Movies/TV
TV One's "Unsung" Heroes
By Mark Anthony Neal--Critical Noir, VIBE.com
Dec 24, 2008, 11:27

Like its predecessor Black Entertainment Television's, TV-One, the cable television networked owned by the Radio-One family, attempted to strike the right balance in terms of syndicated reruns and original series. TV-One, perhaps benefiting from BET's longtime decision to abandon middle-age audiences, has proved successful in at least locating a niche market of over-30 something African-Americans. Though the network has tried to put a fresh coat of paint on 15-year-old favorites like Martin and Living Single (the recent cast reunion of the later show being an example), it has proved far more capable than its competition to produce original programming. Though Baisden at Night is a mixed-bagged (it simply lacks the energy and cohesiveness of the drive-time radio program)shows like G. Garvin's Turn Up the Heat and Gospel of Music with Jeff Major are high points of the network's programming, though neither will have audiences forgetting the wealth of programming on the Food Network or the old BET stalwart, Bobby Jones Gospel. Fresh off of their live coverage of the Democratic National Convention, late last month TV-One unveiled what is perhaps its first legitimate original hit, the music documentary series Unsung.


The formula of Unsung is not original--it draws liberally on many of the conventions that made VH-1's series Behind the Music so compelling. Where Unsung succeeds in its ability to locate compelling human stories behind musical figures that are quite beloved among black music fans, though largely obscure to mainstream audiences. The Debarge Family, the Clark Sisters, Donny Hathaway and Phyllis Hyman are simply not figures that would register to traditional mainstream audiences and as such TV-One should be commended for the willingness to tell the stories of those who would not necessarily generate the kind of cross-over appeal that documentaries on the lives of well-known tragic figures like Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye or Otis Redding might have. And while the stories of the aforementioned artists deserved to be told and deserved to be told from a distinct African-American perspective, as TV-One's publicity for the series rightfully suggest, Unsung allows tribute to artists who simply aren't going to get the recognition that they deserve.


Donny Hathaway seem like highly logical choices with regards of an artist deserving of wider recognition. During his life, Hathaway was regarded by many of his musical peers as one of the most gifted musicians of his generation. As the legendary Quincy Jones notes in Unsung, Hathaway was hyper-aware of the musical traditions that came before him, as evidenced by his composition on the film soundtrack for Come Back Charleston Blue, a project that Jones oversaw. And yet, Hathaway's genius never translated into the kind of popular success that many thought he should have achieved. The few exceptions in his career where his highly popular pairings with Roberta Flack and his Christmas standard "This Christmas," which ironically keeps his music in the spotlight. Hathaway's studio output was a mere 3 albums, spread out over a four year period, though his label should be commended for understanding how incredible Hathaway was in live settings. Many of our sharpest memories of Hathaway's music come from those live recordings.


Without getting into the tawdry details of Hathaway's demise, Unsung is clear about the ultimate culprit: the paranoid schizophrenia that robbed Hathaway of his sanity for long durations and effectively ended his career after 1973. Hathaway's widow suggest that Hathaway had peaked artistically by that time, and though the series doesn't connect the dots, her comments do suggest that that there is some relationship to his lack of creativity and the psychological demons that eventually led to his death. It's as if all the music in Hathaway's head could no longer stave off the demonic voices in his head.


Unsung manages not to moralize about the unwillingness of many African-Americans to take mental health seriously, but like Hathaway, Phyllis Hyman's career and life was ultimately derailed by a toxic brew of mental health struggles (bi-polar disorder) and addiction to, among other things, food. In the late 1970s Hyman, with her statuesque looks and wide-vocal range was poised to become one of the most popular black women performers ever. The crossover pop success that Arista's Clive Davis imagined for her was to be a decade away and not surprisingly it would not be the headstrong Hyman who would be the beneficiary of Davis's vision. That Hyman's own mental health struggles seemed to escalate with the pressures of the "one-Black diva-at-a-time" rule in the recording industry is not lost on Unsung audiences. With the signing of Dionne Warwick, Aretha Franklin and Angela Bofill (who sang the kind of hybrid jazz-soul music that Davis pushed Hyman away from) the writing was on the wall for Hyman, though there's no small irony to the fact that she was dropped from the label shortly after Davis brought Whitney Houston on board--audiences are left with the stark reality that the success that Houston achieved was originally intended for Hyman. Yet Hyman manages to record some of her finest music after that low point in her career. Still there's no dismissing that it was the heart and mind of woman who was slowly losing her sense of self in the world that made the music so compelling.


Strangely one of the most gripping human stories that Unsung features, is that of the Debarge Family. Perhaps most well known for the pop hit "Rhythm of the Night"--one of the few hits by the group not written by family members--it is easy to forget just how talented and popular the group was at a historical moment where everyone lived in the unrealistic pop shadow of Michael Jackson. Yet, Debarge with lead singer El, was being prepped for major crossover success by the very label that was initially responsible for Jackson's emergence. What Unsung uncovers is a deeper tragedy, rife with on-going drug addiction, the deep wounds produced in response to the family's interracial status and a household filled with domestic abuse. Yet we're left with a musical legacy that begins with older brothers Tommy and Bobby and their work with the group Switch ("There'll Never Be") and concludes two decades later with the success of younger brother Chico, who found success just as the music of Debarge became a staple for hip-hop producers.


Like most documentaries of this sort, there is a reliance on talking heads and Unsung manages to keep them to a minimum. Though David Nathan is little more than the clichéd white music critic that some how "gets it" when so many black critics and audiences don't, musicians and artists such as Regina Belle (who credited Hyman with helping her understand the value of her voice's lower register), pianist Onaje Allan Gumbs, who produced Hyman's breakout version of "Betcha By Golly Wow," and Kenny "Babyface" Edmonds, who shared insights about a 1984 tour that featured The Deele (his group at the time), Debarge and was headlined by Luther Vandross, provide wonderful insight. It is perhaps the Reverend Jesse Jackson, Sr. that puts Unsung in its proper perspective. Jackson, who delivered a eulogy at Hathaway's funeral, suggest in an opening segment of Unsung, that Hathaway's early demise at the age of 33, deprived Black Americans of the opportunity to see how important he would become to us. That "us" in Jackson's comments make all the difference as to why Unsung is such stellar programming; it makes no bones that there are artists that matter most to "us' and give TV-One credit for understanding the value of that.

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