His production skills-rarely mentioned as often as the goddamn voice-almost always impress, especially during the early 1980вЂ™s, a fecund time for a particularly adventurous post-disco-sucks dance music enriched by New Romantic takes on Gamble & Huff and the innovations of Chic. A favorite is 1986вЂ™s вЂњGive Me the Reason,вЂќ in which his lower register navigates the shoals of MIDI programming and elegantly fierce guitar lines his habit of refusing to balk at his self-imposed restraints is for once a plus. The rest call a truce between his Hallmark-worthy verse, a voice that too frequently savors them like they were Cole Porter, and his fascination with the mixing board. Only Brenda RussellвЂ™s вЂњIf Only for One NightвЂќ plumbs a restlessness he would just as soon discount (more on this later). Historically approved examples of wealth and breeding penned by Stevie Wonder (вЂњCreepinвЂ™вЂќ) and Lionel Richie (вЂњEndless LoveвЂќ) rolled off the Vandross assembly line, although thereвЂ™s something to be said about the oppressive sanctimony of Stephen StillsвЂ™ вЂњLove the One YouвЂ™re WithвЂќ meeting its match in VandrossвЂ™ cheerful sanctimony. Makes sense to me: вЂњA House Is Not a HomeвЂќ is like a Bowie number sung with impeccable breath control.ДЄt its worst, The Voice just sits there, sated, like the kid with the dimples who ate all the Velvet CrГЁme donuts daring you to scold him. Maybe he learned this insincerity from former boss David Bowie, on whose Young Americans Vandross sang backing vocals (and reportedly contributed to the arrangements, uncredited). Where the gratitude of Al GreenвЂ™s вЂњLook What YouвЂ™ve Done for MeвЂќ was borne of a long residence in an earthly hell thatвЂ™s far worse than the damnation that Paul of Tarsus fetishized, VandrossвЂ™ cover of вЂњA House Is Not a Home,вЂќ the centerpiece of his performance style, is a polyurethane wonder, amazing even, and as disgusting as that box of chocolates. Technically itвЂ™s unassailable, as pure and sweet as a human voice can be but it was an unearned purity. His was a tenor of unusual suppleness, with sepia tones hinting at darkness, to which he would clumsily resort when he wanted to sound put-upon or mean (like Billy JoelвЂ™s angry-millionaire petulance in вЂњA Matter of TrustвЂќ). VandrossвЂ™ geniality bit his fat ass on his ballads, or rather, how he sang them. No longer did I hate him-Vandross is so mild that itвЂ™s like hating a bar of soap-and active conditioning was enough to make me smile at the recollection of seven or eight of his best numbers, or his worst numbers: LutherвЂ™s consistency turns words like вЂњgoodвЂќ and вЂњbadвЂќ into hash. I sampled it over a period of months, anticipating the moment when LutherвЂ™s divinity would be revealed-when, to the accompaniment of вЂњStop to Love,вЂќ Vandross would appear in conversation with the transfigured forms of Marvin and Otis. A few days before his death, I bought The Essential Luther Vandross in an attempt at redress.

Since вЂњHere and NowвЂќ was at the time VandrossвЂ™ biggest pop crossover I felt contempt for those critics who mourned the starвЂ™s near-total absence from Top 40 radio: If this is what youвЂ™ve been shilling for years, weвЂ™ll keep Atlantic Starr and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam, mвЂ™kay thanks. An example of chocolate-box fare: a gift of surpassing generosity and predictability. ItвЂ™s sung and arranged with consummate taste, the kind of performance which forces one to grope for taglines like вЂњIt transcends bathosвЂќ-as if anything could. вЂњHere and NowвЂќ is a disgusting song for any occasion. You try smiling when the girl youвЂ™re crushing on slow dances with one of your best friends you try sitting upright when this friend mouths the words to Luther VandrossвЂ™ вЂњHere and NowвЂќ as she lays her head on his shoulder. N First Listen is a regular column that forces our regular writers to listen to bands that theyвЂ™ve never heard-but by all rights should have-and charts the reaction.Д¬hocolate disgusts me, and watching people eat it disgusts me.

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