Luther Vandross “Luther Vandross”
Politeness is hardly a virtue in Pop music. When The Beatles sang “Please Please Me,” they sounded young and adorable, but really they were complaining about a lack of reciprocity. When The Stones said “please to meet you,” they were obscuring a more satanic truth. Otis and Aretha didn’t ask for “Respect” — they demanded it. Indie Rock is more abstract or poetic than it is gallant or amiable. Pop music demands that you pay attention. Hip Hop is full of itself. And Punk is snotty. In the genealogy of modern music, good manners are hard to find.
There are exceptions. New Age music exists mostly to calm or heal. It asks for nothing in return. Ambient music functions similarly. When Brian Eno released “Discreet Music” in 1975, he imagined music that could mingle with the sound of a family eating dinner or talking in their living room. It was meant to comfortably co-exist. And then there is Quiet Storm, a sub-genre of Soul and R&B that may be more a vibe than a particular strain. In 1975, uncoincidentally the same year as Eno’s ambient debut, Smokey Robinson’s released “A Quiet Storm.” On that album, the Motown legend, who was on a bit of a cold streak, tried to capture the sad, but beautiful, feeling of rolling thunder and cleansing rain.
Just a year later, Melvin Lindsey, on WHUR in Washington D.C., was hosting a radio show named after and devoted to this sinuous form. “Quiet Storm” was never a dominant format. And It wasn’t a passing trend, like Disco. In fact, it was never one specific thing. DJs would pull tracks from Funk, Soul, R&B, Adult Contemporary, AM Gold and Pop, itself. If you search hard enough, you’ll still find a smattering of Quiet Storm programs broadcasting today. But, when it reached its peak in the mid-80s, DJs would play Al Green into Bill Withers in Sade into Lionel Richie into The Isley Brothers into Anita Baker into the champion of the form, Luther Vandross.
While it has strong genetic connections with both Ambient music and Soul music, Quiet Storm was never taken quite so seriously as its close relatives. In time, the format became synonymous with bougie Black domesticity and female-centric sensuality. It was music meant to be played in the background while you shopped for groceries, or washed the dishes or daydreamed of romance. It grooved just enough to help accelerate foreplay but was inconspicuous enough to not distract from the climax. By the early 90s, as Hip Hop ascended and R&B got freakier, Quiet Storm became something of a quaint anachronism. But for over a decade, it functioned as both an opiate and an aphrodisiac. It was a perfect soundtrack for the bummer days of the Carter administration and for the latent desires of the Me Generation. It was music made mostly by Black women and men, but ultimately appreciated by anyone who understood that the path to sex ran through the senses. You might hear the Quiet Storm in the background, but you definitely noticed the flushness in your cheeks.
Though it’s not technically a codified genre, Quiet Storm is distinguishable from Funk, Soul and R&B. Funk, for example, is typically hard on the edges and its rhythms are heavy on the one. And even when it isn’t hard, it grooves from the bottom. Soul frequently pleads and pushes through the vocals. And R&B typically moves faster. Quiet Storm, however, is all rounded edges. The beats are softer. There are more windchimes and brushes. The vocals are feathery or breathy. And, to state the obvious, Quiet Storm is slow, patient music. It differs from Slow Jams, though, in that the desire is kinder, gentler and a little less (Keith) sweaty.
Throughout most of my youth, I listened to Quiet Storm, though almost never intentionally. I recall Grover Washington Jr’s “Just the Two of Us” playing while I ran errands with my mother. I remember Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” floating behind the sound of silverware and dinner conversation at the local Italian restaurant. I remember my older cousin swooning when Billy Ocean’s “Suddenly” came on the radio. And I swear that I can still feel the clay that was used in Lionel Richie’s “Hello” video. To be clear, I did not seek any of these songs out as a child or a teen. They were just around. Like a mist of fragrance or like the theme song to a daytime soap opera on a sick day from school.
Given its genteel nature, Quiet Storm is easily missed and dismissed. Candidly, I had never even heard the term until a couple of years ago. Through osmosis, I seemingly knew every song in the canon, but understood nothing about its roots or its significance. Perhaps more astounding, though, was my most obvious and embarrassing blind spot -- Luther Vandross. The mere utterance of his name conjures images of beaches and swans and perfume bottles and Showtime at The Apollo. His name sounds like all of those things rolled up into a single voice. But, many years after I first heard his name and, presumably, his voice, I could still not name a single Luther Vandross song. I knew that he died too soon. I knew that his weight fluctuated. I knew that he was a staple of 98.7 KISS-FM. I knew that he had a lovely voice and that, when he used it, women of a certain age would get hot and bothered. But that was about it. In spite of the fact that I lived just a few miles from where Luther grew up and where he was disproportionately popular, and in spite of the fact I watched Showtime at The Apollo in the 1980s and in spite of the fact that, in my first job out of college, I worked for the record label that put out records by Keith Sweat and L.S.G., Luther Vandross passed me by, like a very quiet storm.
Some of my ignorance was a matter of taste. Some of it was certainly a matter of race and gender. But part of it, I believe, was a matter of civility. Luther Vandross was the most polite Soul singer to have ever lived. His music was less a quiet storm and more a beautiful sunshower. You always knew that, for Al Green, “Love and Happiness” and “Let’s Stay Together” were euphemisms for something sexier. You knew that James Brown was aiming for your ass. You knew that Smokey Robinson was being a little too cute. Even Michael Jackson eventually started squealing and trying to convince us he was “Bad.” But Luther did none of those things. He never pushed a single vocal. He never showed off. He floated and glided on heart shaped clouds. When he sang about true, everlasting love, you got the sense that he meant it. And, sure, he knew about sex. But he was more interested in holding hands, opening the door for you and then gazing into your eyes over a candlelit dinner and a glass of Chablis.
All of Luther’s prodigious talent, and his more extraordinary politeness, earned him incredible success. Every single album he released was certified platinum. He could sell out Madison Square Garden. He won eight Grammys, had eight number one R&B singles and dozens more that reached the top forty. He was Whitney Houston’s favorite male singer and Mariah Carey got butterflies when she sang “Endless Love” beside him. Like Madonna and Cher, he’s an artist who does not need a last name (though “Vandross” does tastefully decorate “Luther”). He’s perhaps the most famous R&B star of the 80s to have not crossed over to mainstream Pop (read “white”) audiences. Luther admired Lionel Richie and Billy Ocean. He had what they had, and more. But he didn’t have top of the chart Pop songs. He couldn’t headline festivals in Europe and South America. And he couldn’t have edge. As much as anything, he built his career on radical politeness.
In the 1970s, Luther was a shy, sweet, chubby, twenty something from The Bronx who worshipped Dionne Warwick and could sing just like her -- but better. He performed in local vocal groups. He made regular appearances on Showtime at The Apollo, where he was booed off four times, and kept coming back. He wrote and sang jingles for commercials. He sang backup for everyone from Barbra Streisand to David Bowie, who borrowed a song from Luther on 1975s “Young Americans.” As the 70s wore on, he formed a short lived group, called Luther, and sang lead on a couple of iconic Quiet Storm tracks, credited to Quincy Jones. By the end of the decade, he was an incredibly successful session singer. He had a thriving career. He was celebrity-adjacent. But he was mostly still that shy, sweet, chubby singer from The Bronx. And he was polite seemingly every step of the way.
In 1980, however, Luther began to step forward. His lead vocals on Change’s “Glow of Love” scored him a top forty Pop hit. And, just a year later, he made his solo debut for Epic Records with, “Never Too Much.” The title track reached number one on the R&B charts and the album did the same, on its way to selling millions of copies. That record introduced America, but especially Black America, to a bonafide superstar. Every twelve to eighteen months, Luther would release an album, score a few top ten R&B singles, sell one or two million copies, and smile and sing his way through TV performances. There were incessant whispers about his weight and his sexuality, but they never derailed the singer. Over time, he proved himself to be the quiet storm that simply could not stop raining. Musically, he was not unlike his idol, Dionne Warwick, though vocally he was nearer to his friend, Whitney Houston. He had far more vocal range than either Lionel Richie but far less sex appeal than Keith Sweat. And, by the end of the eighties, Luther Vandross was the rarest sort of superstar. He was beloved for his talent more than his image. He had not crossed over to white America. And he was impossibly polite.
Because his solo career did not take shape until his thirties, Luther was already middle-aged by the time the 90s arrived. The first couple of years of that decade seemed exactly like the previous one. But, by the mid-90s, Hip Hop and Boy Bands swallowed all of the oxygen of Soul and R&B. And Contemporary R&B, with a few notable exceptions, was becoming more hard edged and beats driven. The sum effect of these trends was that Luther was pushed slightly aside. His amiable, romantic, but kind of platonic, ballads were nudged towards the Adult Contemporary radio stations. His fanbase was loyal as ever -- he could still sell a couple million copies of each album and find his way onto the charts. But he became something of an anachronism -- an older, but still beautiful voice, and part of the old guard. To younger listeners, he’d become better known for his duets with Mariah or Janet. Or for his Christmas songs. His voice was still intact. He did not demonstrably change his style. But, he’d been marginalized. His chance to cross over had passed. The new generation had arrived. So, by the end of the 90s, Luther Vandross was a beloved, courtly, aging icon of Soul. “I Know,” from 1998, sold more poorly than any of his previous albums. He was nearing fifty, carrying a lot of extra weight and without a clear path back to the top.
Astonishingly, if politely, Luther came back. After “I Know,” he left Virgin Records to sign with Clive Davis, the executive who helped launch the career of his dear friend, Whitney Houston. The twenty-first century Luther Vandross returned noticeably -- possibly alarmingly -- thinner. The singer who left the previous decade weighed over three hundred pounds. The fifty year old that released his self-titled album on J Records weighed at least a hundred pounds less. He’d suffered from Diabetes his whole life. His father died from Diabetes when he was just eight. The disease had ravaged his family. His whole career, he’d been adored as a Black cherub. But he was not without vanity. Musically, he was a perfectionist. Visually, he was immaculate and pretty. But, like most of the world, he’d always also wanted to be thin. In 2001, he beamed during his promotional appearances. He looked sparkling, many years younger than his actual age. Gossip flared while Luther smiled proudly. The seesaw of Luther’s weight threatened to overshadow his new music.
Alongside his physical transformation, Luther made a minor, but very notable, musical change. He opted to bring in contemporary R&B writers and producers to work with. Warryn Cambell, Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds and a bevy of other young hotshots lined up to have the legend gild their songs. Luther co-wrote most of the tracks. And longtime collaborator Marcus Miller returned. As if to protect his brand, there is a Diane Warren song and two Burt Bacharach songs. But, otherwise, “Luther Vandross,” the album, sounds like no other albums in his oeuvre.
“Luther Vandross” opens with “Take You Out,” the most G rated track on an otherwise PG13 album. The keyboards are typically light. There’s a breeze in the air. But, for the first time in a very long time, you can hear some slap in the beat of a Luther song. It’s not a smack. And it’s not a New Jack itch. It’s more of a skip performed in tap shoes. It is also so wide-eyed and innocent that if Boyz 2 Men or NSYNC performed it, they’d have been laughed out of malls. But, in Luther’s hands, it is the perfect combination of Progressive Soul and Bubblegum. The rhythm is pert. The melodic bed is feathery soft and the singer mostly glides. There are moments when he is sharper in his enunciation and even a few times where he really belts, sounding more like a Slow Jam than a Quiet Storm. As much as anything, though, the song is a literal thesis statement. Luther notices her smile and her style. He wants, simply, to take her out -- maybe to the movies or dinner. He is fascinated by her and wants to get to know her. There is truly no insinuation of sex in the song. Or, if there is, it’s buried deeply under the melody, the vocals, the friendship and the romance.
Just a moment later, however, Luther turns the lights down, gets a surprisingly modern groove going and moans the opening note of “Grown Thangs.” Unlike its predecessor, this track has a legit beat, courtesy of Babyface, and a more knowing hook. This is not Bubblegum. This is a grown, married man, who’s working too much and needs his in-laws to take the kids so he and his wife can spend some quality time together. The track is not far off from Timbaland era Justin Timberlake. There’s more growl in the vocal than we’d ever expect from Luther, but it completely works. And -- yes -- it’s a song about sex. But, it’s equally, if not more, a song about a married, bougie couple that needs connection -- physically and emotionally. If Rick James tried this trick, it would sound like an insincere come on. But when Luther tries it, it reads sweet and romantic. It’s quite a feat.
Though it has more acute angles than his previous work -- more shake in the beat and rasp in the vocals -- a great deal of Luther’s penultimate album is still familiar terrain. There are windchimes and strings. There’s Spanish guitar and brushed cymbals. There’s a singer who’s constantly in the “friend zone” -- on “Bring Your Heart to Mine” and “If I Was the One” -- but who dreams of something more. And on “Like I’m Invisible,” Luther’s not even in the friend zone. He’s just a fleck of something to her. She talks about him as though he’s not standing right there. But, even then, he has uncanny faith and courtesy.
There are two Burt Bacharach songs, which sound charming but dated here, especially next to the breezy, Pharrelly Funk of “Say It Now” and the darker, restless Funk of “How Do I Tell Her.” In spite of its excellent fan service and narrative familiarity, though, “Luther Vandross” stands out on account of its modernity. It was a step forward, into contemporary times, for the singer. Luther always excelled on his “dance tracks,” but they sounded like they were made for wedding or bar mitzvah dance floors and not for the club. Here, if you ignore the words, he frequently sounds hip, which is something Luther Vandross was almost never accused of.
Amid all of the progress and the shifting beats, is the constant of any Luther album: the quiet storm. The elements of the form are present throughout, but things get really stormy on "Hearts Get Broken All the Time (But the Problem Is, This Time It's Mine),” a sad sack, lie in bed and eat your feelings sort of ballad. It’s a largely beautiful song, but it's safe and expected on an album that is otherwise not. Fortunately, he rectifies the minor misstep on the closer, “Love Forgot.” With the slightest of jazz guitar, wind blowing in the distance and piano keys half pressed, we drift through Luther’s rounded edges and smooth turns. The turns are smooth and slow. It’s a ballad that never grooves. It just dreams and forgives. Their love fell apart. But, it’s not his fault. It’s not her fault. It’s just that love forgot. It’s a Hallmark card. But it’s a damn good one. It’s an elite make up and then make out song. and a reminder of just how great Vandross and Luther Miller were as a songwriting team.
“Luther Vandross” is not the most beloved album in his discography. It’s not his most iconic or his most romantic. It didn’t win him any Grammys. But it may be his most daring record since his debut. It marked a rebirth of sorts -- an aging singer who found a fountain of youth, lost almost half of his body weight and gained a half step along the way. It was typically polite but flirted with the idea of asking for more. It delighted his core fans but gave him a foothold into the world of Erykah Badu, D’Angelo and Maxwell, all of whom owed a great debt to Luther.
What followed the album was, of course, the saddest of tragedies. Luther beamed in his promotional appearances from 2001 and 2002, seemingly more comfortable in his new skin. But, by the end of 2002, there were reports that Luther began to binge eat, unable to stop, but terrified of his Diabetes. That year, he recorded “Dance With My Father,” in tribute to the man who’d died forty years earlier from Diabetes. In 2003, the thing that everyone feared, but that nobody wanted to imagine, happened -- Luther suffered a massive stroke. He was in a coma for two months and, when he returned, he was never the same. “Dance With My Father,” released just two weeks after he awoke, was received with glorious and sympathetic fanfare. He won four Grammys in 2004 and the album reached number one on the sales chart -- a first for Luther. But, the highlights couldn’t turn back the clock. Luther was slow to recover. Everything about his life seemed like a struggle. He politely soldiered on, giving interviews to Oprah and accepting lifetime achievement awards. But it was the end. He died in the summer of 2005, just four short years after he looked as vital as he’d ever looked. On “Luther Vandross” he sounded both timeless and restless -- always polite, but more stormy than quiet.