.

Other than this odd ethical conflict, the main problem of Easy is that, once again, this is really a case of a couple solid singles surrounded by needlessly recycled material. ʽGood Lovin' Ain't Easyʼ is clearly a highlight, though its build-up of lover passion is nowhere near the epic quality of ʽAin't No Mountain High Enoughʼ: the song merely turns into another competition — which of the two lovers can get more excited in spilling out his/her passion — and by now, such competi­tions had become routine for Marvin and Tammi anyway. The second single, ʽWhat You Gave Meʼ, is more vaudevillian in nature, with Marvin and Tammi-Valerie's vocals smoothly blending in with the upbeat keyboards and brass, and without a clear hook in sight. Nevertheless, it is still much better than the silly ʽOnion Songʼ — a possibly sincere, but misguided attempt by Ashford & Simpson to introduce a bit of «social value» to the proceedings and saddle the duo with a Sesame Street-level ditty about righting wrongs and informing everybody that love is the answer. It's not a worthless mission, but there is something not right about choosing the exact same stylistics for it as one would choose for a quirky love duet.

The rest is largely expendable: ʽBaby I Need Your Lovingʼ is a remake of the old Four Tops hit, for instance, and ʽCalifornia Soulʼ had already been recorded thrice, with the most notable and the most natural version belonging to The 5th Dimension, a band that pretty much symbolized «California soul» with everything it did anyway. So you will probably spend most of your time wondering if that is Tammi or Valerie, and whether you should feel guilty or not if it is Valerie. One thing is clear enough: Marvin felt seriously guilty, and no matter how exalted he tries to sound on all these songs, recording of the album significantly contributed to his depression. As must have, probably, seeing the shiny happy faces on the album cover and the title — Easy was quite a cruelly ironic word in light of the overall situation. If anything, it should make one feel fairly un-easy, being able to carelessly enjoy these happy songs of passion and devotion while knowing the grim reality behind them.

Marvin Gaye: M.P.G.

MARVIN GAYE: M.P.G. (1969)

1) Too Busy Thinking About You; 2) This Magic Moment; 3) That's The Way Love Is; 4) The End Of Our Road; 5) Seek And You Shall Find; 6) Memories; 7) Only A Lonely Man Would Know; 8) It's A Bitter Pill To Swallow; 9) More Than A Heart Can Stand; 10) Try My True Love; 11) I Got To Get To California; 12) It Don't Take Much To Keep Me.

General verdict: Way too much recycling here — a well-meant, diligently executed slump.

Although it is hard to find a single stretch in the life of Marvin where he would find himself perfectly content with life, the general consensus is that 1969-1970 was a particularly tough period, with the man torn between his career problems (the «Motown grip» stiffening more than ever, now that he was their biggest selling star) and his woman problems — deteriorating family life with wife Anna Gordy and rapidly deteriorating health of «little sister» Tammi. In cynical practice, this kind of trouble often translates to great art, but certain other conditions have to be met for that — creative freedom, for instance, which was not on the list of Motown's priorities for Marvin and for which he was not yet able to struggle in 1969.

M.P.G., thusly named after Marvin's initials, reflects all these things nicely: listen to it carefully and all that pain and torment will get across to you — yet the songs are still too carefully crafted in accordance with the regular Motown formula to act as fully credible vehicles for Marvin's emotional state. Case in point: ʽThat's The Way Love Isʼ, a friendly warning to a broken-hearted lover from the Whitfield/Strong team, originally recorded by the Isley Brothers. Marvin's "I've been hurt by love so many times..." must have singed him real hard when he delivered it in the studio, and all of the song's components strive hard to brew up a psychotic atmosphere — gritty bass line, dark-cloudy strings, tribal percussion, grimy organ... then, of course, you realize that in the big scheme of things this was nothing but a calculated attempt to capitalize on the success of ʽGrapevineʼ, which had all the exact same ingredients, right down to the vocal harmonies and the exact same verse structure with similar expressions and rhymes. Except, of course, the hook was tougher and the mood was creepier.

By contrast, the second big hit single off this album, ʽToo Busy Thinking About My Babyʼ (again, a well-worn tune, previously recorded by The Temptations), is intentionally happy, with a joyful hook that is more carried by the strings and The Andantes than Marvin's lead. He does his best impression of an overjoyed fellow, yet it seems clear that he has to work hard with himself to get into this kind of mood — play it back to back with something like ʽPride And Joyʼ, made way back in the long gone years of innocence and wild love for Anna Gordy, and feel the difference that half a decade can make. He is far more natural on ʽThe End Of Our Roadʼ, a jerky, synco­pated R&B groove (rather than the straight pop of ʽToo Busyʼ) with a tiny bit of «experimenta­tion» in the form of a nagging, nasty sitar riff carrying the song (at least, seems very much like a sitar to me — don't have any direct confirmation at hand). But even that song, too, was a second hand contribution: another former hit from Gladys Knight & The Pips, again remade from a fiery, hatred-turned-to-joy, invigorating dance number into a darker, more disturbing personal confes­sion by the Whitfield/Strong team.

So you see where I am going here: M.P.G. has a lot going in its favor (an artist in turmoil; a well-oiled team of songwriters, producers, and musicians working at the height of the rock / R&B era), but it also suffers from the typical sophomore curse — Motown found the strength to provide their best solo artist with a refreshed formula, and then immediately made him redo it all over again with predictably diminishing results. As few complaints as there can be about the overall quality of the sound, as the tracklist goes on, there is simply not much to say about these songs: most of the other tracks rehash the recipes of The Temptations, The Miracles, The Four Tops, sounding cool while they are on but not leaving much of a lasting impression. Just as ʽI Heard Through The Grapevineʼ made a bold claim about re-establishing Marvin as an artist with his own voice, so does M.P.G., once again, succumb to the threat of re-establishing him as a first-rate second-hand re-interpreter of other people's voices. He cannot be blamed for that in person (considering all that he was going through, it is a miracle that he could work at all, much less still sing as if his life depended on it), but Motown executives certainly can. That said, fans will most certainly see through the superficial blandness and feed on the sharp shards of real feeling — in a way, an anguished and tormented Marvin Gaye doing second-hand material might be a better proposition than a peaceful and contented Marvin Gaye engaged in original and experimental work. (Not that the latter combination ever took place, though).

Marvin Gaye: In The Groove

MARVIN GAYE: IN THE GROOVE (1968)

1) You; 2) Tear It On Down; 3) Chained; 4) I Heard It Through The Grapevine; 5) At Last; 6) Some Kind Of Wonderful; 7) Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever; 8) Change What You Can; 9) It's Love I Need; 10) Every Now And Then; 11) You're What's Happening (In The World Today); 12) There Goes My Baby.

General verdict: Three cool singles against a bunch of filler. But the cool singles have the upper hand.

To be perfectly honest, this record is really all about the three hit singles — but the three hit singles are way more than just three more hit singles this time around. In The Groove, later re-released as I Heard It Through The Grapevine (for fairly obvious reasons), was released at the dawn of a new era for R&B — one that took it to more somber depths and added all sorts of heavy, acid, and psychological elements to the mix, spurred on by the Jimi Hendrix revolution and numerous other factors. And while the LP as such is clearly transitional — the second side in particular contains plenty of soft covers that already seem antiquated next to the biggies — it is still a watermark, allowing us to observe Marvin Gaye's evolution from artistic adolescence to musical maturity. A big part of this is personal: Tammi Terrell's onstage collapse in October '67 left Marvin a deeply changed man, and I could swear I actually hear some of that pain on many of the songs here. But there is also no getting away from the fact that the changes coincided with a lot of general changes in the overall Motown / Atlantic / black R&B sound around 1968-69 — a magnificent epoch for that label, before the soft-rock turnaround came along and ate it all away.

The change should have been announced with ʽI Heard It Through The Grapevineʼ, of course, but that song has a very strange history — it was recorded first by The Miracles, as early as August '66, but vetoed by Berry Gordy and shelved until late 1968. Then it was recorded by Marvin, in April '67, but again vetoed by Berry Gordy and also shelved until the release of the album in late 1968. Then it was recorded by Gladys Knight & The Pips, but in an entirely different arrange­ment that lacked the distinctive organ riff and generally sounded happier and livelier — the first version to actually get an official release. Then it was finally approved by Gordy for Marvin, and became one of his biggest selling records of all time. And, of course, to complete the saga, then it was appropriated by Creedence Clearwater Revival in 1970 and became the basis for their most fabulous jam session of all time. One hell of a journey.

Anyway, Fogerty and company chose to model their sound after Marvin's rather than Gladys', and for a good reason. The organ riff, played by Earl Van Dyke of The Funk Brothers, is one of the grumbliest, most subtly menacing organ riffs of all time — it gives the song a sharp, scary angle that seriously hints that the protagonist got madness in his soul and murder on his mind (whereas Gladys Knight only had agitated indignation). This is also the first time that Marvin sang in a much higher vocal register than usual, occasionally rising to falsetto, spurred on by the song's author Norman Whitfield, and the effect is radical — it's as if he'd finally agreed to open up the cage where all those proverbial «inner demons» had been tranquilised up till now. Throw in the marvelous orchestrating job (Gordon Staples directing the Detroit Symphony Orchestra and telling Tchaikovsky the news), and you get a completely new set of feels here — not just for Marvin, whose heartbreakers had been relatively inoffensive before (even ʽBaby Don't You Do Itʼ was a whine, not a menace), but for Motown  in general. Me being such a sucker for juicy electric guitar and powerful drumming, I'll generally stick with the CCR version anyway, but for the shorter, vocally-dominated approach, Marvin's take here has no equal.

As it happened, though, ʽGrapevineʼ was denied the chance to become the first single; that honor went to ʽYouʼ, written by Ivy Jo Hunter and a couple other guys. While that song does not have such a distinctive hook as ʽGrapevineʼ, it is subject to the same shift in mood anyway — the frantically pumping bass, the tense strings, the harpsichords, glockenspiels, and recorders creating an agitated symphonic effect, and, on top of that, another high-pitched, falsetto-happy perfor­mance that may well have been influenced by Marvin's feelings about Tammi ("you, you I see in my mirror in the mornin' / Instead of seein' me / I see you, I see your face / And inside me is a growing need for your embrace" — even if they never really had a romantic involvement, it is hard to picture him singing that into the microphone and not thinking back on his own situation). The other single, ʽChainedʼ, largely repeats the same approach, although here the big badass brass arrangement takes precedence over «baroque» elements, and the bass groove has much more freedom to roam, taking your attention away from the vocals and directing it more towards the instrumental track.

As I already said, though, the LP itself is clearly transitional. Some of the non-single tracks are in the same vein (ʽIt's Love I Needʼ also establishes a ʽChainedʼ-like heavy groove), but others are happy-dippy soulful pop concoctions without a single trouble in the world — Goffin & King's ʽSome Kind Of Wonderfulʼ, the Four Tops' ʽLoving You Is Sweeter Than Everʼ, the Drifters' ʽThere Goes My Babyʼ, all these nice songs just sound fluffy in the company of ʽI Heard It Through The Grapevineʼ, and there is hardly any reason to treasure Marvin's take on them when you have the superior originals available.

Therefore, as an album, In The Groove still suffers from the same old inconsistency, and it would still take a bit of time before Marvin Gaye learned — and/or was allowed to — profit from the LP form for bona fide artistic purposes. But at least there are no obvious gaffes: the filler might seem uncomfortable next to the kick-ass singles, sure, yet they kept him away from bland Boradway schlock, and there is nothing morally wrong to hear ʽThere Goes My Babyʼ one more time, if only just to remind you how good that song is. So, perhaps there are no good reasons to keep the album in your collection if you have all the good stuff on an anthology, but I'd rate it pretty high anyway — the high points are awesome, and the low points do not succeed in making the high ones seem any slighter. After all, we get to hear a new, improved Marvin Gaye here, so what's the problem if the old one has not quite finished moving out yet?..

Marvin Gaye (w. Tammi Terrell): You're All I Need

MARVIN GAYE: YOU'RE ALL I NEED (1968) (w. Tammi Terrell)

1) Ain't Nothing But The Real Thing; 2) Keep On Lovin' Me Honey; 3) You're All I Need To Get By; 4) Baby Don't Cha Worry; 5) You Ain't Livin' Till You're Lovin'; 6) Give In, You Just Can't Win; 7) When Love Comes Knocking At My Heart; 8) Come On And See Me; 9) I Can't Help But Love You; 10) That's How It Is (Since You've Been Gone); 11) I'll Never Stop Loving You; 12) Memory Chest.

General verdict: A bit stale around the edges, but Marvin and Tammi together are always enjoyable... simply by way of being together.

Second time around, the formula has been refined and strengthened and perpetuated, which makes for fewer surprises, but the Marvin / Tammi chemistry remains strong, and the fun quo­tient remains consistent. With the success of ʽAin't No Mountain High Enoughʼ, Ashford and Simpson turned into Motown regulars, and this time, they are credited already for a whoppin' four songs out of 12, including all three singles; meanwhile, the production team of Harvey Fuqua and Johnny Bristol contribute most of the rest — with Marvin himself again co-credited for only one song (ʽI Can't Help But Love Youʼ).

The title track was clearly written by the team as a gospel number — with the exception of an occasional darling, all the lyrics are easily re-addressable to the Lord — but, apparently, double-entendre anthems like that were all the rage on the R&B market, turning the song into the duo's second biggest hit. I am not the biggest fan here: ʽAin't No Mountainʼ was far more inventive both lyrically and in terms of tension build-up — ʽYou're All I Need To Get Byʼ feels more ordinary, the kind of a song you might hear on any number of long-forgotten gospel records. But there is no denying the sweeping energy of the duo — that energy, I guess, is all that we need to  get by, and thankfully, it is very evenly spread through the album.

The other big single was ʽAin't Nothing But The Real Thingʼ, which, too, does not strike me nearly as hard as ʽMountainʼ — technically, though, Tammi does a great job singing the verses (the last syllables of the line "I pretend I'm not in reality" always get to me), and at least the song has a more pronounced sad / melancholic edge to it (also, I think I began to appreciate what they are doing with their voices a bit more here after watching the comparatively lifeless Beyoncé duet with Justin Timberlake — what is it with modern divas so pathologically incapable of breathing life into old classics?).

Actually, I think that the non-single material on this LP might even be stronger: the hits try too hard to exploit the «orgasmic» potential of Marvin and Tammi. I like ʽBaby Don't Cha Worryʼ, a sly little pop tune originally built upon the ʽStand By Meʼ / ʽUnder The Boardwalkʼ groove, but then throwing in a completely different, Latin-styled brass riff. I like ʽGive In, You Just Can't Winʼ, a fun little musical soap opera that shows the darker side of those rose-colored pledges of eternal fidelity, with all its stop-and-starts and a pretty twisted bass groove. I am not necessarily thrilled that some of the songs again sound just like The Supremes (ʽYou Ain't Livin' Till You're Lovin'ʼ) and others just like The Four Tops (ʽI'll Never Stop Loving You Babyʼ), but a factory is a factory, and at least the Marvin / Tammi duo always puts their own spin on the feels.

All of the songs here were recorded before Tammi's illness (the LP itself only came out in August 1968, but the sessions date back to 1966–67), and it is useless to speculate whether the duo would continue to evolve as a recurrent partnership had she not succumbed to cancer — all we know is that in that year and a half during which they were musical partners and in perfect health the formula never budged. But altogether, the 24 musical moments captured on those two LPs are a cute little encyclopaedia of boy-girl relationships, presented from both perspectives at once: there's happiness, there's loneliness, there's mutual admiration, there's jealousy, there's spiritual and physical unity, there's an attempt to stand one's own ground... ultimately, it might be more fun to try and find the perfect sequencing for these songs rather than simply enjoy the albums the way they are. The entire experience is definitely bigger than the sum of its parts here.

Marvin Gaye (w. Tammi Terrell): United

MARVIN GAYE: UNITED (1967) (w. Tammi Terrell)

1) Ain't No Mountain High Enough; 2) You Got What It Takes; 3) If I Could Build My Whole World Around You; 4) Somethin' Stupid; 5) Your Precious Love; 6) Hold Me Oh My Darling; 7) Two Can Have A Party; 8) Little Boy, Little Ole Girl; 9) If This World Were Mine; 10) Sad Wedding; 11) Give A Little Love; 12) Oh How I'd Miss You.

General verdict: Some of the liveliest duet singing in Motown history captured here.

Thomasina Winifred Montgomery, better known as Tammi Terrell (because alliterations are good for you, as per Berry Gordy), had two things going for / against her: she was gorgeous, and she died at the age of 24 from a brain tumor. For, because this is why she is still being remembered; against, because, well, first of all, dying at the age of 24 from a brain tumor really sucks, and second, because this kind of posthumous fame naturally makes one question whether there is anything else to her, you know? (The same kind of question that would, three decades later, be asked about Aaliyah).

Of course, it is often hard to tell with classic Motown performers: there were so many of them, and so many of them completely depended on their songwriters, musicians, arrangers, and pro­ducers, that assessing the degree of «raw talent» in each one of them is a very difficult and highly subjective matter — in a way, you could argue that it wasn't until the next decade that everything properly fell into place, and by the time that decade started, Tammi was already dead anyway. But one thing is for certain: United is the first really, really good album of duets between Marvin and another lady singer — and, although it shows great promise, it would not be topped ever again, sadly, for reasons beyond anybody's control. After the somewhat lukewarm chemistry with Mary Wells, and after the promise with Kim Weston that was sadly undermined by the subpar quality of the material, third time is the charm: with Tammi at his side, and with a few song­writing remedies applied, Marvin finally hits gold, or at least silver.

Like its predecessors, United is unabashed sentimental teen-pop, but, like the best of sentimental teen-pop (think Supremes or Shangri-La's), it finally manages to bottle some of the spirit of the times — upbeat, optimistic, playful, innocent, harmless, and generally clad in solid hooks, this time mostly courtesy of the songwriting team of Harvey Fuqua and Johnny Bristol (who also co-produced the record). I suppose that Kim Weston could have handled the partner role in such a venture, too, but now that Tammi is here, she proves to be quite a versatile and worthy compa­nion: she can belt it out when the song requires for a belt-out, she can coo and croon, and she can build up a perfectly credible musical relationship with Marvin (in real life, it never came to that, since Marvin preferred to structure their friendship along the «caring elder brother / sympathetic younger sister» line — probably just as well, since both of Tammi's previous relationships, with James Brown and David Ruffin respectively, used to end up in beatings).

ʽAin't No Mountain High Enoughʼ, announcing the arrival of the Ashford & Simpson songwriting team to Motown, was the first single from the album, and I believe that the original version is still more frequently played on the radio than the puffed-up, gospelized, monumentalized Diana Ross version from 1970 — which does have its place in the universe as well, but there is really no beating the steady, danceable build-up of the first take. Its placement here as the first track is almost symbolic, too: the song is a grandiose, chivalrous pledge, and while ʽIt Takes Twoʼ was a breathtaking, fun, sexy romp between two singers, here you get the subconscious feeling that something far more special is taking place. And it would have been simple to just record the song as a slow, sappy romantic serenade — instead, there is a wild beat, and the vocal lines come on like gradually surging waves, building up to the chorus release: quite spectacular.

Motown was so swayed by the success of the single that they followed it up with another Ashford & Simpson composition, ʽYour Precious Loveʼ — which charted even higher, despite being much less explosive; more of a traditional slow doo-wop number, it has a fairly standard, though enjoyable, descending guitar melody and an equally standard, though enjoyable, descending vocal hook ("heaven... must have sent you... from abo-o-ove..."). There is a spark to it, though, just as there is one in the third single, ʽIf I Could Build My Whole World Around Youʼ, whose «hook» is actually limited to some doo-doo-doo's in the chorus. Simply put, there is a lot of life in Tammi's vocals — the sort of life that even inspires surrounding musicians to play with more verve, and inspires Marvin to sing with even more verve and openness than usual. (It is said that Tammi, with her love of public performance, actually pushed Marvin to overcome his stage fright, which would later return in full force once she passed away).

In compositional terms, these songs are nothing special, but when you cannot invent an original genre, it always makes sense to be influenced by the best possible ones — thus, ʽYou Got What It Takesʼ emulates the Ike & Tina Turner approach, and although Tammi could never hope to have Tina's swagger, the two produce quite a respectable approximation. ʽTwo Can Have A Partyʼ is infectiously fun Sam-Cooke-meets-Supremes stuff; and ʽSomethin' Stupidʼ is faster, bouncier, cheerier, and groovier than the Sinatras' version. As for Marvin himself, he only contributes one song, ʽIf This World Were Mineʼ, and while it is not one of his best compositions on the whole, the only thing that really matters is the call-and-response "if this world were mine..." hook between Marvin and Tammi — in fact, I'd have no problem with it if the entire song just featured them bouncing that line back and forth between each other.

All in all, it's all fairly slight and giggly, but it is very difficult not to smile when listening to this album — and you certainly do not need to be aware of its contrast with the tragic future of both members of this duet in order to smile; but the very contrast between how much pulsating life this record contains and how much death would follow in its wake certainly adds an extra dimension to the experience. Highly recommended.

Marvin Gaye: Take 2

MARVIN GAYE: TAKE 2 (1966) (w. Kim Weston)

1) It Takes Two; 2) I Love You, Yes I Do; 3) Baby I Need Your Loving; 4) It's Got To Be A Miracle; 5) Baby Say Yes; 6) What Good Am I Without You; 7) Till There Was You; 8) Love Fell On Me; 9) Secret Love; 10) I Want You 'Round; 11) Heaven Sent You I Know; 12) When We're Together.

General verdict: One great song and a bunch of cozy filler.

Well, for one thing, Kim Weston is certainly a better dueting partner for Marvin than Mary Wells. Both Marvin and Kim have «fire» as the fundamental element, where Mary was more of a «water» person — smoothly flowing and caressing, rather than sizzling and scorching. There was clearly something to be said about contrast and complementary distribution, but on the whole, the two just weren't made for each other. Kim Weston was louder, sharper, more powerful, and when they were at their best, they could tear it up better than any other Motown duet.

Which they certainly did with ʽIt Takes Twoʼ, arguably one of the top 10 (20? 30? whatever) Motown hits of the decade in terms of sheer orgasmic power. Speedy, focused, rushing through the air like two reckless lovers speed-racing toward each other, and with a cleverly original set of lyrics to boot, it is the perfect love duet — I can hardly imagine a better set-up for a male and female singer, and it is glorious to hear the two understand the potential of this set-up and give it their all. (Please forget the awfully produced and thoroughly sleazed-up Tina Turner / Rod Stewart version from twenty-five years later: to the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever been able to improve on this definitive version, and I have no idea how such a thing would be possible). It's a wild Dionysian rush here, though Apollo certainly took some part in designing its structure and the way it steadily and intelligently climbs towards the chorus release. And it should sound just as fresh and stimulating today for lovers all over the world. Well — with the exception of polygamous unions, I guess.

Unfortunately, predictable trouble strikes at the precise moment when the great single has to be expanded into an entire LP. As good as the two of them sound together, it all comes down to the songwriting, and lightning never strikes twice, so I am pretty sure that most people will be let down after the first song. In fact, immediately after the first song: the slow sentimental waltzing oldie ʽI Love You, Yes I Doʼ is like a cold shower that reminds you of the ultimate immortality of the slow high school prom dance (yes, James Brown did it a bit differently, but you can't ask Marvin and Kim to do a double-headed James Brown impersonation). Equally useless is the attempt to saddle them with ʽTill There Was Youʼ, on which Kim drastically over-emotes, and pretty much every other lush sentimental ballad on the record.

The lively R&B numbers fare a bit better, but still, they are all decidedly second-rate. Some feature the cuddly girly Supremes vibe (ʽBaby Say Yesʼ), which does not work without a Diana Ross type personality; some are simply obsolete — the album includes ʽWhat Good Am I Without Youʼ, which had originally been released in 1964 and had waited two years for inclusion on an album, by which time standards had changed irreparably and this simple blues-pop ditty would no longer qualify as potential hit material. The cover of ʽBaby I Need Your Lovingʼ is softened and sentimentalized, compared to the rougher Four Tops classic version — again, rather hard to understand, considering the whirlwind quality of ʽIt Takes Twoʼ.

In short, the potential is there (all the songs are at least pleasantly listenable, and, as I said, there is no denying the proverbial chemistry between Marvin and Kim even on the slow sentimental schmaltz), but the material leaves a lot to be desired. Most likely, this was merely a rush-job case — capitalizing on the success of ʽIt Takes Twoʼ — but even so, the silly songwriters and produ­cers could at least bother their asses to come up with a bunch of clones for that song: clearly, they were onto something really cool there, and they couldn't even hold on to it for a proper sequel. And then the following year, Kim Weston had to leave Motown over royalty disputes anyway, so we can only guess how things would turn out if she weren't replaced by Tammi Terrell as Marvin's chief partner. No luck with the ladies!

Marvin Gaye: Moods Of Marvin Gaye

MARVIN GAYE: MOODS OF MARVIN GAYE (1966)

1) I'll Be Doggone; 2) Little Darling (I Need You); 3) Take This Heart Of Mine; 4) Hey Diddle Diddle; 5) One More Heartache; 6) Ain't That Peculiar; 7) Night Life; 8) You've Been A Long Time Coming; 9) Your Unchanging Love; 10) You're The One For Me; 11) I Worry About You; 12) One For My Baby.

General verdict: A formulaic collection this time, but at least the formula is right.

There is an abundance of hit singles on this record — five out of six songs on Side A, to be precise, and another one on Side B, all of them landing within the Top 50 on the general charts and within the Top 20 on the R&B charts, meaning, cumulatively, the highest recognition Marvin had received to that date. Nevertheless, in retrospect I would say that Moods Of Marvin Gaye is not a particularly great album from that period. It does have maybe one or two moments of utter pop brilliance, but too many of these songs seem content with repeating the formula of previous successes — and then, too, there are occasional sightings of the Broadway ghosts that do not make things easier (now that Marvin had given up on the idea of fully «adult-oriented» LPs, he was still trying to sneak in a couple lounge / show tunes, hoping in vain that such inclusions would somehow ennoble the overall listening experience).

The best, as it often happens, comes first: ʽI'll Be Doggoneʼ, contributed by Smokey Robinson and his co-writers from The Miracles, is a prime example of old-school male chauvinism masquerading as adorable pop catchiness — the transition from cheerful verse to riled-up bridge and to the oddly pacified chorus is a fine catch of one man's confused and contradictory feelings. Not a lot of chances you'll be hearing that one on a contemporary vocal talent show (who in his right mind would want to sing how "every woman should try to be whatever her man wants her to be?" these days), but that does not make the vocal melody, spiced up by perfectly placed response vocals from The Miracles and The Andantes, any less of a knock-out. The funniest thing is that the accompanying instrumental melody is not so much R&B as it is folk-pop, almost directly ripping off the basic chords of ʽNeedles And Pinsʼ — something that The Searchers never failed to notice, and faithfully returned the service by covering ʽI'll Be Doggoneʼ themselves almost as soon as the single came out in 1965 (and a pretty good cover that was, too).

After that, however, things take a turn for the... well, somewhat less exciting. This is still very decent Motown fare, written by the usual professionals, recorded by the usual session greats, backed by the usual wonderful teams of back vocalists, and sung by Marvin as best he can, but it can hardly be denied that the Motown factory recycled trends even more often than it set them, and here there is a bit too much recycling for my tastes. For instance, ʽAin't That Peculiarʼ, one of Marvin's biggest hits, clearly recycles vocal and instrumental parts from ʽCan I Get A Witnessʼ, but without carrying over that song's subtle sense of irony — this here is a soulful-sentimental declaration that will not put a smile on your face (yet is still too bouncy and poppy to put a tear in your eye). And on the other side of the LP, ʽYour Unchanging Loveʼ is an open attempt to repeat the formula of ʽHow Sweet It Isʼ, but without an equally penetrating and convincing hook.

In fact, I would say that, in general, much of this album sounds like an inferior preview of Mar­vin's upcoming duet albums with Kim Weston and Tammi Terrell — the songwriting is more or less equally formulaic in both cases, but at least the duet setting opened up more room for lively drama and artistry. As it is, ʽLittle Darling (I Need You)ʼ sounds like Marvin covering The Supremes; ʽTake This Heart Of Mineʼ sounds like Marvin covering Martha & The Vandellas; ʽOne More Heartacheʼ sounds like Marvin covering The Temptations; and ʽNight Lifeʼ sounds like Marvin covering Ray Price... oh wait a minute, it is Marvin covering Ray Price. It's all good enough, but the music offers few emotional revelations or technical advances, and the level of soulful depth is beginning to get just a tad too shallow for 1966 (although, admittedly, half of these singles were released in the much more innocent 1965 — isn't it amazing how, back in that time, one tiny year in music seemed like an entire epoch?).

The overall level of fun, however, only begins to seriously drop down by the time we reach the last bunch of songs — for some reason, Marvin decided to finish the record on a serious Broad­way note, burrowing himself into oldies such as ʽI Worry About Youʼ and ʽOne For My Baby (And One For The Road)ʼ, the latter dragging on for an interminable four and a half minutes as Marvin slowly and stubbornly tries on Frank's nicely polished shoes. Then you remember that the title of the album, after all, is clearly a throwback to the title of his first album (The Soulful Moods), and, once again, the suspicion arises that Marvin felt himself restricted and cheapened by Motown's teen formula, and that all those covers of oldies were some sort of subconscious protest against that... admirable, perhaps, but just not particularly exciting. In any case, Moods Of Marvin Gaye is still a good proposition for those who simply want more Marvin Gaye rather than a new-and-improved Marvin Gaye. Fortunately, the times kept a-changin', and the new-and-improved Marvin Gaye was also waiting just around the corner.

Marvin Gaye: A Tribute To The Great Nat "King" Cole

MARVIN GAYE: A TRIBUTE TO THE GREAT NAT "KING" COLE (1965)

1) Nature Boy; 2) Ramblin' Rose; 3) Too Young; 4) Pretend; 5) Straighten Up And Fly Right; 6) Mona Lisa; 7) Unforgettable; 8) To The Ends Of The Earth; 9) Sweet Lorraine; 10) It's Only A Paper Moon; 11) Send For Me; 12) Calypso Blues.

General verdict: The album title pretty much says all you need to know here.

Just as things were finally starting to look good for Marvin in the LP department, his admired idol and mentor Nat "King" Cole had to go and die (February 15, 1965) — and, as a loyal disciple, Marvin simply had to honor his passing with a tribute album, his fourth one in the «easy liste­ning» department. An understandable and admirable gesture, for sure, but it is quite clear that if you are not a big fan of Nathaniel Adams Coles, you will have no use for these covers, and if you are a big fan, why in the hell would you listen to Marvin Gaye doing Nat "King" Cole instead of listening to the real thing?

At the very least, this record has a couple of things going for it. Most of the musical backing is provided by The Funk Brothers, which is a big improvement after the syrupy orchestrations of Hello Broadway. And, also predictably, the record has a jazzier and less Broadway-ish feel to it, though some of the genre excourses are silly — like rounding out the title selection with ʽCalypso Bluesʼ, for instance, so that you can ascertain for yourself that Mr. Gaye can do the Jamaican accent thing just as naturally, and ridiculously, as Nat himself.

On the other hand, this is quite expressly a tribute, and a rather slavish one: Marvin tends to imitate, rather than interpret, Cole on most of the tracks — and while on the overall scale Marvin Gaye, as a soon-to-be artist with a big musical vision, scores much higher with me than Nat King Cole, the consummate lounge entertainer, it is impossible for a visionary artist to beat a master of lounge entertainment at his own game. He simply does not have the appropriate seductive charms: the art of delicate phrasing, the subtle touches of vocal modulation, the velvety-Vegasy charisma, whatever. We may not count those as particularly great values in themselves, but once the rules are selected, even if they are bad rules, the winner is he who can follow them better than anybody else, and Marvin was never cut out for that sort of thing.

He could also bring more diversity to the proceedings — sappy ballads were not the only thing in Cole's repertoire, but non-ballad material here is restricted to the playful jump blues of ʽStraighten Up And Fly Rightʼ and ʽIt's Only A Paper Moonʼ, the Latin rhythms of ʽTo The Ends Of The Earthʼ, and the abovementioned ʽCalypso Bluesʼ. Naturally, Marvin does not play much piano, either, so if, for some reason, your introduction to Nat happens to be via this album (a very unlikely probability, but still), you will never know that the man was first and foremost a great piano player, and a crooner only in the second place. (Imagine Marvin Gaye doing A Tribute To The Great Jimi Hendrix five years later?.. that's right, neither can I).

The good news is that we are finally done with this shit. A Tribute would be Marvin's last ever attempt to harness the legacy of pop standards, Broadway show tunes, lounge jazz and Vegas glitz — perhaps it is most appropriate to treat this as a certified last goodbye to that whole sphere of business, set in the form of a farewell to one of his most beloved teachers. From now on, it would be modern-and-improved R&B all the way — not always great, not always truly cutting edge, but never looking back on an age that the man so obviously loved, but whose spirit he could carry on with just about the same level of passion and conviction as, say, Florence And The Machine demonstrate these days when covering Fleetwood Mac.

Marvin Gaye: How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You

MARVIN GAYE: HOW SWEET IT IS TO BE LOVED BY YOU (1965)

1) You're A Wonderful One; 2) How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You); 3) Try It Baby; 4) Baby Don't You Do It; 5) Need Your Lovin'; 6) One Of These Days; 7) No Good Without You; 8) Stepping Closer To Your Heart; 9) Need Somebody; 10) Me And My Lonely Room; 11) Now That You've Won Me; 12) Forever.

General verdict: Some terrific singles, surrounded by respectable almost-not-filler. Down with adult standards, long live teen pop!

With all those easy-listening LPs that Motown allowed Marvin to make, it is almost possible to forget the steady line of minor and major hit singles that the man was churning out for the label. It took almost three years for Motown to come to its senses and put out Gaye's second «proper» R&B album — one that collected all those singles in one place. Not that it is hard to understand the logic behind this strategy: 7" singles with teen-oriented music for poor teens vs. LPs with adult-oriented music for well-to-do adults. But what are you going to do when well-to-do adults just cannot be interested in yet another set of passable takes on old standards? You change your strategy — and see it work: How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You became Marvin's very first album to make the tiniest blip on the charts (peaking at #128, but at #4 on the R&B charts).

The track sequencing pulls no punches: the first four tracks are squarely the four Marvin Gaye singles from 1964, in the exact same chronological order, if not necessarily in the order of their respective awesomeness. ʽYou're A Wonderful Oneʼ was somewhat shamelessly credited to Holland-Dozier-Holland, even if its base melody is directly copied from Chuck Berry's ʽMemphis, Tennesseeʼ; however, the standard trick of pairing Marvin's ecstatic vocals with playfully sexy girl backups works as fine as always — in this case, it is The Supremes supporting the idea that "you're a wonderful one" on an aerobics-worthy slice of teen pop. Somewhat more original (or, at least, less recognizable as a direct rip-off) is the title track — slower, more soulful, with lots of help from The Funk Brothers and The Andantes, and unforgettable because of its sloganeering chorus: just tweak the lyrics a bit, and the whole "how sweet it is to be loved by you" thing could be a ready-made church anthem.

Berry Gordy's ʽTry It Babyʼ (this time, with male backup vocals from The Temptations), in com­parison, is a not particularly exciting blues ballad (its most unusual moment comes in the form of a trumpet solo by Maurice Davis — not the most common thing you encounter on a pop single); but the real breakthrough comes with ʽBaby Don't You Do Itʼ, one of the first Marvin Gaye songs that totally blew the minds of young British teenagers — from The Who to Small Faces to, even­tually, even The Band, everybody was covering it, and for a very good reason: it was arguably the most «tribalistic» song released on Motown to that date. Its groove is based on the standard Bo Diddley beat, somewhat smoothed out for pop consumption but still heavy on the loud drums, angry, choppy guitar chords, and syncopation a-plenty. On top of this, Marvin is singing about dejection, desperation, and suicide, going all-out crazy with negative emotions — which, let's face it, is far more appealing to the rebellious teen than gushing all over the place with romantic sentiment. I personally confess that I far prefer the 1971 cover by The Who, with Leslie West on additional guitar — just because all four members of the band perfectly understood all the poten­tial of the respective instrumental parts, and made good on that; on the other hand, The Who's version does not have those delightful hoo-hooing backup harmonies from The Andantes (and it is a good thing that it does not, because they would sound cheesy against the increased heaviness of the track), and we are not going to make a disservice to either Marvin or Roger by comparing their respective vocal strengths and weaknesses.

As good as the singles are, though, the LP is well worth owning in full, because some of the LP-only tracks are quite interesting on their own. Mickey Stevenson's ʽNo Good Without Youʼ has a certain dark moodiness around it, enough to be spotted by the short-lived British band The Birds (Ronnie Wood's musical birthplace) and turned into a classic «nugget». Another Stevenson track, ʽNeed Somebodyʼ (a collaboration with Ivy Hunter), has an oddly distinctive «electro-acoustic» guitar lick that sounds like the prototype of a ringtone or a PC speaker blip in an arcade game — the song in general is pretty standard, but the guitar part really sounds like nothing else recorded at the time, though, allegedly, that does not have much to do with Marvin Gaye's persona. On the other hand, such tracks as ʽMe And My Lonely Roomʼ and ʽNow That You've Won Meʼ are com­pletely made by Marvin's persona: with this kind of material, he is free from any adult-oriented conventions and can allow himself to go mentally unstable, like, well, a normal human being.

There are still a few concessions to easy-listening every now and then, and the closing track, in my opinion, is highly unsatisfactory: ʽForeverʼ is built according to the already obsolete Fifties doo-wop model, which may have still been somewhat operational in, say, 1962, but in 1964-65 seems completely out of place next to far more exciting models. But then again, I am not saying that the LP as a whole is a flawless masterpiece — rather, as a whole it is a qualitative improve­ment on the filler-padded Stubborn Kinda' Fellow, let alone Marvin's cheerless string of Broad­way records, and a generally healthy musical environment surrounding his big single successes.