Live Shots

Smokey Robinson

Paramount Theatre, Oakland, California, June 30

The wait was interminable. After dropping $400 on a plane ticket (no, it wasn't expensed), and then having to endure airline rape (that came on the trip home: five airports, 16 hours), waiting for William "Smokey" Robinson to ascend the Apollo-like stage of this stately, Harlem Renaissance-type theatre in one of the black capitals of the U.S. was like waiting for Godot. A singer and composer Bob Dylan once termed "America's greatest living poet," Robinson eventually made his grand entrance, after a 30-minute warmup by comedian Big Roll ("I'm not Smokey, I'm Jokey") and the Vegas-style opener courtesy of a 12-piece string section, horns, keys, backup singers, two guitars, bass, and drums, and a couple of scantily clad, high school-looking dancers whose amateur-night intro of "Send in the Clowns" was only slightly more tacky than the emcee's continued baiting of the audience. Suddenly, though, amidst the spectacle of roving spotlights and revue showboating, there he was, in his shiny blue suit, softly crooning one of his dozens of eternally vital paeans to the "Sound of Young America" -- "Tears of a Clown." He sounded terrible. "I Second That Emotion" and "You Really Got a Hold on Me" followed, Robinson's once-high tenor now hoarse and all but drowned out by the band. Worse than what James Brown has been passing off as music history for the last decade or so. Talk about disappointment of disappointments. That's when the rains came. "Quiet Storm," not a tune normally associated with fireworks, flashed like lightning with Robinson's honeyed voice starting to hit the high notes. "Being With You," sighing and swooning, gave way to "Ooo Baby Baby" and a cascade of oooing, cooing, and wooing. Smokey Robinson was finally in the house. And the house came alive. "Well," beamed the 60-year-old singer, "we should've played that first!" Looking like his own personal portrait of Dorian Gray must have been hanging in the Louvre for the last 200 years, Robinson now radiated the same life-affirming glow that's characterized his compositions ever since "Shop Around" became the Miracles first chart hit in 1960. "I've had a wonderful life doing what I love," he said in that swaddling caress of a voice. The Motown medley that followed, "My Girl/The Way You Do the Things You Do/My Guy," and the stage schtick accompanying it -- Robinson and two backup singers acting out a romantic triangle scenario -- was the last time Las Vegas figured into an unforgettable evening. With his moving tribute to George and Ira Gershwin, a stunning interpretation of "Our Love Is Here to Stay" that showcased him scatting like Ella Fitzgerald while suspending time like Billie Holiday, Robinson took charge like a kindly pulpit-pounding preacher. Highlighting numbers from last year's quiet storm romance, Intimate, Robinson's first album for Motown in 12 years (produced by none other than Berry Gordy), the rapturous gave way to the divine. New classic and Intimate lead-off track "Sleepin' In" ("creepin' in, like butter on a biscuit") and the slightly saccharine "Tu Me Besas Muy Rico" nestled comfortably among the chestnuts, especially considering they served as introduction to the evening's most memorable moment. Pointing the spotlight down on the guitarist seated unobtrusively on the drum riser, one soul legend introduced another: Marv Tarplin, co-author of gems such as "I Like It Like That" and "Going to a Go-Go." Along with Mickey Stephenson and Harvey Fuqua, two Motown songwriter/Svengalis who were in the audience, the golden days of Gordy's Motor City empire came alive. Taking center stage on a stool, Tarplin strummed chords that sent a shiver through the audience, Robinson taking the microphone off the stand and walking over to the guitarist and putting his arm around him. "People say I'm the life of the party 'cause I tell a joke or two," sang Robinson in duet with only Tarplin's gentle chords, and as "Tracks of My Tears" blossomed with the sound of the full band, one could feel the audience hold its collective breath. This was one of those moments you were destined to remember all your life, and the dead-still, SRO audience knew it. "If you've had any pain in your life," said Robinson afterward, "I hope this music will make you feel better." Another Tarplin co-songwriting credit, "Cruisin'" had the same healing power, Robinson using his last great commercial hit to work the audience like Martin Luther King doing call-and-response. "Just to See Her" ended the 100-minute show, the singer aglow with the holy spirit and the audience in a state of ecstasy. A brief run through "Going to a Go-Go" served as encore, but by that point, those who had come to see Godot had witnessed firsthand the power and the glory of Smokey Robinson.