Luther Vandross: Make It Your Own

I enjoyed a recent documentary about the life and work of Luther Vandross. (‘Luther: Never Too Much’, 2024, directed by Dawn Porter)

‘I want to be remembered as a premier singer of our day, not as the love doctor.’
Luther Vandross

Vandross was a soul singer, songwriter, arranger and producer. Gifted with a smooth velvet tenor voice, which could quiver excitedly and then settle securely on a simple refrain, he sang of love sought, cherished and lost, and so charmed his way into the hearts of millions. His career was marked by single-mindedness and self-belief; by pragmatism and versatility; and by an ability to seize new opportunities in his own distinctive style. 

‘I’m going to focus my entire life and whole energy into [music]. And there is no other consideration. So rejection will just have to happen. And if it happens, it’ll happen, and I’ll keep on going.’

'All of the band was on time for rehearsal
And played everything just right.
Then came the news telling me not to worry,
The show is selling out tonight.
Well, the lights went on, and suddenly the crowd began to scream,
And as you could well imagine, it was like living a dream.
Oh, but when the lights went down and the standing "O" was done,
I was just another lonely guy who didn't have no one.
Give me your love, give me your love, give me your love.
I wanted your love, your love baby, your love baby, your love.’
I Wanted Your Love'

Vandross was born in Manhattan in 1951. Though his beloved father, an upholsterer and singer, died of diabetes when he was 8, he had a happy childhood.

‘The funniest thing is, if there’s enough love in your house and in your home and in your life, poor, rich, none of that stuff registers.’

Raised by his mother, a nurse, on the Lower East Side and then the Bronx, Vandross delighted in watching Motown acts on the TV and drew pictures of the Supremes in art class. Having taught himself to play piano by ear, his love of music was crystalised when his sisters took him aged 13 to see Dionne Warwick at the Apollo Theater, Harlem. 

‘I knew from that moment that I wanted to be able to affect people the way that she affected me that day.’

With high school friends, Vandross formed the Shades of Jade, insisting that they each invest $23 on emerald-green patent leather shoes. He performed at the Apollo as part of the vocal harmony act Listen My Brother, and subsequently appeared with the group in the first season of Sesame Street. He dropped out of Western Michigan University so as to pursue his career.

‘I really did not want a Plan B. I said it’s going to be this or I’m going to be 80 trying to do it.’

Gradually Vandross made a name for himself as a backing singer. During the recording of the soul-inflected 1975 album ‘Young Americans’, David Bowie was so impressed with Vandross’ ability to make up vocal parts on the spot, that he asked him to arrange the whole album, and adapted one of Vandross’ songs into ‘Fascination.’  

David Bowie and Luther Vandross

For much of the ‘70s Vandross provided backing vocals for the great talents of the day, including Roberta Flack & Donny Hathaway, Chaka Khan, Bette Midler, Diana Ross, Carly Simon, Barbra Streisand, Donna Summer, Chic and Sister Sledge. He also took lucrative work singing advertising jingles - for brands such as Miller and Lowenbrau beers, Mountain Dew and Juicy Fruit; NBC, KFC and Burger King. When asked to communicate that Gino’s Pizza was sizzling hot, he invented his signature quivering vocal styling.

Throughout this period, Vandross worked hard and earned good money. And yet solo success did not come easily, and his efforts with his own band Luther were unsuccessful.

‘I have a sound in my head, and I want to get it out.’

All started to change when Vandross featured as lead singer on two 1980 hits by the French-Italian studio group Change. ‘The Glow of Love’ and ‘Searching’ were propulsive dance numbers that perfectly showcased his smooth, sensuous vocal delivery. The band wanted him to sign on for a second album, but he resisted.

‘Flower's blooming, morning dew
And the beauty seems to say,
It's a pleasure when you treasure
All that's new and true and gay.
Easy living and we're giving
What we know we're dreaming of.
We are one having fun
Walking in the glow of love.’
Change, '
The Glow of Love' (D Romani / M Malavasi / W K Garfield)

Finally, Roberta Flack, on hearing Vandross conducting a phenomenal sound check for one of her gigs, insisted that he make his own way in the world.

‘Luther Vandross likes to say that I fired him. But I never really fired him. What I did was encourage him to believe in his own ability to produce his first album.’
Roberta Flack

At last Vandross broke through on his own terms. He recorded a succession of stunningly good modern soul albums, channelling the sophisticated spirit of the Philadelphia sound. These records featured irresistible floor-fillers and heart-rending romantic ballads: ‘Never Too Much’, ‘I Wanted Your Love’, ‘I’ll Let You Slide’, '’Til My Baby Comes Home.’

Vandross then set about organising his legendary touring act. Wearing sequinned sports jackets and spangly shirts, silk bow ties and flamboyant pocket handkerchiefs; with carefully choreographed dance routines from glamorously attired backing singers, he put on a show. In the pursuit of excellence, he could be a hard taskmaster.

‘Excuse me. I’m not playing the lottery. Get it right!’

In the documentary Vandross’ long-term bassist and writing partner, Marcus Miller, observes that Vandross kept his musicians in check too. 

‘There’s one point in the song [‘Superstar'] where he goes: ‘Keep it right there. Keep it right there.’ …He was telling me and the rest of the guys who like to play jazz: Don’t jazz this thing up. Keep it right there. Play it easy.’
Marcus Miller

Luther’s second album

'Long ago
And oh so far away,
I fell In love with you
Before the second show.
And your guitar
And you sound so sweet and clear,
But you're not really here.
It's just the radio.’
Superstar' (L Russell, B Bramlett)

Vandross was a master of the cover version, recording distinctive interpretations of the Temptations’ ‘Since I Lost My Baby’, The Carpenters’ ‘Superstar’, Brenda Russell’s ‘If Only for One Night,’ and Dionne Warwick’s ‘Anyone Who Has a Heart.’  

‘I try to do songs that I think I can do differently, that I think fit me. Sort of like when somebody chooses what to wear when they are going to go to the Academy Awards or something. They choose that special thing.’

At the 1987 NAACP Image Awards, Vandross performed an extraordinary rendition of the Bacharach and David song ‘A House Is Not a Home’ - with Dionne Warwick, who originally made the number famous, present in the audience. On film you can see her joy as Vandross puts his own individual stamp on the classic number. Finally, overwhelmed, she wipes a tear from her eye.

‘What I loved more than anything else about hearing the songs that he decided he wanted to record of mine, was that he made them his own.’
Dionne Warwick

I was quite struck by Warwick’s observation. In the world of commercial creativity, we often inherit other people’s concepts. We are asked to reinvent or reinvigorate an incumbent campaign, to breathe new life into a tired brand. We have to pick up where others have left off. Vandross teaches us that we should always seek to stamp our work with our own identity, enhancing it with our own ideas and interpretations. We should strive to make it our own.

A chair is still a chair, even when there's no one sitting there.
But a chair is not a house, and a house is not a home,
When there's no one there to hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss goodnight.
A room is still a room, even when there's nothing there but gloom.
But a room is not a house and a house is not a home,
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart.’
A House Is Not a Home’ (B Bacharach / H David)

 

Every year from 1981 to 1994, Vandross achieved at least one top 10 R&B hit, and he went on to achieve hitherto elusive crossover success. He worked with his heroes - Dionne Warwick, Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder - and collaborated with the next generation of female R&B singers - Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson. 

‘Fame and fortune… Fortune is cool, fame is not always so cool.’
Marcus Miller

And yet Vandross was a troubled man. He was unlucky in love and uncomfortable discussing his sexuality. He revealed that his most personal lyric was in his song ‘Any Love.’

‘I speak to myself sometimes, and I say, "Oh my,
In a lot of ways, you're a lucky guy,
And now all you need is a chance to try any love."
In my heart there's a need to shout,
Dying, screaming, crying “Let me out”,
Are all those feelings that want to touch
Any love?’
Any Love'

From an early age Vandross struggled with his weight, and periodically he went on crash diets. The media speculated endlessly about his sexuality and his see-sawing waistline. 

‘I was an emotional eater. If the music wasn’t sounding right, I ate to cope. Any excuse I could use, I would use to eat.’

Suffering from diabetes and hypertension, in 2003 Vandross had a severe stroke and fell into a coma for nearly two months. He died from a heart attack in 2005, at the age of 54.

Luther Vandross was a luminous talent, whose work still provides the soundtrack to our romances, celebrations and heartbreaks. His songs lift our spirits, gladden our hearts, and sustain us through tough times. He coaches us to be determined in pursuing a vision, to be agile in delivering a strategy; to be distinctive in execution. But there is another lesson to be taken from his life: we should appreciate people’s privacy; rein in our prurient curiosity. We should show some respect.

 

'I can't fool myself, I don't want nobody else to ever love me.
You are my shining star, my guiding light, my love fantasy.
There's not a minute, hour, day or night that I don't love you.
You're at the top of my list 'cause I'm always thinking of you.
I still remember in the days when I was scared to touch you,
How I spent my daydreaming planning how to say I love you.
You must have known that I had feelings deep enough to swim in.
That's when you opened up your heart, and you told me to come in.
A thousand kisses from you is never too much,
I just don't wanna stop.
Oh, my love
A million days in your arms is never too much.
I just don't wanna stop.
Too much, never too much, never too much, never too much.’
Never Too Much'

No. 520

Karaoke Strategy: Always Rehearse in Private Before You Perform in Public

Everett Shinn ‘Revue’ 1908

I confess I’m partial to a bit of karaoke.

I like the theatre of it, the amateurishness and enthusiasm. I like the cozy intimacy of the booth, the excited loading of the playlist, the sporadic arrival of the drink orders. I like it when Michelle sings Carly Simon, and Mike channels Bowie, and everyone joins in on the chorus to ‘Life on Mars.’ I like the muffled thunder of people chanting ‘Wonderwall’ next door. I like the way it celebrates both individuality and community; the way it helps everyone to remember and forget.

I’m only a moderate singer, but I enjoy joining in. And I have learned that it’s best to come to karaoke armed with a few tunes up your sleeve.

And so, when I was recently invited to a karaoke evening, I was prompt to perform my version of Orange Juice’s ‘Rip It Up.’ I know I can deliver this with a decent impersonation of Edwyn Collins’ refined vocal stylings, and with the added value of my awkward ‘80s dance-steps.

'When I first saw you,
Something stirred within me,
You were standing sultry in the rain.
If I could have held you,
I would have held you.
Rip it up and start again.’
Orange Juice, ‘
Rip It Up’ (S R Greenaway / T W Collins)

Before too long, my slot at the microphone came round again, and I turned to another old favourite: Engelbert Humperdinck’s ‘The Last Waltz’. I’ve long been charmed by its crooning evocation of 1960s dancehalls. It’s true, I struggle somewhat with the high notes. But it’s such a romantic sentiment that I’m sure no one notices…

'I wondered should I go or should I stay,
The band had only one more song to play.
And then I saw you out the corner of my eye,
A little girl, alone and so shy.
I had the last waltz with you,
Two lonely people together.
I fell in love with you,
The last waltz should last forever.’
Engelbert Humperdinck, '
The Last Waltz’ (J B Mason / L D Reed)

As the evening wore on, my supply of known numbers was running out. I couldn’t find my signature song, The Smiths’ ‘Please, Please, Please,’ on the machine. And I was conscious that my picks had, to this point, been somewhat antique.

Karaoke is very much about self-expression, not just in the way that you perform, but in the songs you select. Perhaps my repertoire was betraying my late-Boomer life-stage.

Now the microphone was coming round to me again. What was I to do? Maybe I should choose something more current and contemporary; something that demonstrated I was still in touch with popular culture?

I’ve always had a soft spot for Lana Del Ray’s melancholic chansons noires, and in particular her 2011 classic ‘Video Games.’ I’d not sung this before, but it seemed in a low enough register, and, at that particular moment, lubricated a little by industrial Malbec, I was sure I could give it a go…

Sadly, when the tune came up, I discovered that, in truth, I only really knew the chorus. As the lyrics scrolled by, I sought desperately for some residual recollection of a melody. To no avail. And so I delivered most of the song in a rather awkward monotone. This was more woeful butchery than wistful beauty.  

I sensed the audience’s attention waning, switching to the next item on the playlist, to the next singer on the stage.  

I had failed.

'It's you, it's you, it's all for you,
Everything I do.
I tell you all the time,
Heaven is a place on earth with you.
Tell me all the things you wanna do.
I heard that you like the bad girls.
Honey, is that true?’
Lana Del Ray, ‘
Video Games’ (E Grant / J Parker)

I guess the conclusion here is that we should never attempt a karaoke tune without previously establishing that it is within our skillset - that we can perform the verse and the bridge, as well as the chorus. Preparation pays.

As in karaoke, so in life and work. We are often encouraged to follow our intuition, to trust our gut. But I think we should only do this up to a point.

Once we have listened to our heart, we should then pay heed to the practicalities; run through the rationalities. We should always rehearse in private before we perform in public.

For my last number I decided to return to more familiar territory. I belted out Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ with relief and recognition. Yes, I was playing it safe. But I’m a man of a certain age, of limited vocal talents. I’m comfortable with that. And you can tell everybody, that this is my song.   

‘It's a little bit funny,
This feeling inside.
I'm not one of those who can easily hide.
I don't have much money, but boy if I did,
I'd buy a big house where we both could live.
And you can tell everybody
This is your song.
It may be quite simple, but
Now that it's done.
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind,
That I put down in words,
How wonderful life is
While you're in the world.’
Elton John, ‘
Your Song’ (B Taupin, E John)

No. 478

The Five Ws: You Won’t Get to the Right Answers If You Don’t Ask the Right Questions

I recently attended a performance of James Graham’s excellent new play, Ink, at the Almeida Theatre in Islington (running until 5 August 2017). Ink relates the story of Rupert Murdoch’s 1969 purchase of The Sun newspaper, and how, under the editorship of Larry Lamb, it became Britain’s most popular and influential title.

It’s an enjoyable yarn, full of fond recollections of Fleet Street’s Golden Age; of scoops and scandals, hacks and hot metal. The play also has a number of contemporary resonances, concerned as it is with journalistic ethics, truth, privacy and populism. At one stage Hugh Cudlipp, the editor of The Mirror (The Sun’s rival), warns Lamb to beware the Pandora’s Box of populism.

‘Pander to and promote the most base instincts of people all you like, fine. Create an appetite. But I warn you. You’ll have to keep feeding it.’

Ink begins with an exposition of journalism’s Five Ws: the five questions that classically every story should answer:

What happened?

Who was involved?

Where did it take place?

When did it take place?

Why did it happen?

I was quite taken with the elegant simplicity of the Five Ws. They force a full description of the key facts and core events. They focus the mind. But in the play Lamb challenges the value of the last W, ‘Why?’

‘Once you know ‘why’ something happened, the story’s over, it’s dead. Don’t answer ‘Why?’, a story can run and run, can run forever. And the other reason, actually, honestly, I think, is that there is no ‘Why?’ Most times. ‘Why?’ suggests there’s a plan, that there is a point to things, when they happen. And there’s not, there’s just not. Sometimes shit – just - happens. Only thing worth asking isn’t ‘Why?’ It’s …’What’s next?’’

This is clearly a provocative thought. We imagine that, while all five of the Ws are important, ‘Why?’ is the critical question. ‘Why?’ suggests curiosity and inquiry. ‘Why?’ offers insight and understanding. ‘Why?’ implies progress. But a diet of sensationalism, celebrity and sport needs no explanation; it doesn’t improve or illuminate our world. It gives immediate satisfaction and just propels us along with its own momentum: ‘What’s next?’

I wonder whether, in the commercial world, we have seen an equivalent erosion in the value we attach to ‘Why?’ In our race to embrace accelerated living; to create engaging content at pace; to express a brand in real time, do we sometimes forget to pause and ask ‘Why?’: ‘Why is the market behaving in this way?’ ‘Why do consumers feel and act like this?’ ‘Why are we doing this?’  Or are we too just endlessly asking ‘What next?’

The Toyota Motor Corporation used to have a process that asked ‘Five Whys?’ every time they encountered a defect or problem. They believed that if you ask ‘Why?’ often enough of an issue, you can pursue cause and effect down to true root causes; and therefore you’re best placed to find a solution. The repetitive ‘Why?’ may be a little irritating in the mouths of children, but it clearly encourages deeper examination of a task.

In this vein, I have always liked Robin Wight’s encouragement to ‘interrogate the product until it confesses to its strength.’ It’s an approach that prompted WCRS to produce a motorcade of great advertising for BMW back in the day.

Some have partnered ‘Why?’ with its natural bedfellow ‘How?’ ‘Why?’ provides insight into the problem; it illuminates the issue. ‘How?’ provides foresight into the solution; it sets us on the right path.

In the communications industry we could perhaps imagine some cocktail of the ‘Five Ws’ with an added ‘How?’ forming the basis of a compellingly simple creative brief.

I hesitate to make this suggestion because in my time in the industry there was endless debate around creative brief templates: Which particular set of words and format provide the most clarity and catalyse the right kind of creative response? Which are best suited to the demands of modern marketing? I’ve seen task-based briefs, propositional briefs; experience briefs and ‘big idea’ briefs; PowerPointed and pictorial briefs. I’ve seen one-word and six-page briefs. I’ve seen them knitted and laminated.

Broadly speaking, I have found that the more nuanced and sophisticated the thinking that has gone into a creative brief template’s construction, the more complex and difficult it is to use. I have always preferred the simple to the subtle.

So what are we to learn from all these ‘Hows?’ ‘Whys?’ and ‘Wherefores?’?

Perhaps it is that the key to the strategists’ art is the questions we ask. Asking good questions is as important as arriving at good answers. Indeed you won’t get to the right answers if you don’t ask the right questions. Questions are the keys that unlock the door.

Of course, you may find that in a creative business the most important question of all is the one that asks you to challenge current practice; that suggests you try something new and different; that prompts you to rewrite the rules: ‘Why not?’

‘Why does your love hurt so much?
Why?
Why does your love hurt so much?
Don’t know why.’

Carly Simon, Why (Nile Rodgers, Bernard Edwards)

No. 139