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Desert Island Discs is one of the longest running programs in the history of radio, it first aired on January 29th 1942 on the BBC. Guests are asked to chose eight song selections (originally gramophone records), they are also given The Complete Works of Shakespeare and The Bible as well as one other book of their choosing. At the completion of the show they are asked to narrow down their song choices to one particular work. The list of guests is staggering, as one would expect from a show that has been around for sixty-eight years.
The idea presents a whole host of questions and tough decisions, however I would have to have some Motown, in particular this song. I can think of no genre of music I can listen to over and over that never loses its luster. I can think of no genre of music that one can listen to and derive meaning from whether you are skipping down the street or shuffling around a corner with your head held low with the blues. It fits every emotion, every scene of life and lets you know where the real motherfucking living is...if you don't dig it you are dead.
Most younger listeners will recognize the bass line from "Private Number" which has been sampled by Rappin 4 Tay and METAFORM, but in its original clothes this track is so much tighter and more layered. After you let is simmer for a while check your Bang Olufsens out, run a finger across the grill and you'll find that sweet soul grease dripping, use it to slick your hair back before you head out...it's the only product you'll ever need for that beautiful shine.
I. Love. Every. Second. Of this song. I love these two voices merging like the big brackish waters of the south. I love the visualization. I love the story, the fact a man goes away for a while and upon his return can't get a hold of his woman, thinking the worst he asks the woman what the problem is, the listener figuring just another story of love lost until Big, Black, Beautiful Judy comes in with her North Carolina Gospel pipes and croons:
I'm sorry you couldn't call me
When you got home
But other fellows kept on calling
While you were gone
So I had the number changed
But I'm not acting strange
Welcome home
Baby, nothing's wrong---so I'm SINGING...
BABY BABY BABY youcanhavemy prI-I-I-I-Ivate number! The bass is running, the strings are screaming in their falsetto harmonies, Judy is standing before an old stainless square microphone in a pink prom dress while Billy Bell is looking tight, trim and tenacious in a slick black suit with every button undone on his shirt, a deep crimson rose in da button hole; the horns are polished up erect in the background Da Da Da Da Da Da...DaDaDa.
If they put this song on in a bar on a Saturday night no one would go home alone and they would all feel great about it the next day, not only would they feel great she'd spend the morning dancing around in nothing but his button down and him in her robe screaming the refrain at the top of their lungs, then slide breakfast off the table and let loose right there. If they put this song on at the UN Israel would be dancing with Iran, Mugabe would open up the palace to the oppressed and North Korea would finally wonder what the hell the big deal is about the 38th Parallel.
I would be on an island alone after finally figuring out how to power my iPod with flotsam washed up on the beach. Using the logs I've pieced together to resemble one of the Shirelles I'd be dancing my ass off under the stars, the monkeys would be watching from the trees in amazement at just how far they have come over the years; not at the speakers, the iPod or the strange, hairless, weak monkey they see before them but rather that soul inspiring Goddamn refrain from the Gods. Suddenly the monolith would disappear from the background, its work done as the human race has reached its zenith.
