Al Jarreau
We Got By

We made it! This shout in the title already contains the whole album, which essentially sings the wonder and gratitude to God for having escaped hunger and poverty.

It is rare for a debut work, especially if it is at the beginning of an extensive discography like Alwin Lopez Jarreau's, to already exhibit all the signs of the maturity and genius to come, yet We Got By is already a perfect record. It is true that he had already been on the scene for ten years and had even recorded an album he later disowned (he then sued the major that published it without his permission, losing the case), but this is the first time he truly puts himself on the line, and the maturity is already there.

Supported by a solid band, even if not stellar (but with his voice, he doesn't need one, he could carry a truckload), he mixes all styles of black music, from Gospel to Jazz, from Soul to Funky, in a perfect blend. It's no coincidence that he is the only artist to have won Grammy Awards in three different categories: jazz, pop, and R'n'B.

The album opens with the killer syncopation of "Spirit": it's impossible to stay still. His agile voice hops between bass and drums, and when the canonical horns come in, in perfect Tower of Power style, and the backing vocalists, I'm already floored. There's time for a scat solo that winks more than one eye at jazz, and the track fades, making way for the psalm "We got by" suspended between Gospel and Soul.

You can tell that Al has been hungry, truly, and when he speaks of it, he doesn't do it with rhetorical tones or clichés, but you feel he is a survivor telling his story, yet here you especially feel his religious soul, not for nothing, he is the son of a Protestant pastor. They say that Soul originates from Gospel, I don't know if that's really true, but in this song, the connection is perfect. The emotion is spine-chilling, and the execution is flawless, especially when the solo begins, where his singing becomes a saxophone.

The third track, "Susan Song," is the most conventional, it would fit well in the repertoire of Marvin Gaye or Isaac Hayes. Taken on its own, it is a very beautiful song, but after the two initial bombs, it slips by a bit anonymously in a voice/piano duet that is frankly already heard, however beautiful and pleasant.

The fourth track is what will become one of his flagship songs: "You don't see me," a poignant description of poverty that renders one invisible to the eyes of the world ("Cold desperation/ she is a devil in bed/ scratches my bones to bare"), once again described without rhetoric, but with the touching tone of personal testimony. The track opens with an a cappella introduction where the voice becomes bass and drums and introduces a lethal 5/4, followed by a chilling vocal performance, no wonder this track is still the highlight of the concert in his live performances.

Not even time to catch a breath and "Lock all the gates" starts, another masterpiece. Lyrical, almost classical in its setup. Here the duet with the piano is not at all predictable, also because the melody is truly more original, and when the strings come in, one is truly moved right up to the explosive chorus that makes the skin crawl in the shout of the disappointed lover who locks all the gates and bars the doors of the inner room so that no one can enter or leave.

Second side begins with "Raggedy Ann," another powerful syncopation to sing the story of Anna the raggedy, fascinating in her desire for freedom, she who is "raggedy by purpose," raggedy by choice. It is followed by "Letter Perfect," another somewhat conventional track, winking at Stevie Wonder, jazzed up with the usual stratospheric vocal technique. The fact is that after a first side like the one you've heard, it's hard to remain at the same level. The songs are still very beautiful, but the listener is already satiated, unless, of course, they are like myself, a glutton for black music.

Indeed "Sweet potato pie" immediately rekindles my desire. The syncopations return along with the urge to dance, excellent groove of bass and electric piano, the voice rises and falls: it's a low saxophone and guitar, in another performance of absolute technique.

Finally, it transitions into the slow "Aladdin's lamp," a perfect conclusion to a superb album. A melody suspended between pop and religious lied for perhaps the most sophisticated compositional track, an emotional ballad where the survivor addresses those who have not yet made it and exhorts them to hold on with true and sincere words: "Stand beside me now,/ I've been in your place/ And you've been in mine/ And the only difference/ Is our space and time." Aladdin's lamp is a metaphor for the faith that comforts and gives hope in poverty.

In short, an album that is a debut, but already a classic. More than once, Al Jarreau in his subsequent works will slip into decidedly easier tones, so that his discography is uneven, alternating masterpieces and always technically excellent performances, but with few ideas and little feeling, but even if it were only for this album, he would deserve a prominent place in the Olympus of black music.