As Cool as The Wanna Be

By Nelson George

African-American masculinity has been under attack since the first slaves stood in auction in this country. From that moment on, all signs of aggression or resistance were met with torture. In the decades after the Civil War, lynching was commonplace in the South for any black man seen as "uppity" or perceived as sexually interested in a white woman. Images of black men as clowns, fools and servants have been staples of American pop culture beginning with minstrel shows and continuing, in many ways, into the era of cable.

To this day, at the turn of a new century, black rage at current inequities is viewed, not as righteous indignation, but ingratitude. It is within this historic context that "cool." a wonderful African American contribution to world style, evolved out of the black community following World War II. Blacks had been flooding the urban centers of the North since the Depression years. While the parents of these families heId close to their Southern ways, their offspring had a different perspective. They still had the flavor of Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, etc., in their bones, but every day they experienced the concrete, cars and conflicts of metropolitan life.

In this environment a special blend of the South’s relaxed demeanor and the North’s wary sophistication came together to define a response to the decades of oppression. Hustlers on the street were "cool." So were radio deejays who helped spread the latest slang. At the apex of cool were men like the flamboyant Harlem Congressman Adam Clayton Powell and boxer-dancer Sugar Ray Robinson. That renegade from the black church, Sam Cooke, oozed cool and inspired a generation of vocalists to follow his lead and sing for secular audiences, sing for money and sing in a way that manifested this new approach to black identity.

Entering the 1960s, "cool offered the potential for self-determination and even irresponsibility," wrote R&B historian Joe McEwen. Above all, it meant a new day for black people.

Cool, for one meant you didn’t have to answer to anybody. For two, it meant you had what it takes. The Temptations had what it takes.

High Tenor Eddie Kendricks, baritone and second tenor Otis Williams, baritone Paul Williams, bass voice Melvin Franklin and the raspy tenor David Ruffin were the voices of the quintet during its classic period. Arguable they were the greatest standup vocal group of the ‘60s not simply because they could blow (of course that didn’t hurt), but because the Temps epitomized a certain slick, citified, self-possessed attitude that shaped a generation’s perception of urban manhood. In the ‘90s, it’s fashionable to view the Temps simply as aspiring Vegas showmen always willing to accommodate middle America (and, in fact, that is part of their history).

But that’s a narrow reductive view that rips the fab five way out of context. As inheritors of the gospel-heavy tradition of the Swan Silvertones and Soul Stirrers, the Temptations could always tap into the deep resources of emotional vocalizing known as soul. Yet as kids raised during the doo-wop harmony era (the great post war sound of high rise public housing projects), they retained a measure of street flavor even while wearing tuxedos.

The Temptations were tall and, in their youth, lean. So whether they wore shiny sharkskins, textured mohair suits or turtlenecks, narrow legged trousers and stingy brims, they looked sharp as a tack. When it came to Negro/black fashions circa mid-‘60s the Temps both reflected and set trends. Though none of the Temps was matinee idol handsome, there was an around the way ruggedness about them that was quite appealing. Where Smokey Robinson was cute and Marvin Gaye had choir boy charm, the Temps were relaxed and natural men, ready to woo your lady or come from the shoulder depending on the situation.

And. of course, they could dance. In the ‘90s, a much more violent era that even the most ardent Nixon supporting ‘law and order" voter could ever have imagined, dancing is not quite the symbol of coolness it was once was-this is a decade where guns often do the talking. But Eddie, Otis. Melvin, David and Paul were celebrated as dance floor movers who were synchronized without seeming rote. Pulled between Paul Williams’ more streetwise ideas and Cholly Atkins’ precise "vocal choreography." the quintet managed to synthesize the newest steps (the hully gully, the camel walk, the jerk) into moves that accompanied Motown’s inexhaustible production line of hits. The Temptations Walk- just a simple slide of the feet and, swing of the Hips- was executed with a grace that made it as much their calling card as Jackie Wilson made his split and James Brown made dancing with his microphone stand.

Over the years the Temps would be blessed with many distinctive lead vocalists. Kendricks, Damon Harris and Ron Tyson provided the tender falsetto, while Denis Edwards anchored a slew of classics and Ali Ollie Woodson is truly a gifted shouter. But when you discuss musicality and cool and the Temptations, you always end up talking about David Ruffin.

Like most great front men Ruffin was egotistical and overbearing. He often tried the patience of his group mates. But as a performer Ruffin is one of the most underrated of the soul epoch. His solo career sputtered, but within the Temptations context he was brilliant. The Temps’ songs were often velvety incantations of love, but Ruffin would rub his voice across them like sandpaper. He took Motown’s pure pop concoctions and spiked the brew with his tart phrasing. Unlike Otis Redding or other Southern soul stars Ruffin made sure you understood every word. Unlike a straight pop singer he knew how to subvert the melodies to his will.

On stage Ruffin’s gifts were augmented by a marvelously theatrical face. From behind his black horn-rimmed glasses he projected pained grimaces, disappointed frowns, bug-eyed smiles, sad-eyed stares and sideways glances that made every song a play. Watching him negotiate the lyrics of "My Girl" or "(I Know) I’m Losing You" was to see the intersection of soul and Shakespeare. That comment may sound hyperbolic, I know, but on a good night Ruffin’s face could excite you like that.

With Ruffin rocking the microphone, counterpointed by’ Kendricks with the three other Temptations providing the harmonies, these brothers certainly helped define the sound of young America in the ‘60s. To me and friends, little black boys living in second generation public housing in Brooklyn it was easy to see them as sepia Supermen who set standards for a kind of heightened blackness (blaculinity?) that we fantasized one day of possessing.

In his landmark mid-80s black satire "The Colored Museum." playwright George C Wolfe trashes black cultural cliches of every kind. "Sacred Cows be damned." is Wolfes general attitude. But one the few African American icons to survive Wolfe’s blistering pen are the Temptations. As one homogenized black character attempts to discard his Temptations Greatest Hits collection (and his black past), a character representing his younger self protests by Saying. "For God’s sake Johnny man, ‘My Girl’ is the jam to end all jams. It’s what we are. Who we are. It’s a way of life."

Ruffin, Kendricks Williams [and Franklin] are dead. Otis [continues] on. So much has changed. So much will never be the same. But the values of that time and those places live in the voices of the Temptations and our memories of their steps and their cool. The Temptations A way of life, indeed.

Nelson George is a best-selling author of Buppie, B-Boys, Baps and Bohos and the novel, Urban Romance. This essay appears in the Emperors of Soul boxed set released by Motown in 1994.