#3. "Superstition" (Stevie Wonder)

My entire world as a little kid centered around Sesame Street.  My day didn't officially begin until I was sitting in front of the T.V., singing Come and play / everything's a-okay with a mouthful of Cheerios.
Way back in the day, our local ABC-TV affiliate in Western North Carolina had some sort of arrangement with PBS to broadcast Sesame Street weekday mornings in the time slot after Good Morning America.  Occasionally, they would dig into the vaults and rebroadcast episodes from early in the show's run.  (As the MuppetWiki site reminded me, Sesame Street used to shoot 130 episodes a year, even though it aired 260 days a year, which meant you were going to see some re-runs along the way.)
I remember waking up one summer morning (pretty sure it was July 1981), and the humidity was already stifling.  I wasn't in the best mood anyway because my mom had signed me up for a week-long vacation Bible school retreat, and my enthusiasm for having to pack into my pastor's station wagon every morning with 10 other kids for the 30-minute drive to Camp Lutheridge was nil to none.  Actually, I remember days #1 and 2 of the retreat weren't too bad: I met kids from other towns, we sang songs, ate peanut butter sandwiches, and some nice adults helped us make artsy-fartsy shakers out of dried lima beans and paper plates.  But when I found out there was a day #3 (and a day #4, and a day #5), well, that just felt like overkill.
Anyway, I remember being "difficult" that morning.  I didn't want breakfast, and I definitely didn't want to get out of my pajamas.  So my mom told me to go watch some Sesame Street until I snapped out of it.
I grumpily played "One of These Things (is Not Like the Others)" and watched Big Bird and Mr. Hooper spin educational-comedy gold, and then suddenly, there was Stevie Wonder on the screen.
I sat there, mesmerized as he and his band launched into a gritty rendition of his song "Superstition" from the fantastic Talking Book (1972).  It was unlike anything I'd ever seen or heard before.  I mean, here was this cat, looking as slick and cool as axle grease on a snow cone, churning out some of the deepest funk ever broadcast at 9 in the morning on a Wednesday.  It blew my little mind wide open.  And it shook me out of my doldrums.
(Sidebar: this is the main difference I see between today's Sesame Street and the show that I used to know: the show that I fell in love with was a funky, try-anything endeavor.  It was a safe haven for children, but it wasn't sanitized to the point of being sterile.  It didn't totally ignore that the world is often a big, scary place; it just taught little ones how to be smart and brave in an adult-sized world.)

Years later, I learned that Wonder's performance had originally aired in 1973.  Watching it again online as an adult, it still feels as fresh and vital as the day I saw it at age 3 (and even back then, the footage was already 8 years old).  That's not only a testament to Wonder as a consummate musician and performer, but a testament to the universal and enduring power of this song.  

Lyrically, "Superstition" is pretty much just a string of allusions to nonsense beliefs: broken mirrors bringing misfortune, unlucky number 13, etc.  As he told NPR's Deborah Williams back in December 2000, he came up with the vocal melody and merely plugged in the first words that popped into his head.
"The first thing that I put down were the drums and then after that I put the Clavinet down, and really, I just started singing the melody.  Probably the first thing—the only thing I can remember that I said that I remember keeping was the line 'Wash your face and hands'."

Honestly, he could have sung any old lyrics to that groove, and it still would have been a hit.  The backing track on this song is a thing of marvel.  With the exception of the horn section, Wonder played every single instrument: the interweaving Clavinet lines that sound like dueling rock guitars (more on that in a sec), the agile synth bass, and those strutting drums.  It's an exercise in arranging and rhythm that I don't think Wonder himself has ever bested.

Bar trivia factoid: Wonder actually wrote "Superstition" for his buddy, guitarist Jeff Beck.  Beck had guested on Wonder's song "Lookin' for Another Pure Love," so to return the favor, Wonder came up with "Superstition" for Beck and his new group (Beck, Bogert & Appice) to include on their upcoming album.

But then Motown/Tamla chief Berry Gordy heard the song, and he urged Wonder to record it himself instead, envisioning it as the centerpiece of the upcoming Talking Book.  So Wonder acquiesced and recorded his own rendition, using his Clavinet to recreate the chunky riff that he'd written with Beck's guitar in mind.

In short, there was a delay in the release of Beck, Bogert & Appice's album, so Motown/Tamla seized the opportunity to push out Wonder's "Superstition" in October 1972 before his pal's version could drop.  As you might imagine, there were some hurt feelings.  But considering Wonder guested on Beck's album Blow by Blow a few years later, I'd say all was forgiven and forgotten.

"Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours" (Stevie Wonder)

Stevie Wonder's 1970 hit single "Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours" was a landmark: it was the first time Motown chief Berry Gordy had allowed him to both write and produce on his own.  (Thankfully, it wasn't the last.)  It also was his first Grammy nomination—not to mention the first Grammy nom for his mother, Lula Mae Hardaway, who is credited as a co-writer on the track.  Apparently, after she heard him play the melody on piano for the first time, she exclaimed, "Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours!" giving him the idea for the hook.

The first time I heard the track was in summer 1987.  My family was packed into my mom's Oldsmobile, heading down I-26 to the South Carolina coast.  I was crammed into the backseat with a cooler full of Sunkist and enough snacks to feed five families.

Back in those days, there used to be a radio dead zone between suburban Columbia, SC, and the junction of I-95, where all you could pick up were faint signals, all bleeding together in a garble of incoherent static.  It always was my least favorite stretch of the trip: the topography was flat, skinny pine trees and sweltering asphalt were the only things to look at outside the car window, and there was no music.  Not even the crappy adult contemporary stuff my parents often chose to listen to in those days.  It was very "are we there yet?"-inducing for a 9-year-old kid.

So the moment I began seeing billboards and road signs indicating that we were about 50 miles from Charleston, I started lobbying my parents to turn the radio back on.  Nothing was coming in all that well, except for this one station (I believe out of Orangeburg, SC) that was playing vintage R&B.  I was going through a phase at the time anyway of wanting to hear nothing but oldies, largely because my friend Bill had been sharing mixtapes of his mom's old vinyl with me.  So throwback soul was right up my alley.

Anyway, crackling through the static, came this funky electric sitar riff, followed by this sanctified howl and barrage of drums.  Although I wasn't familiar with the song itself, the moment the vocal kicked in, I instantly knew it was Stevie Wonder.  And by the first chorus, I was jamming: Oooh, baby, here I am / Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours.

Then a curious thing happened: about halfway through the track, the right channel suddenly dropped out.  The song kept playing, but it felt lopsided—the bass, the backing singers, and the tambourine all had vanished.

The moment the song had finished, the DJ came on with an announcement.  "Ladies and gentlemen, we had some technical difficulties on that last one.  So I'm going to play it again.  Because Stevie deserves to be heard in stereo."

And he immediately played the song again, in its entirety.  It was one of the coolest things I've ever heard a DJ do.  I think about it every time I play this track.

(And Stevie does deserve to be heard in stereo, by the way.)

"Tell Me Something Good" (Rufus feat. Chaka Khan)

Time was, Stevie Wonder was bubbling over with so much unbridled creativity that, not only was he churning out his own awe-inspiring albums every few months, he was giving away a ton of music to other artists, too.  Aretha Franklin, The Spinners, and the band Rufus, to name but a few.
Wonder became a fan of Rufus after hearing their 1973 cover of his song "Maybe Your Baby," which features a searing lead vocal from Chaka Khan.  To express his admiration, he decided to write Rufus an original song with Khan's voice in mind.
So one afternoon, he surprised them by dropping by their recording studio in L.A. and unveiled his new composition, a funky, upbeat song called "Come and Get This Stuff."
Khan (being Khan) flat out told Wonder that she didn't care for it.
As you can imagine, the band was mortified.  But Wonder (being Wonder) laughed it off and whipped up the sultry "Tell Me Something Good" in response.  
(He ultimately gave "Come and Get This Stuff" to his ex-wife, Syreeta Wright, for her second album, Stevie Wonder Presents: Syreeta.)
Like every Wonder composition, everything on "Tell Me Something Good" from 1974's Rags to Rufus is in its right place: the slinky verses with their descending clavinet lines, the noteless bridges with their heavy-breathing vocal percussion, and the fiery choruses with their rapturous exclamations of Tell me something good, punctuated by "talkbox" and distorted lead guitars.  It all serves to make your hips move like...well...y'know.
But it's Khan's performance that seals the deal.  She promises that she's gonna set your stuff on fire, and then she delivers, tenfold.  Her vocal is so naughty yet so sublimely sweet, I'm sure it's why radio programmers in 1974 couldn't resist keeping this paean to good nookie in constant rotation.

"I Wish" (Stevie Wonder)

There's unmistakeable joy in every Stevie Wonder song.  It's not only in the lyrics or his unforgettable melodies, but it's also in the delivery.  The moment you hear Stevie's voice/keyboards/harmonica/drums/percussion, you feel the elation and love in every note.  Same goes for the performances of his supporting players; you can feel that those musicians were ecstatic to be playing alongside him.
Which brings me to "I Wish" from the near-perfect Songs in the Key of Life (1976).  
I've watched the 1997 Classic Albums documentary about the making of Songs in the Key of Life more times than I can count.  And I always find myself smiling when it comes to the part where Wonder is talking about coming up with "I Wish," which lyrically reminisces about simpler times and being a kid.
In short, he'd been attending Motown's annual company picnic—hanging out, eating food, and playing games with his extended family of label-mates, and it made him feel nostalgic for his childhood.  That same evening after the picnic, he went right into the studio with the tune already gestating in his brain, and he recorded "I Wish."
The repeating, 8-note riff that Wonder plays with his left hand alone is enough to make this one of Motown's best releases of all time.  But add in that galloping beat with the funkiest hi-hat pattern ever (also played by Wonder), Nathan Watts's stringed bass, and that buoyant big band-esque horn line, and you've got a timeless classic that never fails conjure memories of "the good ol' days."  

"It's a Shame" (The Spinners)

"It's a Shame" by The Spinners (1970) was the first of many steps toward autonomy for then 20-year-old Stevie Wonder.  He'd already been recording and touring for the "Motown machine" for the better part of a decade when, inspired by the example of label mate Marvin Gaye, he began pushing to write his own material and produce other artists, too.
Along with producing his own hit single "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" in 1970, he ended up being allowed to work with The Spinners, who'd languished without a hit for 10 years until "It's a Shame" came along.  Written with his musician friend Lee Garrett and eventual ex-wife Syreeta Wright, the song actually is about a rough patch that Wonder and Wright were going through in their relationship.  (Hearing lead singer G.C. Cameron crooning about emotional manipulation and catty cruelty makes one think those two should never have been a couple to begin with.)
In spite of its subject matter, the track has an ebullient groove, complete with bright, shiny horns and a tasty electric guitar riff.  It's also a showcase for Wonder's drumming abilities, which are every bit as impressive as his harmonica skills.  Listen to how he structures the groove: he plays the kick drum just a touch behind the beat but then uses that intricate hi-hat pattern to push the meter a little.  It creates a sense of tension and also gives track a little swagger and swing.  (The man truly is a genius.)
Incidentally, the single holds the distinction of being the only Top 20 single The Spinners recorded for Motown before being dropped by the label in 1971.  The very next year, the group was picked up by Atlantic Records and ended up recording a string of huge hit singles under the direction of writer/producer Thom Bell, who turned them into one of the top-selling R&B groups of the 70s.  (Now that is a shame.)

"As" (Stevie Wonder)

Every album that Stevie Wonder made between 1972-1980 was a masterpiece.  But the 1976 double album Songs in the Key of Life was a standout.  It was four sides, chock-full of everything that made Wonder a superstar: smooth R&B, raw funk, Latin-tinged pop, soulful ballads, fusion jazz, and even classical music.  Songs that weren't officially released as singles from the album, like the infectiously catchy "Isn't She Lovely," even got a fair amount of airplay in the late 70s.  (I remember that track and others were in heavy rotation even into the early 80s on local radio in Western NC, where I grew up.)
For whatever reason, the single "As" never got much airplay in our neck of the woods.  Who knows why.  Part of me thinks it was the length.  After all, it is 7 minutes long.  (Only problem with that theory is our local DJs never had any qualms about fading something out after 4 minutes.  Even if it was in the middle of the best damn part of a song.)
My current theory is that the radio program directors didn't want listeners making angry calls to the station, wondering why the Southern Fried DJ on the air just announced a song named "Ass."
I digress.
Since it didn't get a lot of exposure, I didn't really pay attention to the song until many, many years later.  I was waiting tables one summer in college, and I'd have to drive about 20 minutes from my mom's house to the restaurant every day.  I typically worked the brunch/lunch shift, which meant I'd catch the tail end of morning drive-time shows on my commute.  The crappy car radio in my Mazda barely picked up any local stations, but for some reason it could pick up the top R&B station from Charlotte!  So I got in the habit of listening to the Tom Joyner Morning Show on my commute.  Back then and now still, Joyner had a penchant for old skool R&B, and this one day, Joyner and the crew were discussing "As."  I believe it was the show's news commentator Sybil Wilkes who called it Wonder's "best song," which almost made me run off the road.  
Better than "Superstition!?"  Better than "Signed, Sealed, Delivered!?"
Anyway, Joyner played it.  All 7 minutes of it.  And it was good.  
It was--"I was two minutes late clocking in because I had to let the man's song finish"--good.
It is a very deep, spiritual song about love.  Pure love.  Musically, the verses are sunny and upbeat, with Wonder expressing that, no matter what, "I'll be loving you always."  (I'm not doing the lyrics justice at all.  Read them here.)  There are times I listen to the lyrics and think it's a parent talking to a child.  Sometimes I hear someone confirming his most heartfelt feelings to his soulmate.  Other times I hear God addressing humanity...  
And while the verses are deep, the refrain somehow gets even deeper.  As a friend used to say, "It's church."  The rhythms get more complex, the backup singers drop in, and Wonder lets loose--particularly when you get to the apex of the song.  He dips into this deep growl over the musical vamp that shakes you to the core.  Vocally, it is my favorite moment of his on tape, which is saying a lot. 
Although I still consider another of Wonder's songs my favorite for sentimental reasons, Ms. Wilkes may have been absolutely right: it is Wonder's most exceptional song.