A couple of weeks ago our very own Mr. Murray suffered a bitter anti-climax after waiting nigh on two years to hear the latest Stones album. During the passing seasons, while he'd been shuffling impatiently around his rock 'n' roll rest home, I'd been similarly preoccupied in my soul sanatorium, gnawing the woodwork and stocking up with tissues (weeping into, for the use of) and bottles of something soothing, anticipating this long delayed release.
After a brief sob and a long draught I've calmed down sufficiently to appreciate that Marvin has finally delivered the third volume of his treatise on TCB with TLC (that's taking care of business with tender loving care to you) which will serve very nicely as an epilogue to the whole endearing tale of confused-man-finds-solace-in-new-love. But the glorious fulfillment of two and a half years of boundless creativity it most certainly ain't.
Which is to say, O.K. Marv, we'll go for it just this once more, but if all you can come up with in the next 30 months is a further installment of a serial that's now signed, sealed, and tied with pink ribbon, then brother you be out of luck.
Around about 1970, certain traumatic events in the man's life turned him through those changes twixt 'entertainer' and 'artist.' He stopped interpreting corporation policy (which he'd been doing exceedingly well), sat back to unload his own head, and re-emerged as a tangible personality, troubled by the world about him, seeking some kind of stability through emotional & physical love, and well equipped to express those thoughts (with a little help from his friends) in words and music that enraptured anyone who was on the same wavelength.
Now while I'd be the first to vote self-expression above commerciality every time, it seems to me that Marvin is becoming too wrapped up in his own affairs. Although getting down, getting mellow, and getting it on are paramount considerations in the privacy of my own home, I don't particularly want to be party to someone else's night life. Not on record anyway. I Want You is almost a voyeur's delight. Like peeking through the windows of the Gaye residence in the wee wee hours. Perhaps that's your kick, but personally I find it a mite frustrating.
The more content he gets the less he has to say for himself. Furthermore, he is by his own admission a lazy man. (He was provoked into recording What's Going On because of friction with his wife, "or else I wouldn't do nothin,' I guess, but test shade trees.") As a practicing sluggard I am here to testify that busy-doing-nothing is a painless philosophy for sliding through the three score years and ten and absolutely hopeless for achieving anything along the way. Which is precisely why this review is one week late and this album two years late. All vocal tracks sound as if they were recorded on location in the bedroom or on the couch, and the superimposed orchestral accompaniment is appropriately languid. I think the traditional expression is 'laid back.' These are so laid back they're horizontal.
It seems irrelevant to start picking and choosing between them. Some are long and some are short; on some he sings out loud, on others he does little more than breathe heavily; a couple are purely instrumental. They are all expressions of the same mood. Sensual, satisfied, and spaced out. I Want You is simply the explorative aftermath of Let's Get It On. The sweet nuthin's of a drowsy, sweat-streaked lover.
