The Fortress of Solitude

Part Two. Liner Note

BOTHERED BLUE ONCE MORE:

The Barrett Rude Jr. and the Distinctions Story

NOTES BY D.EBDUS

The singer’s role is deceptive; in identifying and exploring disintegration and other potentially destructive aspects of black American life he or she is performing an integrative function… the sense of identity is built not only into the performer-audience relationship… but into the very relationships between the sounds he or she makes-the musical techniques themselves.

– CHRISTOPHER SMALL, MUSIC OF THE COMMON TONGUE

People don’t recognize the importance of call-and-response. This is because most songs are now written by the people who plan to sing them, and for them the picture is normally complete when they’re in it. But a listener likes more than this. The backing vocals, the response, are the voices of society: whether gossiping (as in “Is she really going out with him?”) or affirming (as in “Amen!” and “Yeah, yeah, yeah”)… I would like to do a systematic study of hit songs over the last 30 years. I am sure that at least 80% of them have second vocals in some form or another. But I would bet that not 30% of all recorded songs use backing vocals…

– BRIAN ENO, A YEAR WITH SWOLLEN APPENDICES

Voices in memory you can’t name, rich with unresolved yearning: a song you once leaned toward for an instant on the radio before finding it mawkish, embarrassing, overlush. Maybe the song knew something you didn’t yet, something you weren’t necessarily ready to learn from the radio. So, for you at least, the song is lost. By chance it goes unheard for 15 years, until the day when your own heartbreak unexpectedly finds its due date. This happens the moment the song takes you by surprise, trickling from some car radio, to retie the frayed laces of your years. Beguiled, you permit yourself to hear. But the disc jockey flubs the call list, never names the singer. Or maybe it happens in a movie theater, over a montage that relies on the old song. Afterward you scan the credits, but a dozen licensing permissions go by in a blur, hopeless.

So you forget the song again. Or recall just the hook, a dumb central phrase which sours in memory. How could it ever have seemed bittersweet as your own lost youth? Of course, what’s missing in your recollection is the cushion of vocal harmony the lead voice floated in on, and the wash of strings, the fuzzy mumble of bass guitar, the groove, all so dated, so perfect. What’s missing as well is the story, the context, the space the song lived in. Not to mention any chance for you to make it your own, a chance to spend, say, $34.99 on a two-CD set. That’s okay. No one’s harmed if you never follow the trail. In an uncertain world it’s a reasonable certainty this forgotten song needs you even less than you need it.

Right?

Behind the uppermost pantheon of male soul vocalists-Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, and Al Green (you add your names to those four, I’ll add mine)-lies another pantheon, a shadow pantheon, of those singers who fell just short. They gather, more or less, in two categories. The first are those denied by the vagaries of luck or temperament-Howard Tate and James Carr, say, maybe O. V. Wright. The singers who record for a few different labels, cut a classic side or two, then bag out, drift away. In the “great man” theory of soul, these are the also-rans. The second category is the singer disguised within the fame and achievement of a group. Ben E. King of the Drifters, David Ruffin of the Temptations, Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops, Philippe Wynne of the Spinners: all known by their peers as among the finest vocalists ever to step to the mike. The world knows them only by ear.

Barrett Rude Jr. is one of the most elusive and singular figures in pop-music history. Though none with ears needs telling-if you’re reading the booklet, play the damn CDs already!-I’ll say it anyway: he’s also one of the greatest soul singers who ever lived, not merely one of the best who never got his due. Born in Raleigh, North Carolina, in 1938, Rude was the only child of a troubled marriage, his father an itinerant Pentecostalist preacher (and eventual convict), his mother dying in her late twenties (“of a broken heart” Rude told Cash Box magazine in 1972). His musical experience is frequently exaggerated: he sang in his father’s church, yes-but Rude’s father had his pastorship stripped from him before the future singer was 11 years old, and a year later was in prison. Raised by his aunt, Rude dropped out of high school and migrated from Raleigh to Memphis, where he worked as a janitor, a school-bus driver, then, briefly, as a night-owl disc jockey, specializing in blues and jazz, at a Memphis radio station. There he met Janey Kwarsh, the daughter of the station’s white owner, who’d been working as a secretary in her father’s offices. Rude and Kwarsh quickly married and had a child-unless it was the other way around.

In 1967, at age 29, Rude recorded a pair of singles at Willie Mitchell’s Hi Records studio. No one recalls how he came to the studio’s attention-Rude always denied his father-in-law had arranged the opportunity. In 1967 Hi was still treading water with instrumentals and novelty cuts, while producer Mitchell, with singer O.V. Wright, had begun exploring the deep-bottomed groove he’d soon exploit so masterfully with Al Green. Maybe Rude could have stepped into Al Green’s shoes in advance, and altered pop history-the evidence is here in four cuts, including the horn-driven proto-funk of “Set a Place at Your Table,” which briefly touched the R &B charts in February of 1967, and the slowed-down, eerily sexy Hank Williams cover “I Saw the Light.” But it wasn’t to be. Gaining a reputation as a brooding eccentric, Rude was dismissed as intractable by the even-tempered Mitchell before his career had even begun.

So Rude was seemingly on his way to the first kind of story-the handful of cult singles-until the day in February 1968, in a Philadelphia rehearsal studio, when a session guitarist named Marv Brown, who’d played at Hi Records a year before, suggested his name to a road-worn, journeyman vocal group known then as the Four Distinctions. The group had signed a management deal and were rehearsing under the hand of a young producer named Andre Deehorn. Deehorn had a sheaf of songs he imagined could be hits for a harmony-and-lead group. What he had in the Distinctions was harmony without the lead.

Brown thought he knew the singer they were looking for, a fellow who’d bottomed out in Memphis and was driving a bus in Raleigh, North Carolina -where, with his young wife and child, Rude had retreated to live with his aunt. No matter that there might be a dozen unemployed singers in Philadelphia; they took Brown’s recommendation and made a call. Rude bought a Greyhound ticket and came in for an audition. Unknown at thirty, Rude might have seemed a dark horse for pop immortality. Indeed, demons were never far at bay in a career vexed by rages, whims, and disappearances from studio and stage dates. Safe guess that among his woes an unhappy interracial marriage was a formidable cross to bear in ’60s America. His recording career spans just a decade; Rude was silenced by drug abuse and domestic tragedy at the end of the ’70s.

Nevertheless, from the moment he walked into the Philadelphia studio, Barrett Rude Jr. was destined to be a singer of the second type: the secret, soaring voice contained within a famous harmony group. Rude had in the Distinctions found the context within which he could tell the story he had to tell, a place to do the one thing a human being can hope to do-matter for a while. If he regarded it as something like a prison, we can only respectfully disagree, and be grateful that his was an art built on dramas of confinement and escape.

But who were these four men that I’m selling to you here as a context and a containment for Barrett Rude Jr.? The Distinctions began as friends, working-class black teenagers in the era of Johnny Ace and Jackie Robinson, growing up in the industrial suburb of Inkster, Michigan (also home to the Marvelettes). James Macy, Dennis Longham, Rudolph Bicycle, and Alfred Maddox were a quartet before they were a singing group, forming the all-black infield of the Dearborn-Inkster Chryslers, an early integrated high-school baseball team which won a controversial state championship in 1958. That after they switched from ball to doo-wop it was the shortstop, Jimmy Macy, who sang bass and the first baseman, Rudy Bicycle, who handled the tenor leads, stands only as further evidence pop truth is stranger than fiction. Baritones Fred Maddox and Denny Longham ranged between Macy’s lows and Bicycle’s highs. The Chrystones, as they were first known, were a resolutely secular group, and it was only a year later that Longham pointed out to the others the misleading resonance of their name, and suggested an alternative: The Four Distinctions. Under that name the teenage group would go on to play school dances, state fairs, and, yes, baseball games.

In May 1961 the Four Distinctions paid a fifty-dollar entrance fee for the privilege of winning a sing-off sponsored by Jerry Baltwood’s notorious Tallhat label. Their prize was a pair of sessions. Who penned the four numbers cut in Tallhat’s storefront studio that June? It’s likely the Distinctions walked in with the songs, but Baltwood took the songwriter credit. Included here are “Hello” and “Baby on the Moon,” the first a lovely doo-wop plaint, the latter a Five Royales-style vamp. Neither charted, on this world or the moon.

In 1965 Tallhat’s stable was bought out by Motown, but at the bigger company the group met with only frustration. Fourth or fifth in line for songs behind the Four Tops, the Temptations, and a host of other aspirants, the Distinctions found themselves singing backup and running errands, answering telephones, and fetching star acts from the airport. Denny Longham learned to cut and process hair; he was said by Martha Reeves to give “the best conk in town.” They did, however, come as near to glory as “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg,” the same Norman Whitfield production the Temptations would soon ride to the Top 10. Rudy Bicycle’s lighter-than-air falsetto version was suppressed in favor of the senior group, but not before a B side was prepared. “Rolling Downhill” might have seemed to described the group’s plight in Berry Gordy’s organization; in fact it’s a lost gem of a Holland-Dozier-Holland ballad. It would be three more years before career rescue, and before Andre Deehorn added “Subtle” to their moniker. But the Motown tracks are all the proof needed that the Distinctions before Rude were subtle, and polished, with a habit of making the hard plays look easy.

From Gerald Early’s One Nation Under a Groove: Motown and American Culture: “The three major early groups of the company-the Supremes, the Temptations, and the Miracles-were put together and rehearsed at their high schools. They were not church groups… and in various autobiographies there is little talk about the influence of the black church in their music…” This is a useful correction, but stops a little short. The sound which defines soul is epitomized by the configuration the Subtle Distinctions fell into once Barrett Rude Jr. signed on: a Detroit- or “Northern”-style high-school harmony group fronted by a rougher, churchified, “Southern”-style lead. This collision of grit and elegance, of raw R &B lust and repentance with polished, crossover-seeking pop is also the crossroads where sufferation and exile briefly joins hands with new-glimpsed possibilities of middle-class striving and conformity.

Take for example the Drifters 1959 “There Goes My Baby,” seen by some as the definitive moment when R &B turned to the possibility of another music called soul. Lead singer Ben E. King’s strangled, despairing vocal is pinned between a vaguely Latin beat and mock-classical strings. The results at the time not only horrified the record label, which nearly refused to release it, but puzzled the song’s producer, Jerry Leiber, who said, “I’d be listening to the radio sometimes and hear it and I was convinced it sounded like two stations playing one thing.” This drama was reenacted in James Brown’s strings-and-shrieks ballads like “Bewildered” and “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World,” as well as in the treacly arrangements which dogged the recording careers of moaner-shouters like Jackie Wilson and Solomon Burke.

What’s remarkable isn’t that ’50s song structures were inadequate to those unfettered soul voices just then locating their force. What’s remarkable is how ’60s soul produced at black-run companies like Motown, Vee-Jay, and Stax created an entire language based on the confinement of such voices in inadequate or mock-inadequate vessels. This drama took its purest form in the vocal interplay developed in groups like the Soul Stirrers and the Five Royales, as well as in a thousand doo-wop stairwells-voices rattling in a cage of echoes, or shaking off a straitjacket of rhyme, or outrunning billows of harmony that threatened to engulf it.

That’s where the Distinctions come in. The Philadelphia production style within which they cut their great records revived the smoothest of doo-wop harmonizing styles to suit a new sophistication of recording technique. Producers like Thom Bell and the team of Gamble and Huff raised this game of confinement to the next level, so testifyin’ singers like the Bluenotes’ Teddy Pendergrass and the O’Jays Eddie Levert had to find every possible way not only to shout, grunt, and plead their way out of the traps devised but to chortle and whisper in falsetto as well.

In this game no one set traps like Deehorn and the Distinctions, and no one slipped them like Rude. Hear it first in the spring 1968 demo recordings which secured the Distinctions’ deal with Philly Grove: a sketch of their first chart hit, “Step Up and Love Me.” With Deehorn’s production scheme still incomplete, the nearly a cappella voices weave a nest for Rude’s whispery intro, then push it out into soaring flight. From the same sessions comes the previously unreleased debut of Rude’s songcraft, “So-Called Friends.”

The new group was installed at Sigma Sound studios to record a full album. Rude, who’d been sleeping on Marv Brown’s couch, bought a house and sent for his wife and child, who’d been waiting in North Carolina. On the debut, the strings-drenched Have You Heard The Distinctions?, Deehorn’s warm, appealing love songs and his lush, aching productions dominate proceedings-here was the group worthy of his surefire hits. His arrangement of “Step Up and Love Me,” complete with flügelhorn and glockenspiel, established the group’s chart viability, smashing through to #1 on the R &B charts while attaining #8 pop. Rude was given a co-credit on the wrenching “Heart and Five Fingers,” though it’s hard to imagine his cajoling, sobbing outro was ever actually written down. When tour promoters at last began ringing the phone, the group was ready; they’d only been practicing their footwork for a decade.

Apprenticeship was past. Atlantic Records purchased the smaller label’s contract and returned the team to Sigma to cut their first masterpiece, The Deceptively Simple Sounds of the Subtle Distinctions. The classic “(No Way to Help You) Ease Your Mind” inaugurated a brief songwriting partnership between Deehorn, Rude, and Brown. With “Happy Talk” and “Raining on a Sunny Day” also reaching the charts, if you owned a radio, Rude’s aching falsetto and the Distinctions’ rich, percolating harmonies dominated the summer of ’70. The album was a banquet of elegant contemporary moods, the group at the summit of their early form, best described by Dave Marsh in his Heart of Rock and Soul: “Pure déjà vu, seeming to call up nostalgia for a doo-wop soul that had never actually existed.” Though it may seem inevitable that the tone would darken, at the time it was easy to wish for summer to last forever-or for a hundred albums as lovely as Deceptively Simple Sounds. Instead we have just one.

Taking a cue from Curtis Mayfield in “Move on Up” and Marvin Gaye in “What’s Going On,” the Subtle Distinctions recorded their socially conscious In Your Neighborhood in the fall of 1971. With a cover photo of the group in a vacant lot warming their hands over a oil-drum fire the album was rushed into stores before Christmas by an A &R office fearful the appetite for conscience might peter out. No fear- Superfly was right around the corner-but the look didn’t fit the group, and Neighborhood was no Christmas record. Rude delivered corruscating vocals on his own “Sucker Punches” (which reached #18 R &B while failing to dent the pop charts), “Jane on Tuesday,” and “ Bricks in the Yard,”but the album bombed. In the dubious tradition of 100-Proof (Aged in Soul)’s “I’d Rather Fight Than Switch,” Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell’s “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing” and other Madison Avenue-inspired tunes, Deehorn’s “Silly Girl (Love Is for Kids)” nudged to #11 R &B, #16 pop, providing some tonal-and chart-relief.

Redemption was sweet indeed: Nobody and His Brother was less a retreat than a recasting of the darkness of Neighborhood in deeper, more personal terms, made possible by Rude’s assertion of songwriting leadership. “Bothered Blue” was an immediate #1, topping both charts in October 1972, and if it’s the only song you were certain you knew when you purchased this set, you’re forgiven. Listen again. The song is better, more heartrending and true with each passing year, one of the most grown-up testaments of ambivalence and ennui ever to be made the backdrop for a Volkswagen commercial. Album tracks like “The Lisa Story,” “If You Held the Key,” and “So Stupid Minded” form a war for the band’s allegiance with co-writer Deehorn-Rude’s voice and lyrics raging against the tame formats Deehorn throws in his path, while Maddox, Longham, Macy, and Bicycle try to play peacemakers, to give harmonic soothing to the voice burning in the foreground. When Rude flies they offer a landing pad, when he stumbles they pull him to his feet, when at last he needs to sleep they tuck him in. Only “Bothered Blue” charted, but that was all it took for the album to find its place, and become their number-one seller.

Rude quit the group with the song still on the charts. The Distinctions’ last album, Love You More!, is a retroactive shambles, Deehorn’s weaving together of rehearsal tapes Rude left in his wake. The catchy, understated “Painting of a Fool” was a brief R &B hit in June 1973, but the album fooled no one. The Distinctions were dropped from Atlantic, and quickly parted ways with Deehorn, who had some disco fish to fry. The group slipped quickly and easily into an afterlife on the dinner-club oldies circuit, seemingly as reluctant to completely retire the name as they were to sully it by recording without Rude up front. Few retire as gracefully.

As for the departure of the irreplaceable, erratic, and beloved Rude, no one was surprised. His studio battles with Deehorn were a legend, and for good reason. Black pop was headed in another direction, “Bothered Blue” nonwithstanding. Deehorn would produce many hits in the next years, but the place of a Barrett Rude Jr. was far from certain. For every soul-shouter like Johnny Taylor, who, with “Disco Lady,” found career revival, were dozens who’d come to the end of the road. But if the slick rhythm of the up-tempo Philly numbers anticipated (and helped create) disco, that only adds a poignance to what became-in the sound of the Spinners, Manhattans, Bluenotes, Delphonics, Stylistics, and Subtle Distinctions-classic soul’s last burst.

It’s hard to describe what changed in Stevie Wonder’s records once he began playing all the instruments, except that it doesn’t feel like soul-more like the most humane pop-funk ever recorded. By bringing the music into full accord, Wonder outgrew the parodoxes. Similarly, Al Green’s late-’70s gospel is fine stuff, but once he abandoned Willie Mitchell and the house band at Hi, the music no longer teetered between worlds. The counterexample is Marvin Gaye, who, when he began arranging his own material, waded even deeper into the unresolvable mire. Gaye is soul’s paradigmatic figure, carrying his confinements anywhere, embedded in voice itself.

Could Barrett Rude Jr. have carried on with something like Gaye’s force through the ’70s? Maybe. He tried. He failed. Rude was never a confident songwriter-all but two of his Distinctions songs carry Deehorn’s or Brown’s name as collaborator. Record buyers and radio programmers knew his voice but not his name: he might sing “Bothered Blue” on stage until he was bothered gray, but he couldn’t record it again. At 34, he was starting over. On His Own (1972) shouldn’t have been a bad start: with Marv Brown in tow as arranger, Rude recorded a dreamy suite of love songs as intimate as notebook jottings. Unbilled, the Distinctions sang backup on two numbers, “This Eagle’s Flown” and the sole hit, “As I Quietly Walk,” which lodged comfortably at #12 on the R &B charts but couldn’t rescue the album from public indifference.

Our hearts tend to turn away when ballplayers sign with new teams, when child actors grow older, when groups break up and go solo. Still, in Rude’s view the Distinctions represented a kind of infancy, and the solo career his long-delayed adulthood. The non-reception of On His Own was bitter. Increasingly isolated from the advice of friends, Rude divorced Junie Kwarsh and moved to New York. His last album, Take It, Baby, treats the split with agonized specificity-the million-dollar contract he’d negotiated on leaving the Distinctions had been turned over in a settlement. Eschewing Atlantic’s resources, and leaving behind even Marv Brown, Rude recorded at the New Jersey studios of Sylvia Robinson, later the godmother of the Sugarhill Gang. The result is a tour de force of unleashed resentment, and nearly unlistenable by the standards the Distinctions’ audience had come to expect. “Lover of Women” and “Careless” briefly visited the R &B charts. “A Boy Is Crying” alludes to a custody battle, but from the sound might be a battle between Rude’s two or three selves, among which there are only losers.

Rude’s last, stray single, “Who’s Callin’ Me?”, recorded and released in 1975, is a confession of paranoiac retreat. It takes the form of a string of guesses at the identity of a caller; a ringing telephone is audible through the seething funk. “A bill collector? ” Rude wonders. “Can’t be my brother, my brother never calls.” After considering “A wrong number/Some unwed mother/my last producer/a slick seducer/a mob enforcer” and others, just barely heard on the fadeout is a last, anguished possibility: “Is it my mean old father, callin’ me? ” In light of later events the coincidence is jarring.

Rude’s last visit to the recording studio was in 1978 as a guest vocalist on Doofus Funkstrong’s “(Did You Press Your) Bump Suit” (single edit), a twenty-minute funk workout boiled down for release as a single. It touched the charts, but didn’t stick. Rude’s vocal aeronautics never sounded better and-unmoored from sense by goonish lyrics-never meant less. An even odder epilogue is provided by two examples of privately recorded four-track demos, circa 1977-79. “Smile Around Your Cigarette” and “It’s Raining Teeth” are each haunting and disjointed compositions, and each beautifully if lazily sung, suggesting the influence of Sly Stone. Rude was smashed on cocaine at the time.

I promised a story, and stories have endings. Andre Deehorn produced a variety of acts in Philadelphia and later in Los Angeles, scoring on the dance charts with Sophistifunction and Fool’s Gold, among others. He now works as a personal manager in Los Angeles. Rudy Bicycle and Alfred Maddox remain lifelong friends, each living with their families in Dearborn, Michigan, and working in the industry which has supported them all their lives, Bicycle booking musical acts at casinos in nearby Windsor, Ontario, and Maddox as a publicist for the Motown museum. Denny Longham never lost his interest in hair; after the Distinctions disbanded in 1977 he opened King’s Hair Throne, a clip shop in South Philly, and was a neighborhood fixture until his death from pneumonia in 1985. He was 44. In 1977 James Macy followed Andre Deehorn to Los Angeles, and struggled for years to find a hit on a variety of distaff labels. He and two companions were killed by shotgun blasts by unknown assailants while sitting in a car at a traffic light in Culver City on September 25, 1988. He was 47. Marv Brown never again found a musical partnership as satisfying as that which began at the Hi Studio in 1967. He worked with the house band at Sigma for a year, then vanished, and later took his own life by hanging in a Patterson, New Jersey, flophouse in 1994. He was 56.

After winning custody of his son, Barrett Rude Jr. moved to Brooklyn, and there sank gradually into a cocaine-fueled desolation. Rude’s father joined the household after his release from prison in 1977; his relationship with Rude was uneasy at best. The atmosphere was volatile, a bad blend of Rude’s hedonism and his father’s quirky brand of Pentecostalism, with its moral fervor, its love-hate fascination with music and sensuality, its arcane Sabbathdays. (It’s odd to consider that Marvin Gaye, Philippe Wynne, and Barrett Rude Jr. were all, by choice or upbringing, weird black jews.) On August 16, 1981, during a family dispute, Barrett Rude Senior aimed a pistol at his son and grandson. Whether he intended to use it can’t be known. Another gun appeared, and grandson shot grandfather to death. Rude’s son, who’d turned eighteen two months earlier, was convicted as an adult, of involuntary manslaughter. Though Rude was uninjured, the gunshot ended what remained of his public life. His silence since that time is complete. For what it’s worth, the man is still alive.

That’s the story. But what matters is a story in song. The music in this collection tells a tale-of beauty, inspiration, and pain-in voices out of the ghetto and the suburb, the church and the schoolyard, voices of celebration and mourning, sometimes voices of pensiveness and heartache so profound they feel unsustainable in the medium of pop. The voices may propel you to warble along, or to dance, they may inspire you to seduction or insurrection or introspection or merely to watching a little less television. The voices of Barrett Rude Jr. and the Subtle Distinctions lead nowhere, though, if not back to your own neighborhood. To the street where you live. To things you left behind.

And that’s what you need, what you needed all along. Like the song says: sometimes we all must get bothered blue.

Disc 1: 1-2: The Four Distinctions, singles on Tallhat 1961, “Hello,” “Baby on the Moon.” 3-4: The Four Distinctions, canceled Tamla single, 1965, “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” b/w “Rolling Downhill.” 5-8: BRJ singles on Hi, 1967: “Set a Place at Your Table” (R &B #49), “Love in Time,” “Rule of Three,” “I Saw the Light,” 9-10 Unreleased demos, 1968: “Step Up and Love Me,” “So-Called Friends.” 11-14: From Have You Heard the Distinctions?, Philly Groove, 1969: “Step Up and Love Me” (R &B #1, pop #8), “Eye of the Beholder,” “Heart and Five Fingers,” “Lonely and Alone.” 15-19: From The Deceptively Simple Sounds of the Subtle Distinctions, Atco, 1970: “(No Way to Help You) Ease Your Mind” (R &B #1, pop #2), “Far More the Man,” “Raining on a Sunny Day” (R &B #7, pop #88), “Happy Talk” (R &B #20, pop #34), “Just in Case (You Turn Around).” Disc 2: 1-4: From The Distinctions in Your Neighborhood, Atco, 1971: “Sucker Punches” (R &B #18, pop, did not chart), “Silly Girl (Love Is for Kids)” (R &B #11, pop #16), “Jane on Tuesday,” “Bricks in the Yard.” 5-9: From Nobody and His Brother, Atco 1972: “Bothered Blue” (R &B #1, pop #1), “Finding It Out,” “So Stupid Minded,” “If You Held the Key,” “The Lisa Story,” 10: From The Subtle Distinctions Love You More!, Atco, 1973: “Painting of a Fool” (R &B #18). 11-13: from On His Own (BRJ solo), Atco, 1972: “As I Quietly Walk” (R &B #12, pop # 48), “It Matters More,” “This Eagle’s Flown.” 14-16: From Take It, Baby (BRJ solo), Atco, 1973: “Careless” (R &B #24), “Lover of Women,” “A Boy Is Crying.” 17-18: BRJ solo single, Fantasy 1975: “Who’s Callin’ Me?” (R &B #63) b/w “ Crib Jam.” 19: Casablanca, 1978: BRJ guest appearance on Doofus Funkstrong’s “(Did You Press Your) Bump Suit” (R &B #84, pop #100). 20-21: Unreleased BRJ demos: “Smile Around Your Cigarette,” “It’s Raining Teeth.”