This week In Soul Artists 04/52

1 . Anita Baker . Sweet Love

Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” isn’t just a song; it’s an impeccably crafted moment of late-’80s sophistication that still manages to command attention decades later.

Released as the opening salvo from her second studio effort, *Rapture,* the track cruises on a lush wave of smooth production courtesy of Michael J. Powell, while Baker’s voice—a silky, rich contralto—delivers every note with an authority that suggests she owns the word “elegance.”

What stands out is how the arrangement resists melodrama. The percussion from Paulinho da Costa feels restrained but intentional, while Ricky Lawson’s drumwork provides a clean, grounded pulse. Bassist Freddie Washington chimes in with a groove so unhurried it dares you to rush it. Meanwhile, Greg Moore’s gently glowing guitar lines ensure the entire affair glides rather than struts.

“Sweet Love” effortlessly swept the charts in 1986, charting in both the US and abroad. And yet its strength lies not in its commercial accolades but in its ability to feel timeless without veering into nostalgia. Not many tracks can vouch for Grammy hardware, transatlantic success, and a career-defining role all at once, but here we are.

Despite its polished veneer, the song never collapses under its own glossiness. Baker’s collaborators Jim Gilstrap, Bunny Hull, and Daryl Phinnessee provide backing harmonies that lift the chorus instead of weighing it down, striking a balance that feels breezy without disengaging.

If imitation is a form of flattery, the covers over the years—from M-Beat’s mid-’90s jungle twist to Fierce’s turn-of-the-millennium revision—serve as an object lesson in why Baker’s original reigns supreme. These reinterpretations try stretching its skeleton into new contexts, but they almost always miss the magic: the restrained warmth, the intimacy Baker threads into every note.

“Sweet Love” serves as a masterclass in minimal but powerful craftsmanship, a testament to the idea that prowess speaks louder than pomp. It leaves no unanswered questions, just the enduring thrill of Anita Baker at the height of her powers.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Anita Baker. ‘Enraptured’

2 . The Neville Brothers . Bird on A Wire

When the Neville Brothers reshape Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on a Wire,” it’s not merely a cover—it’s a genre blender gone bold.

On their 1990 album “Brother’s Keeper,” they inject Cohen’s plaintive melancholy with a vibrant pulse of R&B, rock, and something raw that feels both tethered to history and wildly untethered from Cohen’s sparse original.

Their harmonies don’t mourn—they soar, almost defiant.

It’s a fitting choice for the film “Bird on a Wire,” as if the track traded Cohen’s quiet introspection for a cinematic swagger that could contend with Mel Gibson’s exaggerated grimaces and Goldie Hawn’s weary charm.

Peaking at number 34 on Canadian charts—a modest triumph, perhaps—they make Cohen’s poetic lament accessible without pandering.

This isn’t their only venture into live performance magic; the song often crept into their setlists, where it bloomed further, taking on an edge that felt kinetic and unrelenting.

Context matters, though: this isn’t merely a Neville innovation.

“Bird on a Wire” has been reimagined by names as varied as Judy Collins and Joe Cocker, but the brothers’ version carves its own space—rougher around the edges and decidedly more urgent.

Critics may argue how much Cohen’s soul remains embedded in their version, but the trade-off is clear: authenticity gives way to a brash vitality that demands attention rather than contemplation.

Whether this electrified take improves upon Cohen depends on your appetite for reinterpretation, but at the very least, it refuses to be ignored.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Aaron Neville. ‘Brother Aaron’

3 . Curtis Mayfield . The Making of you

‘The Makings of You’ greets listeners with an understated elegance that shimmers quietly rather than shouting its appeal.

Released in 1970 on Curtis Mayfield’s debut solo record, the track proves an exemplar of his genius for fusing tenderness with lyrical precision.

The song navigates themes of happiness and love with a bittersweet weight, Mayfield’s soft falsetto weaving through warm arrangements like a confidante who just knows.

On the production front, Mayfield’s deliberate choices stand out—everything from the wistful keyboard tones to the sigh of the saxophone feels unhurried, almost conversational, refusing to clamor for attention.

The backing instrumentation, featuring Clifford Davis on saxophone and Master Henry Gibson on percussion, serves as supportive scaffolding, allowing the melody to glide free of any ostentation.

Despite its graceful poise, commercial success largely eludes this track, a peculiarity given how often it has found itself reinterpreted by voices like Aretha Franklin and Lauryn Hill.

Its DNA persists in surprising places, showing up in Monica’s slick ‘A Dozen Roses’ or Chali 2na’s reflective ‘Righteous Way,’ proving the song’s threads remain woven into modern music’s texture.

When you hear the aching sincerity wrap itself so delicately around the line “And when I’m holding you, it feels so divine,” something about its intimacy feels almost intrusive—like discovering a letter written for someone else, though you can’t stop reading.

The track’s modesty is its triumph, resisting the grandiosity often associated with Mayfield’s era and instead opting for an exquisitely personal tone.

It may not blaze loud trails, but ‘The Makings of You’ sits comfortably in the repository of ballads that speak softly and linger long after they end, subverting the idea that resonance needs volume to make itself known.

Lifted from : Curtis Mayfield records his first album ‘Curtis/Live!’ at The Bitter End in New York (1971)

4 . Lena Horne . I’ve Got to have You

“I’ve Got to Have You” sits in Lena Horne’s repertoire like a chameleon, adapting its hue to various chapters of her career.

This song first joined forces with Gabor Szabo’s jazz stylings during a rare pairing on “The Flip Wilson Show” in 1973, a moment that turned television into a smoky lounge for one evening.

If that wasn’t enough, it reappeared a decade later in Horne’s celebrated Broadway extravaganza, “Lena Horne: The Lady and Her Music,” where her voice stretched the song into something both triumphant and intimate, as if she were singing to you and the balcony at the same time.

By the ’90s, the song found a new groove within her album “We’ll Be Together Again,” recorded under the Blue Note label, surrounded by other jazz-heavy hitters like “Something to Live For.”

The swing didn’t stop there—live performances at The Supper Club and Carnegie Hall reinvigorated the track, eventually earning her a Grammy for the resulting album.

Each rendition reframes the song, shifting it from hushed longing to full-throated declaration, all while reminding audiences of why Lena Horne wasn’t just an icon but a master of reinvention.

Lifted from : Blue Note publish Lena Horne’s last album . ‘Seasons of . Life’ (2006)

5 . Corinne Bailey Rae . Closer

“Closer,” nestled in Corinne Bailey Rae’s 2016 album “The Heart Speaks in Whispers,” edges toward the sultry and intimate, steeped in jazzy grooves and R&B flourishes unapologetically updated for a modern pop palate.

The song spins a narrative of desire and emotional vulnerability, with Rae’s vocals oscillating between a seductive croon and impassioned urgency, as she repeats, “I want it, I want it,” hammering in the tension between yearning and the fear of mutual emotional effort.

The lyrics slice into the nuances of connection and accountability with lines like, “Don’t make me responsible for something you can’t find,” adding just enough weight to keep things thought-provoking without losing the sensual allure.

Musically, “Closer” plays with gleaming production, layering warm basslines with sparkly percussions, crafting a space that feels simultaneously retro and fresh.

The visual accompaniment amplifies the emotional themes—masked dancers writhe in torment, a touch theatrical but oddly fitting, revolving around masking pain and the transformative power of openness.

While Rae’s fans might appreciate this extension of her stylistic lexicon, casual listeners could find it toes the line between evocative and overly polished, but that balance seems intentional, perpetuating her knack for blending ease with intensity.

“The Heart Speaks in Whispers,” though not a chart-dominator, sits comfortably in Rae’s oeuvre, proof that her jazz and neo-soul-infused artistry thrives in subtlety rather than spectacle.

Lifted from : On TV today, Corinne Bailey Rae at ‘Ellen’ (2010))

6 . James Brown . Try Me

“Try Me (I Need You)” by James Brown and the Famous Flames is a pivotal track in the artist’s expansive catalog.

First captured in 1958 at Beltone Studios, this melancholic ballad rises from a foundation of doo-wop simplicity, pairing its yearning lyrics with understated instrumentation.

Emerging as Brown’s first #1 on the R&B charts, it represented much more than commercial success—it was the group’s lifeline, rescuing them from a precarious contract situation.

The song’s impact stretched beyond its initial release, appearing on several albums, including the “Try Me!” studio record, and gracing live sets like the electrifying “Live at the Apollo.”

Brown revisited the track in 1965 with an instrumental version that, though less magnetic than the original, still enjoyed modest chart presence.

Its influence has since trickled into covers by diverse artists such as Jimmy Hughes and Los Lobos, each reinterpreting its plaintive appeal.

In retrospect, the song’s charm lies in its raw vulnerability, a quality Brown himself described as inspired by earlier R&B ballads, and its ability to cement an artist on the verge of being forgotten.

Lifted from : James Brown dances at the Ritz (1986)

7 . Mahalia Jackson . Down By The Riverside

Mahalia Jackson’s rendition of “Down By The Riverside” plants itself firmly in both history and activism.

Originally sung by enslaved people yearning for freedom, the song’s roots trace back to a searing juxtaposition: spiritual salvation and literal escape.

The River Jordan, metaphorically laden as the Ohio River, carried heavy implications of life split between bondage and liberty.

Jackson, often referred to as the “Queen of Gospel Song,” shifts this old spiritual into a realm of powerful catharsis.

With her commanding contralto voice, she channels its sacred yearning into something that feels raw yet meticulously crafted.

Her annual Carnegie Hall concerts, starting in 1950, became key stages for delivering such hymns, pairing religious devotion with artistry to mesmerizing effect.

Of course, this wasn’t merely a ghost of pre-Civil War anguish; by Vietnam, the song had morphed into an anti-war anthem.

Her collaborations with musicians like Mildred Falls and Herbert “Blind” Francis reinforced the musical precision behind her spiritual performances, as she balanced visceral emotion with controlled expertise.

The enduring commercial legacy of her work, such as selling a million copies of “Move On Up a Little Higher,” underscores—if reluctantly acknowledged here—that passion and art can move units too.

Her contributions reached beyond music, finding homes in television and radio, solidifying her voice as not just a gospel powerhouse but a historical interpreter of sorts.

Lifted from : We remember Mahalia Jackson. ‘The Gospel Of MJ’

8 . Sharon Jones . The Dap~Kings . My Man Is . Mean Man

“My Man Is a Mean Man” by Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings stakes its claim as a defining entry in the wave of retro-funk and soul that resurged in the 2000s.

Released on January 25, 2005, as part of the band’s second studio effort, *Naturally*, this track offers a potent glimpse into their fixation with recreating and preserving the analog grit of mid-century R&B.

The instrumentation is tightly wound yet simmering, doubling as both homage and rebellion against polished modernity.

Sharon Jones, unflinching and confrontational, delivers sharp-edged vocals that oscillate between sultry and soaring, proving why her presence loomed large in the movement pulling listeners back to the sweaty clubs of yesteryear.

Despite a long list of notable collaborations attributed to the band—something like a roll call of pop royalty that includes Amy Winehouse and Mark Ronson—this particular song sticks exclusively to their homegrown ethos, refusing any obvious pandering to outside influences.

Its live iterations, including a fiery 2009 performance in Sydney, manage to exhume the grit and energy of the studio version without veering into dull replication.

The live recording, accessible on platforms like YouTube, underscores the band’s ability to mirror and amplify the dynamics of their crafted retro sound in a live setting.

What sets “My Man Is a Mean Man” apart isn’t lyrical complexity or groundbreaking themes but an unapologetic commitment to the model it celebrates: a corner of funk where the bassline smirks and brass punctuates with the precision of a clock striking midnight.

Perhaps its enduring appeal lies in its contradictions—it feels like both an artifact meticulously unearthed and a product of restless modern hands.

Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings’ catalogue demands dissecting not for being revolutionary but for reminding us that reverence for the past can still punch like it’s brand-new.

Lifted from : Daptone Records publish ‘Naturally,’ Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings’ second album (2005)

9 . Eddie Floyd . Knock On Wood

Few songs encapsulate the sweaty, groove-heavy ethos of 1960s Memphis R&B quite like Eddie Floyd’s “Knock on Wood.”

Originally penciled in for Otis Redding—arguably the king of Stax—this track instead became Floyd’s calling card, recorded in one thundering session on July 13, 1966.

Booker T. & the M.G.’s lay the foundation, with Isaac Hayes sneaking in a few sly piano accents and Wayne Jackson’s trumpet punches lending a celebratory urgency to the arrangement.

The result? A stormy anthem where Floyd pleads for his love to stay intact as though it’s a force of nature, equal parts romantic and ominous.

It isn’t content to simply ride vibes; the song demands motion, tension, and a little bit of sweat on the brow.

Jim Stewart’s gritty production ensures it doesn’t stray too far from Stax’s sharp-edged roots—even as it comfortably nabs a spot on the *Billboard* Hot 100, peaking at number 28.

But Floyd’s work here doesn’t just hang around in 1966; the song gets repeatedly pried from its Southern R&B soil and reinterpreted through clashing eras and genres.

David Bowie’s live rendition in 1974 sharpens it into a glam-soul hybrid, audacious but undeniably Bowie-esque.

And then there’s Amii Stewart’s 1979 disco powerhouse, which spins Floyd’s thunderstorm into a shimmering, technicolor cyclone of synths and sequins, catapulting to number one on the US charts.

The versatility of “Knock on Wood” is no accident; it’s built like a tank, effortlessly adaptable but always retaining a crackling undercurrent.

To think it was once relegated to the B-side shadows of “Got to Make a Comeback” speaks to the fickle alchemy of pop music’s timing and fate.

Floyd’s track may not have initially set charts ablaze, but its stature has grown, absorbing reinventions without losing its raw, feral spark.

These days, “Knock on Wood” sidles into everything from retro-inspired trailers (*The Big Lebowski*) to cult video games (*The Warriors*), where its punch feels both nostalgic and fresh.

If time and endless covers have softened the edges, one listen to the original cut quickly shatters any illusions—it’s not just a song; it’s a plea wrapped in rhythm, electrified and impossibly enduring.

Lifted from : Stax publish Eddie Floyd’s debut album . ‘Knock On Wood’ (1967)

10 . D’Angelo . Devil’s Pie

Sliding onto the scene in 1998, “Devil’s Pie” by D’Angelo offers a sharp critique of materialism wrapped in a hypnotic, minimalist production crafted by DJ Premier. The haunting beat, originally earmarked for Canibus, finds new purpose here, pairing perfectly with D’Angelo’s brooding delivery.

Borrowing liberally from Teddy Pendergrass’s “And If I Had,” Fat Joe’s “Success,” Pierre Henry’s experimental “Jericho Jerk,” and Raekwon’s “Interlude,” the track is a patchwork of influences, stitched together to create something distinctly its own. Each sample feeds the song’s restless rhythm, which pulses behind lyrics laser-focused on the emptiness of luxury and greed.

Lines like “Fuck the slice, we want the pie, why ask why till we fry” cut through the track with incisive clarity, critiquing not just societal hunger for excess but also the artist’s own complicity. D’Angelo’s smooth delivery contrasts with the track’s gritty themes, creating a paradox that’s as compelling as it is discomforting.

The song also briefly doubles as a time capsule for the late ’90s, appearing on the soundtrack of the stylish but divisive film “Belly.” Recorded in New York’s famed Electric Lady Studios, with Russell Elevado refining its sonic edges, the track thrives in its tension. The programming by Premier retains a rawness, complemented by D’Angelo’s layered vocal harmonies. As a precursor to the “Voodoo” album, “Devil’s Pie” is less about commercial polish and more about artistic reckoning.

Falling short of major chart dominance with a peak at number 69 on the Billboard Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Airplay chart, its understated reception belies its lasting impression. “Devil’s Pie” isn’t an easy listen—it doesn’t aim for comfort—but its willingness to grapple with uncomfortable truths in both the music industry and wider culture remains its most significant trait.

Lifted from : D’Angelo releases his second album . ‘Voodoo’ featuring ‘Untitled (How Does It Feel)’ (2000)

11 . Bell Biv Devoe . B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?

“B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?” is a slick, beat-driven time capsule from the early 1990s, embodying the essence of the new jack swing era with precision. Bell Biv DeVoe layers hard-hitting rhythms over smooth vocals, delivering a track that manages to balance its edgy production with a touch of vulnerability.

The lyrics revolve around a moment of disillusionment, narrating the protagonist’s shock at discovering the true nature of a love interest. The repeated refrain, “I thought it was me,” carries both a sense of irony and self-awareness, resonating with listeners who have lived through similar surprises. The group approaches the theme with a mix of swagger and sincerity, reflective of the album’s overall tone.

Musically, the track’s rhythm section is its backbone, with crisp snares and synthesized basslines that ooze confidence. It’s no wonder the song made waves on both pop and R&B charts, reaching an impressive position despite the competitive landscape of the time.

Performing it live at the 1991 American Music Awards, Bell Biv DeVoe showcased their knack for translating studio polish into electrifying stage energy. Sharing the night with a highly varied roster of artists like Mariah Carey and Vanilla Ice, they held their own, reflecting the versatility that made their debut album, “Poison,” a cultural phenomenon.

Though the lyrics touch upon judgment, the track feels more like a snapshot of human folly than a moral critique. That tension—between the glossy production and the less-than-idealized content—underscores its lasting appeal. It’s this odd but compelling dynamic that continues to make “B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?” a standout in an era rich with crossover R&B hits.

Lifted from : Mariah, Gloria, Vanilla et al at the . American Music Awards’ (1991)

12 . Janet Jackson . Control

“Control” arrives like an anthem for independence, balancing a slick ’80s sound with Janet Jackson’s palpable determination to prove she’s running her own show.

The track, co-written with Minneapolis funk masterminds Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, pulses with synth-heavy beats and a polished groove that feels both glossy and grounding.

There’s no sugary sentimentality here—Jackson’s lyrics are a curt declaration of autonomy, exuding confidence but without veering into overblown chest-thumping.

Her voice cuts through the production with sharp precision, a mix of cool composure and fiery resolve that carries the weight of its subject matter.

The music video, a time capsule of shoulder pads and high-waisted pants, is equal parts melodrama and spectacle, with Jackson unflinchingly breaking free from parental oversight and stepping into her own spotlight.

Paula Abdul’s choreography adds a kinetic energy that mirrors the song’s message—assertive yet measured, never chaotic.

Commercially, “Control” reaps chart success, effortlessly sliding into the cultural zeitgeist of mid-‘80s pop, a space still open for women asserting their agency without apology.

While the track fits snugly within the sonic trends of the era, it doesn’t bow entirely to them, instead bending them to reflect Jackson’s burgeoning identity and deliberate self-possession.

Whether performed on major tours or revisited through award-winning video moments, the song remains emblematic of both independence and impeccable craftsmanship, even if it leans more into its polished packaging than raw emotion.

Lifted from : Diana, Tina, Janet et al at the ‘American Music Awards’ (1987)