The CVs of George Benson and Quincy Jones are so absurdly overstuffed with accomplishments in jazz that their pop records can seem like mere trifles in comparison. Platinum-selling, Grammy-winning trifles.
Just another day in the office for Q, who won 27 Grammys during his career and more lifetime achievement awards and honorary degrees than I can list. In fact, he’s probably won another award since I finished typing that last sentence. But for Benson, making the first record to be released on Quincy’s new label Qwest, this was the peak of his second career as an R&B singer and hitmaker, begun four years earlier with an early vocal performance, a cover of Leon Russell’s This Masquerade (a song that, in truth, Karen Carpenter had sung better. But she sang everything better than everyone else, so there’s no disgrace in that).
Benson had thitherto been known as a virtuoso jazz guitarist, who had played on Miles in the Sky and Songs in the Key of Life. He employed a picking technique adapted from gypsy jazz, and had a way with hyperspeed octave lines that even Wes Montgomery would have envied. If he veered towards the commercial end of jazz, it was by instinct, not because he couldn’t hang with the heavy players. He could play his arse off. But still, if around the time of Breezin’ (1976) you’d been asked which contemporary jazz player might also become a pop star, Benson would have been a good guess, a guess proved right when Benson recorded The Greatest Love of All for the Muhammad Ali biopic The Greatest. I’ll quickly declare a prejudice here: The Greatest Love of All is high up my list of the worst songs of all time. Absolutely loathsome from the first bar to the last. I’m a forgiving guy and don’t hold it against George, Whitney or anyone else who’s committed the aesthetic crime of recording that most mawkish of instant showstoppers, but I’d be very happy never to hear that song again.
Jones clearly recognised a kindred spirit in Benson and so picked him as the first artist for Qwest, setting his A Team to work on the new boy’s next record: engineer Bruce Swedien and songwriter Rod Temperton, the blackest white man ever to come out of Lincolnshire. A typically strong Temperton song, Give Me the Night employed the arrangement style developed by Jones for Off the Wall, filling every part of the frequency range with details and ear candy, sculpting a sound heavy at the bottom and airy at the top, mixing the latest synth sounds with brass fanfares that could have sat happily on a Sinatra swing record from the fifties. Prolonged contact with Benson’s pop work might induce hyperglycemia, but as a one-off single Give Me the Night sits halfway between the revelation of Off the Wall and the apotheosis of Thriller.
George Benson, octopus hands