Over a half-century ago, a cover version meant something quite specific: A white artist popularizing a song from an African-American artist, often just at the moment that the African-American artist's version was about to cross over to a white audience. From Pat Boone's circumcision of Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti" to The Crew Cuts bleaching the black out of "Sh-Boom" by The Chords, the history of rock and roll is littered with too many cases of artistic appropriation at the expense of deserving and talented African-American artists.
Cherrelle was a staple of the Tabu stable of artists, including The S.O.S. Band and Alexander O'Neal, and for a few hot years in the '80s, Tabu mined a solid vein of Prince-inspired funk/new wave/soul. So naturally, a track like "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" was going to cross over on honky highways already paved by the Purple One. A relatively standard lyric, both simple and universal, told the tale of unrequited love just this side of a possessive mania; throughout the song, Cherrelle is apologetic and regretful towards the spurned would-be lover-man, presenting herself as a mixture of erotic empowerment and staid objectification. It helps that the percolating polyrhythmic percussion is funky as shit, too. Jam and Lewis would take their formula to the top of the charts in the mid to late '80s with artists like Janet Jackson and The Human League, a territory that also periodically featured Robert Palmer.
Palmer was no stranger to interpreting the work of other artists, from the bedroom pop of Todd Rundgren to the icy synth stabs of Gary Numan. But it was his felicity with R&B, from The Meters to Kool & The Gang, that allowed Palmer to flex his singular muscles in somewhat unexpected ways. So when the fourth single off his multi-platinum '85 album Riptide came around, his take on "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" rocketed to #9 in the U.K. and #2 in the U.S., cementing Palmer as a hitmaker of note. The video, filled with quasi-robotic females (poorly) miming the instrumentation, likely helped matters:
Palmer would go on to other R&B covers, later charting with songs originally by The Gap Band and Marvin Gaye, but "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" had a special magic (helped in large part by the production of ex-Chic member Bernard Edwards and the unyielding power of ex-Chic member Tony Thompson on drums). It didn't hurt that Palmer, looking like a million pounds and surrounded by beautiful women, was able to effectively convey the regret of the false flag of attraction while also effectively flattening the affect involved in that regret.
It was almost like Palmer felt deeply sorry for something that he's done before and will likely do again, his weakness and strength simultaneously signaled in the blink of an eye. As a kid with exactly zero experience with being an object of desire and infatuation, the vistas that Palmer detailed in "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" were extremely enticing, even if they seemed so distant and elusive. Imagine what he would have done were he to have meant to turn you on.
However, every now and again, a cover version offers something that the original did not possess, eliding mere imitation to reach a sanctified moment of transcendence. Can anyone hear "Hallelujah" today, in its myriad iterations, without hearing the phrasing and essence of Jeff Buckley's early '90s renewal of Leonard Cohen's secular hymn? When Linda Ronstadt -- in her '70s peak -- took songs from Buddy Holly and Warren Zevon and Roy Orbison, did she not recast their narratives with her peculiar feminine alchemy? Is "Eat It" from "Weird Al" Yankovic possibly better than "Beat It" by Michael Jackson?
One of the most interesting tacks to take with a cover version is the gender flip, especially when the pronouns are kept intact. (I've always wanted to hear "Voices Carry" by 'Til Tuesday sung by a man, but that's just me.) Even when the central narrative is carried over from the original to the cover, it can still gain an extra verve and spark. Take the classic '80s R&B glide of "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On," written by the ex-Time duo Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis, and performed by Cherrelle:
Cherrelle was a staple of the Tabu stable of artists, including The S.O.S. Band and Alexander O'Neal, and for a few hot years in the '80s, Tabu mined a solid vein of Prince-inspired funk/new wave/soul. So naturally, a track like "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" was going to cross over on honky highways already paved by the Purple One. A relatively standard lyric, both simple and universal, told the tale of unrequited love just this side of a possessive mania; throughout the song, Cherrelle is apologetic and regretful towards the spurned would-be lover-man, presenting herself as a mixture of erotic empowerment and staid objectification. It helps that the percolating polyrhythmic percussion is funky as shit, too. Jam and Lewis would take their formula to the top of the charts in the mid to late '80s with artists like Janet Jackson and The Human League, a territory that also periodically featured Robert Palmer.
Palmer was no stranger to interpreting the work of other artists, from the bedroom pop of Todd Rundgren to the icy synth stabs of Gary Numan. But it was his felicity with R&B, from The Meters to Kool & The Gang, that allowed Palmer to flex his singular muscles in somewhat unexpected ways. So when the fourth single off his multi-platinum '85 album Riptide came around, his take on "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" rocketed to #9 in the U.K. and #2 in the U.S., cementing Palmer as a hitmaker of note. The video, filled with quasi-robotic females (poorly) miming the instrumentation, likely helped matters:
Palmer would go on to other R&B covers, later charting with songs originally by The Gap Band and Marvin Gaye, but "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" had a special magic (helped in large part by the production of ex-Chic member Bernard Edwards and the unyielding power of ex-Chic member Tony Thompson on drums). It didn't hurt that Palmer, looking like a million pounds and surrounded by beautiful women, was able to effectively convey the regret of the false flag of attraction while also effectively flattening the affect involved in that regret.
It was almost like Palmer felt deeply sorry for something that he's done before and will likely do again, his weakness and strength simultaneously signaled in the blink of an eye. As a kid with exactly zero experience with being an object of desire and infatuation, the vistas that Palmer detailed in "I Didn't Mean To Turn You On" were extremely enticing, even if they seemed so distant and elusive. Imagine what he would have done were he to have meant to turn you on.
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