Even if it’s out of whack with the rest of his career, it’s a quirky, entertaining finish; meanwhile, there’s no doubt he could be proud of pretty much everything else he’d made. Here’s to you, Singin’ Sammy Ward. (6)
Enough to suggest Carolyn could have been a major talent. Even if that’s a stretch, it’s certainly plausible she might have become another Brenda Holloway, Barbara McNair – or Tammi Terrell. In the absence of that alternate-universe career, this will have to do, and it’s not half bad. (7)
Very hard to dislike, and while I’m glad we have the Motown Collection CD to throw the vaults open and provide a glimpse of what might have been, I’m definitely a little sad we won’t meet Tommy Good again on this Motown journey. A highly creditable first step, and it’s a real shame there isn’t a second. (7)
Brilliant (if not in the way that’s generally accepted), but it isn’t the record Martha and the Vandellas deserve to be remembered for. That doesn’t stop it from being a classic, of course. (8)
A tuneless dirge sacrificing melody for a vague melodiousness, sticky with self-satisfied lethargy, inhabiting some sort of horrible hinterland between Mantovani and Manilow. (2)
Simultaneously great fun and greatly annoying, it’s difficult to know what to think about this one; it moves the story of Stevie Wonder forward not one jot, and it’s at least six months past its sell-by date, but you can definitely dance to it and it’ll get stuck in your head given half a chance. (6)
Nowhere near as good as it could have been, nowhere near as good as it thinks it is, and (perhaps most importantly) nowhere near as good as its opening half-minute suggests it’s going to be. (4)
It’s just nice, which isn’t a crime, but which is a crying shame; the two voices go together so well, this really needs a big, soaring chorus, something to show both singers off to their very best. Somewhere in New York, Ashford and Simpson were taking note. (5)
This isn’t the best of Shorty’s Motown singles, far from it, and taken out of context it’d be hard to make any kind of claim for it being a masterpiece or something; what it is, though, is just a great deal of fun. Inexplicably likeable, and undeniably, well, charming. (7)
Motown’s best ever B-side, and – even in light of the perfect pop precision of My Guy – quite possibly Mary Wells’ best ever record. A genuine masterpiece, and a fitting end to a bunch of brilliant careers. (10)
A gloopy, largely shapeless late-Forties supper club pastiche that goes absolutely nowhere and takes too long to get there. (3)
Motown Junkies 