Stevie Wonder: Talking Book (1972)

(Tamla)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

I have more qualms about this album than a Stevie Wonder fanatic is probably supposed to. Wonder looms large for me; I think he's at least one of the five greatest performers in all pop music. The only solo artist I'd conceive as mattering more would be Chuck Berry, and only slightly. And this is a great record. But... well... every time I hear someone complaining about his last three decades of work and the schmaltz of his smash "I Just Called to Say I Love You" and its brethren like "Overjoyed" and "For Your Love," I just wonder if the person complaining has listened to "You and I" lately. This horrifically mawkish chestnut features one of his least imaginative melodies and stands still where, if nothing else, "Just Called" and "Overjoyed" sway a bit. Balladry has been part of Wonder's character from the beginning; his early albums were filled with treacly slow ones hand picked for his voice by the Motown gods. If anything, the perpetual funkiness and grit of his '70s work is the irregularity.

What Talking Book proved in its first moments was simply that Wonder no longer needed such hand-holding, hence the proper beginning of his "classic period." It's not worth the trouble to deny "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" even if you don't care much for it; Wonder's propensity for crowd-pleasing is astounding and worth much celebration. He is earth-shaking in the most direct, personal manner, in the way he can craft a wedding song like "I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever)" that you've heard on such occasions and contexts probably hundreds of times -- and yet if your friends get married and tackle it as their first dance choice, you still don't really mind because it's that durable, that personable, that sweet-beyond-debate.

However, it wasn't really news in 1972 that Wonder could craft a hell of a ballad. It's on Book's unprecedented funk and harder-edged material that his status as a master is sealed. In a sense it's remarkable that music so unconventional, however led by the more instantly appealing slow ones, infiltrated not just the mainstream soul and pop audience but the pop culture zeitgeist as a whole, sweeping through Grammy ceremonies, radio, and day-to-day life. Wonder's presence in our lives as not just westerners but citizens of planet Earth is arguably greater than that of any other rock performer. I know you love the Beatles and I do too, but even "Hey Jude," their biggest hit, will never have the transformative power across all class, race, and generational lines that "Superstition" does. It packs a power, an urgency, an appeal that others can only dream of. He is our composer -- not our generation's, not our lifestyle bracket's, our country's. He is the man we should be most proud to have as our representative because at our best, this is what we can do artistically, and that is something.

Let's look at "Superstition." Something you may not have noticed about it is that it's rather achingly slow. It's one of the trickiest, most exuberant funk or soul cuts to attain its success, but despite its winding clavinet and persistent drums (both played by Stevie), it moves forward gradually and awkwardly in a fit of paranoia perfectly suited to the song's lyrics. I couldn't tell you whether deceptively tossing a dance beat onto a mournfully confused anthem like this is a new idea, but it's certainly one that's been reappropriated by many, from Wonder's peers (see Marvin Gaye's Here, My Dear) to seemingly unrelated descendents (New Order, U2) who I'm certain got the idea from "Superstition." And what makes it all more remarkable is how electric the song remains after decades of exposure. It still lights up a room, still gets ordinarily hesitant bodies shaking. And Wonder's vocal calm and consistency only add to the firepower.

The rest of the rockers are, amazingly enough, easy matches for "Superstition." The immensely nasty "Maybe Your Baby" feels years ahead of its time, drifting off into Wonder's perfectly crafted bitter sunset the way the #1 hit "You Haven't Done Nothin'" would a few years later. "Big Brother," which segues directly from "Superstition," infuses Wonder's confidence with a heavier than usual African influence, all the more impressive on a cut populated by no other musicians. And the heart of Side One is the melodically undeniable double-header of "Tuesday Heartbreak" (the rare early '70s Wonder classic that inexplicably hasn't made its way into general public consciousness) and "You've Got It Bad Girl," featuring Wonder's voice traveling all the subtle avenues and twists he's best at. It's only near the end that the record becomes slightly indistinct, with "Blame It on the Sun" and "Lookin' for Another Pure Love" both pleasant and worthy if somewhat redundant semi-ballads, but that only makes the crescendo of "I Believe" sweeping up from nowhere all the more striking, an ideal climax for such a game-changing LP.

As much as I hate to give credit to Boomer dinosaurs yet again, we may have the Rolling Stones to thank for the upswing in Wonder's career associated with Talking Book. It was after a successful opening slot for the Stones that Wonder issued this album and saw it become a massive seller, and a cultural infiltrator in a way even the Stones had never experienced (and never would, despite being still the world's most profitable rock band). If Book hadn't taken off, Wonder's wanderings off into impressive but sugarcoated pop might have come more quickly and we would've been denied his triad of classics immediately following this one. Perhaps because Wonder's gifts are so undeniable, perhaps because the time was simply right, the left-field soul and thrillingly unconventional dance numbers on this record were soon enough aspects of a commercial behemoth, one of the rare rock & roll success stories that could make anyone smile. Better yet, having his artistic inclinations so validated gave Stevie Wonder the assurance he required to make an album, Innervisions, that went farther in all the best ways. It's more political, more cathartic, sharper, and best of all, its ballads are just as wildly, gorgeously bizarre as its stompers -- yet again, the building of a new genre and convention, the sole bit of tension Talking Book was missing.

How many have even had the opportunity, as Wonder did, to actually use massive popularity to change the borders of pop music? The Beatles and who else? Anyone? Prince, maybe. Michael Jackson could've but didn't. Stevie Wonder did it, and he did it right, and since he did I wouldn't care if he released a mediocre album every two years for the rest of his life (like Paul McCartney). That's not what he does, though. Instead he makes himself scarce, touring occasionally and releasing a decent album with a couple of classics every ten years or so. I'd say that's a pretty excellent outcome myself.

[SEE ALSO:]
Music of My Mind (1972)