I was on my way to work on Wednesday when a new song called “Speedin,’” by the R&B artist Omarion came on the radio. I use the term, “R&B,” loosely for lack of a better description. There was Rhythm, but no Blues, even though it was supposed to be a heart-rending elegy about lost love and missed opportunities. ”Speedin’” had been massaged in the studio and pitch-corrected within an inch of it’s life. Omarion’s vocal stylings provided a reasonable facsimile of a man experiencing heartache, but he steadfastly refused to push his voice anywhere near the point where effort or strain would be required to really sell it. Or even worse, maybe he had and that’s the farthest he could push his tepid voice without warbling off-key. Even worse, all the rough edges that could have imbued the song with humanity–with soul–had dutifully been buffed and polished away by some studio wizard.
You can probably tell that I’m not a fan of the song or Omarion. So why did I dedicate over 150 words to savage a new release by a mid-level contemporary R&B artist?
To underscore the importance of what we lost yesterday.
On Thursday of this week,
it was reported that legendary R&B recording artist, Teddy Pendergrass, died from colon cancer at the age of 59. Over the course of his career, Teddy Pendergrass recorded R&B/Soul classics such as “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” as a member of Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes and later, as a solo artist, he recorded soulful ballads such as, “Love TKO,” “Come Go With Me,” “Close The Door,” and “Turn Out The Lights.” Pendergrass had a raspy, smoky baritone that oozed sensuality and his powerful delivery lent an urgency to his lyrics, which often spoke of love and desire. Today’s male R&B singers, like Omarion, favor an over-produced thin, nasally tenor, sweetened with pitch correction tricks or Auto-tune as they struggle to find the note. Listeners spend half the song expecting the dude’s other testicle to descend at any moment, because in neither delivery nor affect, does the guy seem to know what he’s singing about. Teddy’s voice and delivery was urgent and raw. He sang with the knowing confidence and tenderness of a MAN. A man who had lived life and known love, heartbreak and loss. Teddy would implore and and even SHOUT his feelings. In every song, you could tell he was feeling the moment, and dammit, he wanted you to feel it too!
At the height of his popularity in 1982, Pendergrass was partially paralyzed in a single car collision. I remembered when it happened, and although I really wasn’t familiar with his body of work at the time, I remember feeling moved and saddened by this sudden tragedy. Although Pendergrass was never able to take the perform with the same intense, sweat-soaked performances that were a hallmark of his stage shows, in time, he did perform again on occasion. Although the accident may have robbed him of his mobility, and the thunder in his voice was dulled, the accident never robbed him of his passion. That emotion and rawness of Teddy Pendergrass’ voice–the soul–never left him.
- JEP
