by Jason Reynolds

The business of music has to be the most phenomenal, magnificent, poisonous and disastrous machine in history. From its earlier, more talent driven time, to the Berry Gordy paradigm where he molded and formed talent into superstardom, to what we now have, which most would agree is the equivalent to music’s microwave dinner. Convenient, looks great on the box, but tastes like shit. There’s no point in me delving into the details of today’s music only because we all live with it. Instead, for a moment, let me wander back to my childhood, where my mother would play Barry White, The Commodores, Percy Sledge, The Ojays, Aretha Franklin, Patti Labelle, and on and on. The sixties and seventies, filled with angst and every kind of freedom possible, produced some of the most amazing music ever (though I’m only focusing on Soul, Rock was equally as brilliant.) But what was just as stunning about this time and the music that accompanied it, is how the singers looked.

Barry White, an overweight, night-skinned man, bellowed in a way that liquified women. Today, he never would’ve touched a stage. Not a chance. The Commodores, had no physical standouts. Though Lionel Richie was, and still is the man, I wouldn’t exactly say he’s an adonis. Aretha and Patti, arguably two of the best singers in history, aren’t Beyonce, or Alicia Keys when it comes to all around sex appeal (which matters now.) But they still had amazing careers, and they were huge stars. Their talents and personalities won audiences over in an undeniable way.

Somewhere there was a switch. A change. The industry started to reverse the “talent first” paradigm, inverting it to a “physical-centric” paradigm. It seemed as though labels started to seek out sexy, instead of soulful. And from that point on the flood of less talented sexbots came, taking over our radios, our televisions, and ultimately (dare I say it) our minds, to an extent. Now, this isn’t to say that Trey Songs and his contemporaries don’t have a place in music, or that they are talentless, because they are not. But what I will say is I’m not sure he’d be where he is if it wasn’t for a six pack. And as I get older, I don’t know if I’m comfortable making love to a song where the singer sounds like a child. (Where is K-Ci’s voice?) I don’t know if I want to hear words like “beat it up” or “twirking it out.” I think I’d prefer “Secret Garden,” when I’m in the throws of passion. Sure, I probably wouldn’t be paying attention to the music anyway, but still.

But there are a couple who somehow make there way to the forefront without spending half the lives on a weight machine. There’s one in particular that comes to mind:  Cee Lo Green. This strange cartoon of a man, is, to me, one of soul music’s saviors. He’s got the stage presence of a star, the voice of choir soloist, and the look of…well, who cares what he looks like. That’s the point. He is one of the rare few who’ve broken through the pretty paradigm, and his music is doing the same. His style is unmistakable, and his voice is unforgettable. He can as smooth and romantic as Teddy Pendergrass, and also raucous as Clarence Carter, all under the umbrella of class and maturity. He is what we need more of.

So this is a charge. Enough with these pretty little boys singing their sandbox sex songs. Lets bring back the men, the ones who may be less attractive. The ones with hair on their chests, and gaps in their teeth. The ones with bellies, and bald spots. The ones who women may not want one night stands with, but will want to marry. Music that lingers, classic and thoughtful, without ever mattering what the singer looks like.