Isley Brothers
A list of the artists the Isley Brothers have influenced reads like a brief history of cutting-edge pop: the Beatles covered their fist two hits and emulated their three-voice group sound; Jimi Hendrix patterned the vocal-instrumental interplay of the Experience after tracks he’d cut as an Isley Brothers sideman; the Beastie Boys, A Tribe Called Quest, and numerous other rappers have sampled them liberally; and R. Kelly’s chart-topping sexy soul balladry reflects the timelessness of the Isleys’ later, mature R & B style.
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You might be able to live without the just-released three-CD box It’s Your Thing: The Story of the Isley Brothers, too, but there’s no doubt it’s now the Isleys to own, replacing a more hastily compiled three-disc Rhino comp that just went out of print. Loaded with great songs and historic curios, the new set for the most part dispels Christgau’s portrait of the Isleys’ style as a singular “shtick.” While steps they took to survive on the developing pop scene of the 60s at times threatened to tie them to a manufactured sound and image, particularly during a stint on Motown, their break with that label in 1968 signaled the scrappy vocal trio’s rebirth as a self-reliant progressive soul band.
“Shout” was really more a routine than a song, put together by the three original Isley Brothers–vocalists Ronald, Rudoph, and O’Kelly–in 1959 at the suggestion of an RCA executive who one night happened to catch Ronald ad-libbing “You know you make me want to shout!” over a cover of Jackie Wilson’s “Lonely Teardrops.” An infectious throwback to the Isleys’ roots–they grew up in Cincinnati, singing gospel with their mother at the piano–it paved the way for a string of successes that would carry them through the 60s. That was no small feat in those days, when the music business still treated performers less like artists than novelty acts on the old vaudeville circuit: if your act wasn’t broke, you didn’t fix it, but your “career” lasted only as long as the crowd liked your act.
The band had a couple more hits in the early 70s, and in ’73–with Juilliard-trained brother-in-law Chris Jasper on keyboards and Ernie doubling on guitar–they struck gold again with “That Lady.” Though it was an update of the Isleys’ 1964 flop bossa nova single for United Artists, “Who’s That Lady,” itself reminiscent of Curtis Mayfield & the Impressions’ hit “Gypsy Woman,” it broke new ground for the group, thanks primarily to Ernie’s searing, soaring guitar leads. The next year, on Live It Up, the brothers took that development and ran with it. The title track starts off like a revved-up rip-off of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition,” with Ernie duplicating the drum intro and Jasper creeping in on sticky Clavinet. Ronald enters, sweetly at first but building intensity until he erupts with anger and frustration. Ernie, now on guitar, responds with a fuzzed-out bloodcurdling shriek; Ronald replies, pushing his spectacular pipes to their limits trying to outwail Ernie; then both fade out into the murky, complex protodisco rhythm tracks. “Superstition” sounds like bubblegum by comparison.
That said, the collection is still remarkably diverse, beginning with the sublime 50s street-corner doo-wop of “Angels Cried” and running through a splendidly mellifluous 1996 collaboration with R. Kelly. It shows that the Isleys’ secret of survival ultimately had less to do with adhering to shtick or pandering to the market than with facing obstacles head-on. At key points, they regrouped and rejuvenated themselves, discovering yet more facets of their unshakably soulful “thing.”
