In order to understand the odd phenomenon of Ray,
Goodman & Brown -- uneven R&B hitmakers and passable
neo-doo-wop crooners with nothing but their own
anonymity as a legacy -- you have to remember that
they were originally the Moments. And the Moments were
brilliant. Rising like a humble dusty angel from the
technicolor fireworks of '70s soul, they created some
of the most beautiful lo-fi falsetto-soul masterpieces
of the era. Not only did they lay down gripping
falsetto-soul tracks like "Love on a Two Way Street"
and "Look at Me (I'm in Love)", they pioneered the
more libidinous strains of Quiet Storm with the
priapic groove "Sexy Mama". And they did it all in a
crappy, ill-equipped New Jersey studio with hardly any
budget. The Moments quickly became the centerpiece of
Sylvia Robinson's budding Stang/All-Platinum empire
(soon to spawn the pioneering Sugarhill Records), and
her cost-cutting ingenuity gave them a unique and
simple sound that would be impossible to reproduce
today. Still, by the end of the decade the three
Moments -- Harry Ray, Al Goodman, and Billy Brown --
felt that Sylvia's hasty production methods weren't
letting their voices shine anymore. They left Stang in
1979 and headed for the shinier studios provided by
Polydor. Sure, they would have continued on as the
Moments, but Stang owned the name. Thus Ray, Goodman &
Brown were born. They recorded four albums for Polydor
from 1979 to 1982, and this mid-priced 20th Century
Masters collection is a brief (12 songs in 50 minutes)
and dreamy distillation of that period.
One of the seldom-remarked phenomena of the late '70s
R&B scene was the fleeting resurgence of doo-wop
stylings in a genre that was about to undergo a series
of spasmodic death throes until its memory was erased
by hip-hop and new jack in the mid-'80s. You could hear
it in everyone's secret love for the Persuasions, in
the regurgitated oldies of George Benson ("On
Broadway"), in the slick anti-disco rebirth of bands
like the Manhattans ("Shining Star"). Listen to the
"shoop shoop shoo doo" in the late-period O'Jays hit
"Use Ta Be My Girl", or the desperate oldies medley of
post-Phillipe-Wynne Spinners singles ("Cupid / I've
Loved You For a Long Time" and "Working My Way Back to
You / Forgive Me, Girl") and you'll notice a curious
trend. A minor trend, to be sure, and one that was
quickly squashed by history. But the attempts to
refute the populist and commercial appeal of disco by
bending tunes around one of the genre's most venerable
forebears (doo-wop) sure did sound fun at the time.
Ray, Goodman & Brown were the epitome of this
phenomenon. They relied so heavily on slick
arrangements and doo-wop harmonizing (often including
staged studio patter) that by their fourth album
(Open Up in 1982) they seemed nothing more than
a curious artifact of a long-lost era.
Their self-titled first album quickly spawned the huge
crossover hit "Special Lady", which still sounds as
joyous and groovy today as it did in 1979. The austere
beginning of the tune -- fingers popping and humble
voices singing a capella as if in practice -- soon
explodes into the happiest hook you'll ever hear. When
they sing "sittin' on top of the world!" two times in
a row you'll get the goose-bumpin' feeling like you're
lounging up at the windy North Pole with them. And
when they croon the silly line "Pop (pop) went the
weasel / In my mind" you'll remember that there's
nothing goofier or dizzier than being smitten. It's
the highlight of their career, and also of this
collection.
The debut album also spawned the minor hit "Inside of
You" (also included here) -- a lush and beautiful
ballad reminiscent of old innocent Moments hits like
"Look at Me (I'm in Love)". A curious and very
non-doo-wop moment on their debut is the slinky,
funky, soulful "Another Day" -- with baritone Al
Goodman on lead vocals. The tune became something of a
UK Northern Soul club hit in the '80s and '90s, and
its inclusion on this collection (even though it never
charted) is a blessing.
The collection concentrates most heavily on their
second album, Two (1980), which spawned only
the minor hits "Happy Anniversary" and "My Prayer" (an
ostentatious Platters cover), but was so soaked in
lush muzak strings and the dominant angelic voice of
Harry Ray that you just gotta lay back and bathe in
the beauty until your fingers get all soapy and
wrinkled. This collection includes those two hits,
along with "A Part of You" (so disembodied you'll
barely remember it) and "I'll Remember You With Love"
(sappy breakup tune #101B).
Their last two albums -- Stay (1981) and
Open Up (1982) -- were a time of commercial
decline, though they still did have some good tunes
under their belt. "Stay", for example, has the sunny
mellow groove and hooky chorus of a late-period
Tavares tune, while "Heaven in the Rain" rivals both
Love Unlimited and the Dramatics for best "rain
ballad" in the late-soul canon (though don't listen to
the lyrics to closely, since they seem to advocate
accepting rides from creepy strangers). And their last
hit, "How Can Love So Right (Be So Wrong)" -- with
sitar and tenor angst all around -- sounds exactly
like the the most magical moments in old Stylistics
tunes. However "Love Minus One" (title pun courtesy
Rupert Holmes) is talky and forgettable and "After
All" seems to be a pale imitation of Jeffrey Osborne
(is that Billy Brown on lead vocals?).
On the whole, the collection is too brief (as is
always the case in the 20th Century Masters series),
making you hunger for more hidden nuggets on their
four albums. But still the slippery, celestial,
soulful, slick tunes all sorta turn into a beautiful
mist in your mind, and it's pretty functional as
escapist schlock. As a relic of the death of rhythm
and blues, the collection is also a morbid and
fascinating document about the role of doo-wop as a
desperate reactionary formal strategy during a
revolutionary period. Still, you'll want to hear
"Special Lady", "How Can Love So Right (Be So Wrong)"
and "Another Day" again, and you'll definitely
want to buy a Moments album posthaste. It's a pity
that this trio didn't top their earlier lo-fi work
(though "Special Lady" comes close). Imagine, for
example, if Dick Griffey got his hooks into 'em at
Solar Records, where they could could have become
servants to the same uptempo post-disco groove that
made pseudo-traditionalists like the Whispers so
relentless and exciting as the decade turned. Just
goes to show you: autonomy, tradition, and a
well-equipped studio don't always make timeless art.
— 26 June 2002
