NEW EDITIONS TO THE PAST
Running into Johnny Gill brought back memories of this generation's Temptations
Recently I attended a birthday party for DJ Cassidy in Los Angeles. Because of his Pass the Mic broadcasts Cassidy has become a favorite of veteran R&B singers, so Melissa Morgan, Howard Hewitt, Chante Moore, and El DeBarge not only showed up, but rocked the microphone along side a small band and a DJ. Though he didn’t perform, Johnny Gill was in the house and we chopped it up. To my surprise we actually talked baseball, since slugger Barry Bonds is a pal of his and I had just interviewed him for my documentary on Willie Mays.
It had been a busy spring and summer for Johnny. Along with the other members of New Edition, he’d headlined a national tour and had been the closing act at Essence Fest in New Orleans, a slot once held down by Maze featuring Frankie Beverly. But in the 21st century New Edition is the legacy act that concludes the biggest annual black music festival. The enduring popularity of the vocal group — in an era when there are no new vocal groups (unless you count Silk Sonic) — brought me back to New Edition’s roots and some funny memories from the road.
I was at Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles in the late ‘80s when I spotted a man in a full white admiral’s dress uniform and cap holding a menu as he decided how many chicken wings he wanted. Larry Curtis Johnson aka Maurice Starr had once been an aspiring R&B vocalist. But Starr found his true calling in scouting the black and white ghettos of Boston for young kids he could transform into recording artists. He’d already put five kids from Roxbury on the map as New Edition, and was now killing the game with white boys from Dorchester called New Kids on the Block.
I told Starr how impressive it was that he’d struck gold twice, particularly since the second time was with a white group. You could probably count on one hand the number of black impresarios who’d guided white acts to stardom. I’ve never forgotten Starr’s reply, “I’m gonna work those white boys to death. I’m gonna keep them on the road ‘til they drop. I’m gonna work them for Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters and every black singer who didn’t get paid.” Hell of a speech, though I’d have been even more impressed if Starr had said he was gonna funnel some NKOB profits to a fund for black artists who’d gotten ripped off back in the day.
Looking back now its clear that discovering Bobby Brown, not Donnie Wahlberg, was Starr’s biggest contribution to the culture. That’s because no single group so embodies hip-hop’s takeover of R&B than New Edition. As pre-teens at a Roxbury talent show the group caught Starr’s attention. The songwriter-producer was a shrewd man with few original musical ideas, but a ton of ambition. What he witnessed that night was a group of project kids who were performing dance moves heavily influenced by the Jackson Five and the Temptations, mixed with popping, locking and other then contemporary street dances. These kids were show biz novices but they were already seeing the future.
New Edition’s hybrid performance was well matched to Starr’s apitude for jacking melodic pieces from Motown and other R&B hits to create sound-a-like songs. It wasn’t sampling, but a more traditional, less legally troublesome way of molding older songs into new records. Bobby Brown, Ronnie DeVoe, Michael Bivens, Ricky Bell and Ralph Tresvant’s vocal pitch control was often questionable, but their stage presence was dynamic and their enthusiasm was infectious.
“Candy Girl”, New Edition’s debut album, was released on a busy little Boston independent label, Streetwise, that was driven by owner-producer Arthur Baker’s interest in post-disco dance music. Significantly one of New Edition’s first New York performances was the Bronx’s Disco Fever, which was late night clubhouse for hip-hop’s first generation of stars. So many of the pioneering Bronx rap ensembles (the Furious Five, the Cold Crush Brothers) had bitten moves from Motown groups that it was like a passing of the torch to have a group that could sing AND beat box on the Fever stage.
After a sold out national tour and four hit singles, including “Candy Girl,” which went number one in the U.S. R&B chart and U.K. pop chart, the five returned to Boston and received paltry royalty payments. Nasty law suits, managerial entanglements and a switch to major label MCA ensued before New Edition’s self-titled second album arrived. It went double platinum fueled by the massive singles, “Mr. Telephone Man,” (written and produced by Ray Parker Jr.,) and “Cool It Now,” the latter featuring a short rap break by Tresvant, the first time a singing group had a successful single with a member rapping.
In 1985 I took a quick two city road trip with New Edition, rolling with them from Memphis to Nashville, conducting interviews and catching the vibe. The divisions that would define the group’s history were quickly apparent. Bivens, DeVoe and Bell were tight. If a photo shoot or some promotional appearance was scheduled that trio arrived together. Tresvant, shy and a bit of an off-stage introvert, showed up next. Brown would appear last, dripping with attitude, making it clear he was not just a group member. I remember standing outside the group’s dressing room at one venue and hearing what sounded like a fist fight behind the closed door.
But, onstage, New Edition moved as a unit. The ensemble choreography was crisp. Tresvant and Bell shared lead vocal duties with Brown, but he was clearly the one redefining singing stardom. He had LL Cool J swagger mixed with a throwback aggression that recalled soul legend Wilson Pickett. Brown stalked the stage seemingly as ready for a street fight as a love song. He was both a throwback and the future.
It would take several years and one lackluster LP before folks figured out how to capture Brown’s fierce force on vinyl. While the majority of Brown’s multi-platinum “Don’t Be Cruel” was skillfully produced and penned by Antonio ‘LA’ Reid & Kenny ‘Babyface’ Edmonds, it was Teddy Riley who truly unleashed Brown’s beast. The song was “My Prerogative” and, officially, its production was originally credited to Riley’s manager Gene Griffin. Of course that record was pure New Jack Swing aka Riley. It was the perfect mating of singer and producer. Like a rap record, the lyric was written in the voice of the performer and spoke explicitly to criticism Brown had received.
The “I” in this record is Bobby Brown and no one else. Brown sings like he doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of him, a rote hip-hop lyrical trope that, in this case, I believed. Riley’s production is funk updated for late ‘80s consumption, an approach looser, but not dissimilar to what Dr. Dre was about to do with LA MC’s. “My Prerogative” is a singular record. It is an anthem of independence and a testament to the force of Brown’s personality. Brown would have many subsequent hits, but nothing would match this perfect union of singer and song.
A trio of Brown’s band mates — Ricky Bell, Michael Bivins and Ronnie DeVoe — would make their own deeply influentail R&B/hip-hop hybrid. In popular music there are sounds that arrive fully formed ans disappear quickly. Others develop over time so it feels like they’re been around forever. The prodcution of Bell Biv DeVoe’s Poison album, released in March 1990, is more the former than latter. The title cut, produced by Dr. Freese with lyrics by Straite, and the track “Do Me,” produced by BBD and Carl Bourelly, are a cacophony of hooks, odd sounds, propulsive rhythms so unorthodox that none of the participants ever matched their sass and invention again. Much of the album was produced by members of Public Enemy’s Bomb Squad, bringing their edgy sampled sonics to a vocal album.
Everybody knew Brown had charisma and Tresvant had the conventional R&B high tenor (as captured by Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis on his solo hit “Sensitivity”), but many in the industry doubted that the other three members had enough vocal personality to carry an entire album. Well what folks underestimated was BBD’s ability to turn their songs into an extended New Edition afterparty, one where all the girls were jocking them and satisfying sex was had by all. Lyrics like “slap it, flip it, rub it down,” were precursors to the next wave in mainstream R&B where romantic metaphors were replaced with descriptions of intercourse without the pretext of emotional connection. The hook, “Hip hop smoothed out on the R&B tip with a pop appeal to it,” set the tone and the culture followed.
Brown was replaced by Gill in New Edition, then Brown came back and left, and BBD continued recording and the whole NE thing became its own universe of drama, gossip and music. Brown’s personal life is the stuff of tabloid dreams, while Bivens has lauched a number of other groups, including another longstanding vocal group, Boys II Men. It’s not surprising a highly successful mini-series evolved about the group’s rise and its various iterations. Ultimately this Boston band has endured because it is the link between the older R&B world and the newer style they helped usher in. While K-Pop has proven there’s life in vocal groups, the tradition has disappeared from black pop music. A shame since the legacy of New Edition has proven to be so evergreen that they now are the old school.