This week In Soul Artists 07/52

1 . Al Jarreau . Trouble In Paradise

“Trouble in Paradise,” a centerpiece of Al Jarreau’s 1983 self-titled album “Jarreau,” unfolds as a polished exploration of romantic discord. Lifted by the collaborative songwriting force of Greg Mathieson, Jay Graydon, and Trevor Veitch, the track walks the line between soulful earnestness and glossy studio perfection. With Graydon also handling production duties and rhythm arrangements, the song radiates a professionalism that feels both deliberate and restrained, never veering too far from the Adult Contemporary blueprint.

The album, recorded in the serene confines of Garden Rake Studios in Studio City, California, shows off an ensemble of talent that includes heavyweights like David Foster, Michael Omartian, and Tom Canning. Yet for all its pedigree, “Trouble in Paradise” never quite wrestles free from the expected contours of early ’80s pop-soul. Its #63 placing on the US Pop charts and a more distinguished #10 on the Adult Contemporary charts perhaps reflect its dual identity as both approachable and slightly unadventurous.

Lyrically, the song underscores relational turbulence, leaning on Jarreau’s signature vocal pliancy to lift lines about emotional resilience and rekindling love. While the themes resonate universally, the execution feels somewhat safe—refined, but lacking the emotional risk-taking of a deeper introspection. Comparatively, its sibling singles “Mornin'” and “Boogie Down” overshadow it with their more dynamic energy, though the song holds its ground as a measured meditation amidst the album’s intricate sonic mosaic. As standout as Jarreau’s vocal prowess is, “Trouble in Paradise” mirrors a moment where craft takes precedence over creative daring.

Lifted from : Al Jarreau . Al Is For Always

2 . Randy Crawford . Street Life

“Street Life,” the standout title track from The Crusaders’ 1979 album, is a sleek hybrid of jazz, funk, and soul that struts confidently into the chaos of urban living.

Written by Joe Sample and Will Jennings, its origins are as unexpected as they are fitting: a chaotic beginner’s ski slope at Mammoth Mountain, later translated into lyrics embodying the frenzied mosaic of Hollywood Boulevard.

Randy Crawford’s vocals glide over the track like neon light on wet pavement—fluid yet tensile, effortlessly capturing the allure and alienation of city life.

The song’s commercial success—landing at number 36 on the US Billboard Hot 100 and an even more impressive number 5 on the UK Singles Chart—speaks to its cross-genre appeal, though its dancefloor performance, peaking at 75 on the US Dance Club Songs chart, feels muted in retrospect given its rhythmic backbone.

This was Crawford’s turning point, thrusting her toward international acclaim, while for The Crusaders, it signaled a bittersweet peak, bridging their illustrious 20-year history with the decline that would follow.

The song’s enduring draw is evident in its ubiquitous presence, from Burt Reynolds’ “Sharky’s Machine” to Quentin Tarantino’s curated cool in “Jackie Brown,” and its placement in modern touchstones like “Better Call Saul” and “Grand Theft Auto V.”

Yet, “Street Life” isn’t just nostalgia fodder; its Grammy-nominated version with B.B. King and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra underlines its adaptability, though one might argue it risks dispersing the song’s intimate urban grit into a more polished sheen.

If there’s a critique to be made, it’s that “Street Life” can feel so polished—so honed to perfection—that its emotional edges occasionally blur, a stark contrast to its thematic celebration of unpredictability and disarray.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Randy Crawford. ‘Have . Sweet Life!’

3 . Irma Thomas . It’s Raining

“It’s Raining,” penned by Allen Toussaint under his alias Naomi Neville, drifts in with a tender sense of melancholy, capturing romantic heartbreak without histrionics.

Irma Thomas recorded the track on November 1, 1961, at Cosimo Matassa’s New Orleans studio, a setting that provides the song with an unassuming intimacy. What deepens the charm is that the writing itself was driven by immediate inspiration, crafted amidst the very rain that the plaintive lyrics lament. Toussaint’s living room became an incubator for this collaboration, grounding the song in both spontaneity and precision.

Musically, the opening falsetto harmonies evoke raindrops with a late-1950s doo-wop lilt, a stylistic touch that situates the song within R&B’s transitional moment. Yet, unlike contemporaries chasing grandiose crescendos, “It’s Raining” remains restrained, an exercise in dignified sorrow. Thomas sings with a clear vulnerability that feels specific rather than generic—a rare feat in heartbreak anthems.

Commercially, the song was no juggernaut, missing national charts yet carving out a beloved stake in the Deep South. Its inclusion on albums like “Soul Queen of New Orleans” (1978) and “Live Simply the Best” (1991) underscores its enduring association with Thomas’s legacy. The track also found life beyond, soundtracking a wistful scene in Jim Jarmusch’s 1986 film “Down By Law.”

Despite its limited initial exposure, the song’s delicacy proved ripe for covers, from Shakin’ Stevens’s 1981 UK top-10 attempt to more niche reimaginings by artists like The Detroit Cobras and Lou Ann Barton. Toussaint’s production stands as an understated masterclass, threading simplicity with resonance. If there’s a fault, it’s perhaps that the track’s structural modesty risks being overlooked in a catalog filled with more flamboyant soul staples.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Irma Thomas. ‘Long Live The Soul Queen of New Orleans’

4 . Cissy Houston . Always on My Mind

Cissy Houston’s live performance of “Always on My Mind” on NBC’s “Late Night with David Letterman” in 1986 captures the quiet devastation at the heart of this oft-covered ballad. Written by Johnny Christopher, Mark James, and Wayne Carson, the song is a frequent test of an artist’s emotional depth, having passed through voices as disparate as Elvis Presley’s velvet melancholia and Willie Nelson’s effortless intimacy. Houston’s version turns on her signature: a robust blend of soulful power and gospel-tinged sensitivity that avoids the trap of over-sentimentality.

There’s conviction in every phrase she delivers, yet you sense an almost deliberate restraint—as if she’s navigating the fine line between showing heartbreak and descending into theatricality. The Letterman stage, more accustomed to irony and late-night antics, becomes an unlikely space for unvarnished emotional catharsis, made even more striking by Houston’s lack of over-reliance on embellishment. What shines are her instincts: knowing just when to keep it simple and when to let her formidable vocal power crack open the lingering regret embedded in the lyrics.

Then, pivot to her 1992 rendition from the album “I’ll Take Care of You,” recorded at Acme Studios in Mamaroneck, NY. On this duet project, produced by Peter Denenberg and Joe Ferry, Houston’s chemistry with soul singer Chuck Jackson offers a warmer, more collaborative take on the track. Alternating leads with Jackson and blending voices seamlessly, the recording feels more like a late-night conversation than an emotional monologue. Yet, for all the technical polish and intimacy, the live version reigns as the rawer, more immediate statement of intent.

Compared to other interpretations of the song, Houston skirts the trap of mimicry. Her performance, especially on “Late Night,” carves out a distinct emotional territory—neither swooning like Elvis nor introspective like Nelson. Her version lives in the here and now, somewhere between regret and resilience. If anything, the warmth of her album version slightly detracts from the raw ache of the live moment, trading pathos for polish. Still, both iterations affirm her ability to reinvent popular material, proving her art lies not just in technical prowess but in her grasp of the song’s emotional core.

Lifted from : On TV today . Cissy Houston with David Letterman (1986)

5 . Whitney Houston . Greatest Love Of All

“Greatest Love of All” occupies a curious space within Whitney Houston’s debut album, balancing emotional gravitas with polished production.

Originally penned by Michael Masser and Linda Creed, and first recorded by George Benson for the 1977 Muhammad Ali biopic “The Greatest,” its lineage speaks to resilience and introspection.

Linda Creed’s lyrics, written during her battle with breast cancer, lend the song a bittersweet depth, yet Houston’s rendition stretches its scope, wrapping personal struggle in a universal anthem.

The 1986 release as a standalone single propelled the track to a three-week reign atop the Billboard Hot 100, its polished sentimentality resonating widely—even topping charts in Australia and Canada.

Michael Masser’s production seamlessly integrates Houston’s theatrical vocals with an almost pompous arrangement, a match both stirring and, at times, saccharine.

The music video, featuring a reflective Houston in a New York theater and poignant appearances by Cissy Houston, mirrors the song’s theme of growth—but risks veering into self-glorification.

Clive Davis originally hesitated over its inclusion on the album, perhaps sensing the balancing act between genuine uplift and overt sentimentality.

The dispute about which version—piano-intro album cut or keyboard-inaugurating single release—speaks truer to the song’s intent underscores its somewhat manufactured dynamism.

Upon Houston’s death, the track’s reentry into the Billboard chart seemed inevitable, proof of its enduring, if arguably overstated, place in pop history.

Lifted from : Arista publish ‘Whitney Houston,’ her eponymous debut album featuring ‘You Give Good Love,’ ‘Saving All My Love for You’ and ‘How Will . Know’ (1985)

6 . Thelma Houston . Don’t Leave Me This Way

Thelma Houston’s “Don’t Leave Me This Way” sits at the crossroads of disco’s commercial peak and its deep cultural resonances.

Produced by Hal Davis and housed on the album “Any Way You Like It,” the song’s vibrant arrangement unmistakably roots itself in the genre’s penchant for exuberant strings, commanding horns, and a rhythmic foundation built to drive dancefloors. However, what transcends the production is Houston’s own vocal delivery. Where the original by Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes, with Teddy Pendergrass at the helm, leans into a measured yet soulful intensity, Houston transforms the composition into an anthem of abandon, bordering on theatrical yet replete with palpable urgency.

Chart-wise, her rendition is unassailable, claiming the No. 1 spot on the Billboard Hot 100 as of April 23, 1977, with prior dominance on both the soul and dance charts. Globally, its performance reinforces disco’s borderless appeal, landing within top 10 positions across nations like Australia, Canada, and Germany, although its UK placement at No. 13 trails behind the faring of the original.

Yet, it’s more than just numbers. The track’s legacy lies in its adoption—first within marginalized communities, particularly LGBTQ+ spaces and African-American circles—and its later prominence in AIDS activism. This redirects the song’s insistent plea from romantic loss to survival, making the line “I can’t survive without your love” more than metaphor.

If there’s a criticism, it’s that Hal Davis’s production, despite its polish, can feel formulaic within the broader disco canon. But perhaps formula isn’t always a flaw, especially when Houston’s Grammy-winning performance remains its beating heart. Revisited in moments like the “Motown 60: A Grammy Celebration” special, it’s clear this is less relic than touchstone.

Lifted from : On TV today . Thelma Houston at ‘TOTP’ (1977)

7 . Smokey Robinson . Medley

Smokey Robinson’s February 18, 2012 performance at Edgewater Casino in Laughlin, Nevada, offers a snapshot of an artist in dialogue with his storied catalog, though whether the conversation feels fresh or dutiful is another matter.

The setlist, anchored by classics like “Ooo Baby Baby,” nods toward Robinson’s curatorial prowess, shuffling through hits likely drawn from both his solo endeavors and his tenure with The Miracles. “Ooo Baby Baby” itself—a plaintive gem—is a reminder of Smokey’s gift for melodic vulnerability. One imagines its live rendition leaned into this fragility, his soulful delivery unfurling heartache with practiced finesse. Yet, the term “wonderful,” as used by audience members, hints at satisfaction rather than awe, raising questions about whether the set broke new ground or simply tread familiar territory.

Smokey’s voice, often praised for its emotive core, surely played a central role in selling these songs, its texture doing much of the heavy lifting. Yet, without specifics on his deeper catalog selections, one wonders if the performance risked becoming too predictable, operating more as a greatest-hits package than a dynamic live experience.

For a figure whose contributions to soul and Motown are inarguable, this concert seems to toe the line between reverence and safe nostalgia. The lack of detailed critiques from attendees might underscore the performance’s polish but also its potential complacency—a night that surely pleased but didn’t necessarily challenge.

Lifted from : Smokey Robinson soulifies Nevada (2012)

8 . Diana Ross & the Supremes . My World Is Empty Without You

The December 1965 single “My World Is Empty Without You,” nestled within the grooves of the album “I Hear a Symphony,” carries the signature melancholic punch of the Holland–Dozier–Holland trifecta.

On paper, the song juxtaposes heartbreak’s shadowy depths with a tempo that refuses to wallow too long in despair. Diana Ross’s breathy, ethereal lead vocal hovers over textured instrumental layers provided by the ever-dependable Funk Brothers and the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. Earl Van Dyke’s organ and James Jamerson’s peerless bass anchor Paul Riser’s intricate string arrangements, crafting a sound that feels urgent yet strangely restrained.

Thematically, the song could mirror February’s gray skies—its lyrics painting the canvas of post-breakup depression. Yet, the off-kilter brightness of the arrangement keeps the track teetering between catharsis and unease. Is it a cry for help, or a call to dance through the sadness? Billboard found excitement in its rhythm, though the claim feels debatable when placed against the group’s peppier hits like “Stop! In the Name of Love.”

While the track secured respectable positions on the US pop (number 5) and R&B (number 10) charts, its absence from the UK Singles Chart hints at limitations in universal appeal. Maybe the song’s emo-before-emo aura proved alienating to some demographics. Cash Box’s depiction of it as a “tearjerker” is apt, though it feels restrained rather than fully sobbing into its Motown handkerchief.

A live rendition on “The Ed Sullivan Show” in February 1966 cemented its haunting charm, though its legacy remains more curious than definitive. Pop historian Andrew Grant Jackson’s likening of the song’s essence to the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” illuminates its subliminal depth—but ultimately, “My World Is Empty Without You” drifts, half-haunted, through the Supremes’ catalog.

Lifted from : The Supremes release ‘I Hear . Symphony’ produced by Holland . Dozier (1966)

9 . Teddy Pendergrass . Joy

“Joy,” the title track of Teddy Pendergrass’ 1988 album, radiates both resilience and complexity, a palpable reflection of the challenges and triumphs marking his career at the time.

Written by Reggie Calloway, Vincent Calloway, and Joel Davis, “Joy” bears the hallmarks of slick late-’80s R&B. Reggie Calloway, with his Midnight Star pedigree, infuses the production with a polished flair that rests somewhere between midnight intimacy and neon-lit dancefloor slickness. Yet, while the arrangement glides effortlessly, it’s Pendergrass’ voice—the focal point—that anchors the song.

Post-crash, his vocals retain much of their soulful grit, though they lack the commanding vitality of earlier glory days. This subtle shift adds an almost bittersweet layer to the recording, as if every yearning in the song’s lyrics is tethered to an untold story of survival. Fittingly, it secured him his first number one on the Black Singles chart in a decade—a testament to the enduring relationship between his artistry and the audience that never left him.

Chart-wise, the track also brushed the broader musical landscape, entering the Hot 100 after a seven-year absence and peaking at 42 on the dance chart. Its performance on the UK Official Singles Chart, however, was far from groundbreaking, stalling at number 58 over three weeks. Still, for a comeback moment, it was a performance that reaffirmed his presence rather than redefining it.

“Joy” is not without its limits. For all its gloss, it doesn’t spark the genre evolution that might elevate it to timelessness, and the production, though competent, rarely surprises. Yet, considering its context—both personal and commercial—it resonates as a well-crafted, cautionary celebration: a snapshot of an artist who, after recalibrating life and career, found himself offering gratitude in melodic form.

Lifted from : Teddy Pendergrass sings in LA (2002)

10 . Frankie Beverly & Raw Soul . Colorblind

“Color Blind,” released in 1971 on the Gregar label, finds Frankie Beverly & Raw Soul at a crossroads, both musically and narratively.

Before evolving into Maze, the group—still operating under the name Raw Soul—offers a sound deeply rooted in early ’70s R&B and soul, a genre navigating its own moment of transition. This track captures that liminal space, leaning on familiar textures while hinting at the group’s future polish.

Frankie Beverly, born Howard Beverly and inspired to adopt his stage name after Frankie Lymon, shapes the song’s vocal terrain with resolute sincerity. Though “Color Blind” doesn’t explicitly position itself as a protest anthem, its release during a period of societal upheaval coats it in the aura of racial and social complexity. The title alone feels heavy with implication, even if the lyrics stop short of outright advocacy.

The production, much like its title, remains understated—steady but never daring, evocative but not expansive. It’s an early sketch, a formative moment for a band that would later rely on Beverly’s knack for fluid songwriting and atmospheric depth to anchor their success as Maze under Capitol Records.

While “Color Blind” doesn’t pulse with innovation or risk, its inclusion on retrospectives like the “Frankie Beverly’s Raw Soul” compilation ensures visibility, securing its place as a mile marker in Beverly’s evolving career. An artifact of transition, it leaves more of a quiet resonance than a definitive statement.

Lifted from : Frankie Beverly takes Raw Soul to San Francisco (1975)

11 . Maceo Parker . Pass The Peas

Recorded across three March nights in 1992 at Stadtgarten in Cologne, Germany, “Pass the Peas” on Maceo Parker’s “Life on Planet Groove” feels like a tightly stacked deck expertly shuffled. A live reimagining of The J.B.’s 1972 funk instrumental, this version places Parker’s alto saxophone front and center, though it’s clear he’s not interested in claiming all the room’s oxygen—well, at least not all the time.

Parker, who steps in with saxophone and occasional vocals, expands the framework James Brown laid down in Macon back in 1971. Trombonist Fred Wesley, also on vocals here, resurfaces as a familiar accomplice, channeling the original recording’s energy while letting the live setting push the boundaries of the groove. Candy Dulfer’s alto sax and Larry Goldings on Hammond organ round out a sound that is as elastic as it is meticulously controlled.

The standout moments come where the band stretches—yet never breaks—the groove. Goldings’ Hammond squirms and bubbles within the gaps, avoiding flashiness but refusing to retreat into anonymity. Meanwhile, Dulfer’s sax lines drive and shimmer like headlights slicing through a smoky club. Yet, there’s an irony in how the track’s immediacy teeters on predictability. As thrilling as each musician’s contribution is, the live recording seems content to remain within the genre’s established guardrails.

Peaking at No. 3 on Billboard’s Jazz Albums chart, “Life on Planet Groove” suggests that Parker knows his lane impeccably well. “Pass the Peas” thrives on that comfort, anchored in a communal energy that resonates with its audience. Still, you wonder if more risks—more deviations from the highway The J.B.’s built—might have pushed this vibrant ensemble further into the realm of genuine surprise.

Lifted from : Maceo Parker . Pass The Year . Maceo

12 . Charlie Wilson . Outstanding

“Outstanding” may carry Charlie Wilson’s name in the spotlight, but it’s inseparable from the Gap Band’s enduring legacy. Released in 1982 as part of their album “Gap Band IV,” this track is less a standalone declaration than a communal anthem, climbing to No. 1 on the US R&B charts while stalling at No. 51 on the Billboard Hot 100. The disparity in chart positions underscores its niche brilliance, thriving within genre borders without spilling into mainstream ubiquity.

The song thrives on Wilson’s unmistakable delivery, his voice a velvet anchor amid a polished arrangement that leans into funk’s steadier, more romantic leanings. Unlike the Gap Band’s kinetic blockbusters like “You Dropped a Bomb on Me” or “Burn Rubber on Me,” “Outstanding” pivots to a smoother groove, trading fireworks for a slow burn. There’s heft in its simplicity, but also risk; the song’s reliance on its central hook can begin to feel repetitive rather than hypnotic.

“Outstanding” doesn’t just live in its original form. Its DNA has been generously borrowed, sampled, and reinterpreted across decades, bridging the gap between ’80s R&B and modern hip-hop sensibilities. In live settings, it often acts as a breather in the Gap Band’s high-energy setlists, a moment to luxuriate rather than sprint. Whether paired with imperatives like “Party Train” or towering slow jams, it serves as connective tissue rather than a standalone crescendo.

While the chart success of “Outstanding” is modest compared to other Gap Band hits, its staying power is cemented by its adaptability and Wilson’s charisma. It’s a track that whispers where others shout, gathering resonance from its understated approach. Still, it’s hard to ignore its occasional inclination toward monotony; Wilson can carry the weight, but the absence of dynamic structural shifts leaves the song an inch short of its full potential.

Lifted from : Charlie Wilson . Fantasia join forces in DC (2017)