Oh, Manchester, So Much To Answer For

I miss the (musical) days when bobby brown was happy. the pre-whitney, pre-coke (presumably) days when he was only worried about finding love. "don't be cruel," his first pop crossover hit (after a solid solo debut that got consigned to the mid-'80s r-and-b ghetto), is sheer perfection, a gorgeously glossy teddy riley new jack swingbeat (more than sad johnny kemp, beggin'-ass keith sweat, al b. sure! (of what?), or even guy's first album, this was the blueprint for a near-decade of r-and-b to come) production topped by bobby's ebullient presence. he wasn't the best singer from new edition (that'd be his "replacement," johnny gill, or even ralph tresvant), but he was fine enough in his own right, and he had the personality, that indescribable star quality. that's why bobby got the world on a silver platter - that, and the fine songs making up don't be cruel, which went four (pop!) top ten hits deep. "cruel" is sometimes hard to listen to, though, for two reasons: a reminder of what could've been (I honestly believe bobby could've been the next michael jackson in terms of world-conquering might), and just 'cause it's actually a sad song. bobby tries to sound tough (e.g. the between-verse raps), but it's so painfully obvious that he's head-over-heels with a woman treating him badly, you almost wince and want to turn your head from the speakers. and that vulnerability was key - bobby, then, didn't come off as just another black lothario (as opposed to his one-time colleagues who made up bell biv devoe, drowning in a sea of their own misogyny). he actually cared about what you thought (why else would he have struck next with the manifesto "my prerogative"? he claims he doesn't care, but clearly begs for approval - read between the lines). I wish he still did.