A list (in no particular order) of my 500 favorite songs (singles, deep cuts, hits, and more) of all time. Includes a wide array of selections from rock, punk, funk, R&B, soul, classical, jazz, folk, and world music.
It was 1970. Marvin Gaye was on a self-imposed hiatus from recording following the death of his friend/singing partner Tammi Terrell, and apart from occasionally producing the vocal group The Originals, he didn't even want to set foot inside the studio. In the meantime, he was receiving letters from his little brother, Frankie, who was fighting in Vietnam. In the correspondence, he'd tell Marvin about the unsettling things he was experiencing. As Frankie Gaye told biographer David Ritz for the liner notes of The Best of Marvin Gaye anthology (1995), "The war sickened me. It seemed useless, wrong, and unjust. I relayed all this to Marvin." Around the same time, Renaldo "Obie" Benson of The Four Tops had witnessed a crowd of young protestors get roughed up by cops in Berkeley, CA, where the group had just finished performing a show. Benson told songwriter Al Cleveland about what he'd seen, and Cleveland started writing a new composition about social ills with the intent of having The Four Tops perform it. But the other members of Benson's group shied away from doing a "protest song." So while hanging out with Gaye during a round of golf, Benson and Cleveland decided to pitch him the song instead. Gaye initially thought it might be a good vehicle for The Originals. But after a lot of cajoling from Benson, Gaye ultimately decided to record and produce the single himself. Along the way, Gaye added additional lyrics, pulling inspiration from his little brother's letters, and embellished the melody to fit his own style. The result: one of the most soulful commentaries on the Vietnam era ever recorded. In fact, it's less of a protest song (he's not really pointing fingers at anyone), and more of a rhetorical question to humanity: what are we doing to one another? It's a favorite of mine because the message and the music come together so perfectly. Its deeply funky groove perfectly captures the reality of the young soldier who comes home to his inner city neighborhood, looking for comfort, only to find unrest at every turn. At the same time, the lush orchestration and the multi-tracked vocals, which create a whole chorus of Marvins, almost border on the sacred. It's simply one of the most moving, heartfelt pieces of popular music ever recorded. Regarding Gaye's vocals, the whole idea of him harmonizing/duetting with himself came about as a happy accident. As recording engineer Ken Sands notes in a July 2011 article in Sound on Sound online, they had recorded two, separate takes for the lead vocal, and Gaye wanted to listen and evaluate which one he thought was best. Instead of outputting each take as a separate demo track, Sands just created a single stereo track, with Take #1 in one channel and Take #2 in the other, giving Gaye the ability to pan back and forth between speakers and/or listen to both takes simultaneously for easier comparison. It was when everyone heard the playback with two Marvins sharing the lead that they realized they'd stumbled upon something magnificent. Said Sands, "As it turned out, singing against himself worked, but I'm not going to take credit for thinking things through and saying, 'This is what I want to happen'...A lot of brilliance is bred of happenstance."
After proving Motown president Berry Gordy wrong with the huge success of the single "What's Going On" (Gordy had initially refused to release the song, feeling it was uncommercial and would alienate longtime fans with its social message), Marvin Gaye continued in his social consciousness vein with "Mercy, Mercy Me (The Ecology)." After taking an extended break from recording, largely due to being depressed about the death of his friend and singing partner Tammi Terrell, who'd passed in 1970 from a brain tumor, Gaye decided that, if he was going to record again, he only was going to make music that spoke to things he cared about: love, life, God, people, and nature. As Gaye told Britain's Disc and Music Echo in 1971, "I can remember as a child I always kept myself to myself, and I always dug nature. I used to fool around with worms, beetles, and birds, and I used to admire them while the other kids were playing sports. It was like some strange force made me more aware of nature." It probably seemed completely out of left field at the time for an R&B star to release a song about environmental concerns, but Gaye felt it was his duty to say something. Incidentally, Gordy didn't care for "Mercy, Mercy Me" either. (Apparently, he also had to be told what ecology was.) But, once again, he changed his tune when the single version became a Top 10 seller in 1971. Apart from Gaye's heartfelt delivery and poignant commentary about the ills mankind had inflicted upon the environment, I love the sound of this track. There's the deep, signature Funk Brothers groove and Wild Bill Moore's unhinged sax solo, but then there's also that echo created by the heavy reverb on the percussion instruments. That spacious sound created by the woodblock and congas is so evocative of the song's somber mood; it not only sets the scene that Gaye is drawing upon distant memories of better times, but it also replicates the paved-over, hollow sound of inner cities in that era. In fact, if you are old enough to remember what most downtowns across America looked like in the 70s to the mid-80s, you'll know what I mean: there often were few trees, lots of concrete and asphalt, and lots of abandoned buildings. In that emptiness, the cold sounds of vehicles and machines were amplified, including the din of demolition—the crashing and banging of falling debris and dump trucks. Those were the sounds I heard as a child when my parents would take me to downtown Asheville. Or when we visited relatives in the Rust Belt. Or when we went to D.C. for the first time and stayed on South Capitol Street. And it was that sound that struck me the first time I heard the song on the radio as a kid. I remember being amazed that a sound could capture a time and place so precisely. And I still marvel at Gaye's brilliance to not only use his words but also the very aural texture of America's crumbling cities to reach listeners. It's simply a great and important song.
"You're All I Need to Get By" (1968) is one of the best ballads ever released by Motown. The Nick Ashford and Valerie Simpson-penned track is dramatic without drifting into the realm of melodrama. It works because, even with those dulcet strings, you have The Funk Brothers rhythm section keeping the song rooted in soul along with Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell delivering their vocals with gospel-tinged fervor. It's passionate, and it's honest. As I've written before, Terrell and Gaye weren't actually romantically involved. Although, that's almost hard to believe, listening to a performance like "You're All I Need to Get By." I think it's fair to say that they were soulmates. While performing with Gaye at Hampton-Sydney College in Virginia, Terrell, who had been prone to migraine headaches her entire life, collapsed on stage in Gaye's arms after complaining that she wasn't feeling well. Turned out that she had a malignant tumor, growing in her thalamus. Recovering from the first of many operations and wheelchair-bound, Terrell still wanted to record, and "You're All I Need to Get By" was the first single that she worked on, post-surgery. Because of their schedules (and also to allow Terrell sufficient time to rest and recover), she and Gaye didn't cut their vocals together in the studio; their vocals were recorded separately and then edited together as a duet afterward. Nevertheless, there's still a palpable feeling of unity on the track. And under the difficult circumstances, I think it's even more poignant that they were singing to each other (even if it was via studio wizardry): you're all I need to get by.
Okay, I'll probably get hate mail for what I'm about to say. I don't care for Marvin Gaye's version of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine." It has less to do with Gaye's performance and more to do with the backing track. The campy strings. The cheesy background singers. The tom-toms. It's gimmicky, and it sounds dated. But I love Gladys Knight & The Pips' version. Funny thing is, writer/producer Norman Whitfield and writing partner Barrett Strong wrote the song with neither artist in mind; they wrote it for Smokey Robinson. In fact, Robinson and The Miracles first recorded a version of the song in 1966. But Motown head honcho Berry Gordy felt it was weak and refused to let it be released. (They eventually cut a different version in 1968 for the album Special Occasion.) So Whitfield and Strong went back to the drawing board and came up with a new arrangement, which Whitfield recorded with Gaye in 1967—a session that almost ended with a fistfight, according to music journalist David Ritz's liner notes for The Best of Marvin Gaye anthology (1995), because Whitfield kept needling Gaye to sing in a register higher than he was comfortable. Anyway, at the time, Gordy rejected that rendition, too. Didn't feel it was single-worthy. So in mid-1967, Gordy was itching to put out a Motown single to rival Aretha Franklin's "Respect," which was burning up the soul and pop charts. That September, Whitfield and Strong came back with a funkier, gospel-influenced arrangement of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" and gave it to Knight. Who promptly sang the hell out of it. Her read of the song is completely different from Gaye's. Whereas he sounds torn between love and anguish, she's a woman with a purpose: she's out to confront her man and give that cheating so-and-so a piece of her mind. She's hurting, but she's going to make darn sure he leaves hurting, too. The backing track is also superior in every way. It ignites the moment you press "play" and doesn't let up for 3 minutes. Funny thing is, the same musicians (Motown's "Funk Brothers") play on both renditions. For instance, bassist James Jamerson's presence is felt in each instance, but his playing is so much more lively here. Just listen to the leaps and runs that he plays on every chorus. It's pure church. In the end, Gaye's version became the bigger hit in October 1968 when it was released a few months after Knight's version. It actually was Motown's biggest selling song to date. But she still did it best.
"Your Precious Love," penned by famed songwriting team Nickolas Ashford and Valerie Simpson, is simply one of the sweetest, sultriest love songs ever recorded. It was made for pulling someone in real close and swaying in time till the rest of the world fades away. Everything about this track works: the finger clicks, Joe Messina's lead guitar doubling James Jamerson's slick bassline, the smooth doo-wop style backing vocals, and—obviously—Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell's perfectly blended vocals. Even though Gaye and Terrell weren't romantically involved, you kind of wouldn't know it, listening to this song. They sound like two people who are deeply in love. Which is pretty heartbreaking if you know anything about Terrell's life. Born Thomasina "Tommie" Montgomery in Philadelphia in 1945, she weathered a difficult childhood. On top of dealing with her mother's bouts of clinical depression and fallout from shock therapy treatments, she herself suffered from debilitating headaches, which foreshadowed her death at the young age of 29 from a malignant brain tumor. She also was raped by several neighborhood boys as a pre-teen. As the TV One documentary Unsung: Tammi Terrellnotes, in the wake of the incident, she decided she no longer wanted to be called Tommie and changed her name to Tammi. She even recorded a few songs under the name "Tammi Montgomery" before landing a contract with Motown. Sadly, the traumatic event set the tone for her rocky relationships with men for the rest of her life. In her late teens, she toured with and also dated James Brown for a time. Until he hit her. Repeatedly. Then, after she signed to Motown Records (where founder Berry Gordy changed her name to "Tammi Terrell," simply because he thought it looked better than "Tammi Montgomery" on the label of a 45 single), she fell for the already-married David Ruffin of The Temptations. Unfortunately, Ruffin also physically abused her. Although, this time around, she hit back. In truth, Gaye was one of the only men in her life who treated her with respect. And when you hear the emotion come through in her voice on "Your Precious Love," it's clear that the relationship she's singing about is exactly the kind of unconditional, transcendent love that she desired.
The Commodores' 1985 single "Nightshift" is a touching tribute to recording artists Marvin Gaye and Jackie Wilson, who both passed away in 1984 (Gaye died after being shot in the back by his father; Wilson, who'd suffered a heart attack on stage in 1975, died from pneumonia after nearly a decade in a coma). It was one of my favorite songs as a kid. Admittedly, though, I didn't have a strong emotional connection to the subject matter at the time. (As I learned more about Gaye and Wilson later in life, the words took on a new resonance.) But, I liked the sound of the song. Its celestial synthesizers, rumbling keyboard bass, Latin-tinged beat, and soulful vocals evoked the calm, reverent feeling of nighttime. I also found its message—that everything was going to be okay, even in the midst of grief and loss—to be really soothing. In fact, I listened to the song quite a bit to help make sense of things after my great-grandmother passed in 1986. My favorite parts of the song (then and now) are the bridges leading from the first and second verses into the choruses: the key changes, the drums kick in, and an angelic synth choir rises in a soft, blue mist behind Walter Orange and J.D. Nicholas's lead vocals. I've always thought it was a clever bit of songwriting/arranging to have the rhythm and key shift in tandem with the emotional shift in the lyrics. On the verses, they're singing about remembrance and loss; on the bridges, however, they're singing about the musical legacies of Gaye and Wilson and how each will live on through the music. It's subtle, but it reflects movement from grief to acceptance. It's one of the few true soul songs of the 1980s and one of the most sincere tribute songs ever written.
There’s no arguing that the album What’s Going On (1971) is a masterpiece. It’s Marvin Gaye’s most complete artistic statement, and it’s one of the 1970s best albums from start to finish. By the late 60s, Gaye had grown disillusioned not only with the Vietnam War and the social/political situation in America, but also the Motown/Tamla hit-making machine. Even though his recordings had made him a star, he felt his music wasn’t saying anything important. For a moment, he even decided to take a break from music and tried out for the Detroit Lions. Ultimately, he returned to music because he felt a duty to say something—something Motown/Tamla chief Berry Gordy strongly advised him not to do. Gordy (who also was Gaye’s brother-in-law at the time) flat out told him he was crazy for wanting to shed his crooner image and came very close to blocking the album’s title single from being released at all, calling it “the worst thing (he’d) ever heard.” Thanks to pressures from other musicians and writers at Motown and the massive chart success of the lead single, Gordy didn't shelve the project, thankfully. Quite literally, “Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)” is the climax of the work; it’s the very last song of the 9-song cycle that makes up What’s Going On. Thematically, it’s also the synthesis of everything Gaye was thinking and feeling: his dismay at the hardships and crushing poverty that plagued America’s inner cities; politicians who seemed to care more about sending a man to the moon than helping people on Earth; and endless discrimination against blacks, hippies, young people, and the poor. All of these themes simmer throughout the song, delivered by Gaye’s falsetto over a cold groove that’s driven by Gaye’s piano, Bob Babbitt’s funky bass, and Ms. Bobbye Hall’s expressive bongos. When the reality of it all gets too much for him to take, Gaye dips back into his regular tenor to make commentary (Make me wanna holler, how they do my life... Make me wanna holler, throw up both my hands...). You also hear two or three Marvins in the background, howling/hollering/praying. It’s cerebral, spiritual, funky, angry, and weary, all at once. On the single version, the song abruptly fades out just before the 3-minute mark. On the album, however, the groove slows, and you’re treated to a stark, intimate piano/vocal reprise of the title track, just before the song/album dissolves into a foggy mist of multiple Marvins harmonizing over Hall’s heavily reverbed bongos. This coda is somewhat bleak, and it's rife with a feeling of uncertainty. Although, the treatment of the sound—the reverb and echo—automatically makes one think of being in church. It absolutely fits with Gaye’s other primary theme on the album: seeking divine guidance and spiritual strength to cope with modern problems.
Listening to "Sexual Healing" and Marvin Gaye's absolutely ecstatic, silky smooth delivery, it's almost hard to believe that he was climbing his way out of one of the lowest points in his life during that period. In the years before he recorded the song for his "comeback" album Midnight Love (1982), Gaye had endured his second divorce, struggled with debt and problems with the IRS, and had wrestled with an addiction to cocaine. On top of all that, he hadn't had a hit since "Blurred Lines" "Got To Give It Up" and was deeply depressed. But he felt things were turning around by 1982. He'd moved to Belgium at the urging of a friend and gradually began to kick his drug habit. He'd landed a new recording contract with Columbia Records, cutting his decades-long ties with Motown and Berry Gordy. He also was getting inspired by some of the new music he was hearing in Europe--particularly synth pop and reggae. It's easy to hear both musical influences in "Sexual Healing's" syncopated electronic beat and synths. It's also easy to hear the sound of an innovative artist and man, reawakened in his prime. While he'd made euphemistic references to sex before (ex: "Let's Get It On"), he no longer minced words. I found out only recently that there's a reason why 99.9% of radio DJs fade the song out quickly after the line Please don't procrastinate. (Listen to the last few seconds of the song with the volume turned up, and you'll hear that Marvin apparently was borrowing a few moves out of the Rick James and Prince playbook, too.) Nevertheless, there's still a tenderness in the delivery that makes this song less about panty-droppin' and more about intimacy. (Unfortunately, a lot of the slow jam purveyors that followed--particularly in the 90s--failed to get that subtle difference.)
