Stevie Wonder Sees Everything

But I Hesitated to Let Him Drive the Car, 1974

Stevie Wonder and I are about the same age: he's six months younger than I am. He'll be 72 on May 13, a proud Taurus. The second time we met, for an interview in 1985 when he was promoting "In Square Circle," we exchanged pleasantries and he said, "I remember you. Sagittarius, right?"

He was right. My vocal intonation reminded him of one of his horn players, who was also a Sagittarius. So naturally, putting one and seven together and coming up with eight, he knew my sign.

We had last met 11 years earlier, in 1974, when I interviewed him at the (24) Fifth Avenue Hotel in Greenwich Village. The restaurant there, I think, was then known as Flowers. We were to meet at the restaurant for a short interview for Melody Maker, the English music newsweekly. It was a direct assignment for the British music paper. My work regular appeared in their rival New Musical Express, as well as a few times in short-lived Let It Rock, as part of an exchange deal NME had with Creem.

I think the story was supposed to be about 400 words; it ended up closer to 1,000 words. Stevie, who operated on his own internal clock, was more than an hour late for our late afternoon get together. His publicist and aide-de-camp, Ira Tucker Jr., kept me company and dropped in and out to give me updates on when Stevie might show. He urged me to have a drink, maybe a snack, and my arm did not need twisting.

I tried to keep the drinking light. I didn't know whether Stevie was a drinker, and I was trying to develop good work habits for interviewing: If in a restaurant or bar, let your subject order first: if you want to drink, drink what they drink. But Ira Tucker Jr. was a man of the church, with an illustrious background: His father was one of the members of the great gospel group, the Dixie Hummingbirds. If Ira Tucker Jr. said "drink," it was as good as God's will. But one has to pace oneself: one did not want to be sloshed to meet Stevie Wonder.

When he came down, he was hungry, so we took a table in the restaurant. Stevie was presented with the wine list, which he looked at attentively. He asked for a bottle of Chablis. We drank, ate, and talked for hours. Many hours. I remember a second bottle of Chablis coming and going. We attained a state of high lucidity. It was part of just being with Stevie Wonder. Like being with a Tzaddik, a spiritually elevated person, one used to walking on "Higher Ground," whether his feet happened to be touching the ground or not.

We got off to a good start in the interview because I was especially interested in a precise detail in the song "You Haven't Done Nothin'," a number one single from then-current "Fulfillngness' First Finale." (I wrote about my struggles getting that album review done as my first assignment for Robert Christgau's Riffs section at the Village Voice in the "Robert Christgau is 80" article here a few weeks ago.)

"You Haven't Done Nothin'" has the firmest bass line I can think of in Stevie's 1970s discography. It's implacable, and yet the rhythm roars. It is one of Wonder's most political songs, about empty promises and Nixonian lies. In the bridge, he sings, from a black perspective, "if you really want to hear our views, you haven't done nothin'." Then he makes a hand-off in the chorus to the Jackson 5, singing background on the track: "Doo-doo-wop, doo-doo-wop."

He does this twice, and then, near the end, he hands off the vocal one more time, saying "Jackson 5, sing it loud, for your people sing doo-doo-wop..." Michael Jackson was then 16, and feeling restless; the Jackson 5 were superstars, but with a clean uncontroversial image. I told Stevie it sounded like he was giving them just a little push, a little awareness, of their responsibility to their people's struggle. To grow up, and take the torch he was passing. The question made him happy.

"That's a nice compliment," Stevie told me. "And I thought of that. I didn't necessarily do it because of that, but after I did, I felt like I wanted them to be identified with more than [he imitates a kind of baby talk soul style of say, “ABC”] nyah-nyah-nya-nyah-nyah. But I would have liked to have the Osmonds on the record too."

Stevie, in fact, had been paying attention to both the Jackson 5 and the Osmond Brothers. The Osmonds were like the Mormon pop mirror of the Jackson 5. They were white, from Ogden, Utah, and a family group like the J5 in which the youngest, Donny Osmond, has the most talent, less than a year older than Michael. Donny will now sing you a personalized American Greetings birthday song, but might not personally deliver a cake, as he did recently for Jennifer Garner.

The Osmonds first big hit, "One Bad Apple," seemed a knock-off of the J-5s "I Want You Back." But it was a really good knock off. I did a very favorable review of the album for Penthouse. And the two groups both had Saturday morning cartoon shows. (J-5, 1971-1972; Osmonds, 1972).

There wasn't any animosity I can recall between the two acts, or their fans. But Stevie Wonder is a healer by talent and inclination. Stevie could see the quizzical expression on my face, I swear he could.

"I think they could really bring people together. You understand what I'm saying?" Stevie said. "It would really be interesting. On the 'American Music Awards' program, they did a skit together, Michael Jackson and one of the Osmonds." Apparently, Michael sang an Osmonds song, Donny a J5 song. "People were looking to see whoever their favorite was do the other one. It was nice. If they're both in L.A. when I do my concert there, I want them to both come up singing on 'You Haven't Done Nothin'.' Doo-doo-wop. Yeah!"

It was getting late, near midnight. I don't know how long Stevie and I had been hanging out. Four hours, five hours? Had I been there since 5 pm? Time didn't seem to pass with Stevie Wonder. Clocks didn't feel real.

I thought I had taken up enough of his time. Instead, he said, "you want to go see Taj Mahal at the Bottom Line?"

I wasn't going to say no. The Bottom Line club was just a few blocks away on West Fourth Street. It was chilly, but we could have walked.

Stevie got up, patting his pockets as if feeling for the car keys.

"I'm gonna drive, OK?"

I wasn't sure that was OK. I had once seen a syllogism in a bathroom stall that said:

"God is Love/Love is blind/Stevie Wonder is blind, therefore, Stevie Wonder is God." Stephen Colbert is quoted on Goodreads repeating that syllogism and adding, "I don't know what I'd believe if it wasn't for that."

But Stevie is still blind, and he made like he had the car keys.

Stevie had recently recovered from an auto accident (I presume he was not driving) in which he was badly hurt in the Carolinas. I asked if he had any lingering emotional after-effects, he said no. "It's just a major event that happened. The only thing you can do is be thankful for what you have. You intensify your appreciation for life, become appreciative that you do have a future to look forward to."

Then, Stevie and Ira Tucker Jr. did a little skit for my behalf. Stevie insisted on driving. Like, it was just four blocks, he could do it, no problem. Ira was adamant about holding on to the car keys, and Stevie finally relented.

The Bottom Line was full, hottest industry showcase in the city. The 400-seat club had only been open since February. It was almost an out of body experience walking in as part of the small Stevie Wonder entourage. All eyes were on us. I started straight ahead. I felt seen and invisible at the same time. There was a corner booth reserved for us on the other side of the club. I don't remember my feet touching the ground. As Taj Mahal got to the end of his set, Ira Tucker Jr. passed along a message. "Taj would really appreciate it, Steve, if you came up and did a number."

The crowd went berserk as my spirit guide for the evening made his way to the stage. Wonder played piano, Taj Mahal guitar and harmonica. They did a Jimmy Reed blues, then Stevie began to improvise lyrics.

"It's 1974, and we're all here to say, the world's got to change, and there's nothing I can do. All I can do for you people, is sing my sad song for you." There was no sign that they'd ever stop jamming, so I told Ira to thank Stevie as I made my way out of the club.

The next afternoon, I was walking from my apartment on way West 22nd to the McBurney YMCA on West 23rd Street, where they had an indoor running track. (I exercised. Once or twice.) I saw a woman friend, a very spiritually attuned woman who I had known in college and who lived on my block.

She said, "Something happened to you. You've got this glow. It's like your feet are not touching the ground."

I said, yeah. I'd been with Stevie Wonder for many hours the night before, and I feel this spiritual buzz. Higher ground. And, I told her, I haven't come down yet.