Marvellous Marvin Reconsidered

RARELY DID AN artistic persona run more counter to the truth than in the case of Marvin Gaye. Onstage, he was the quintessence of urbanity: suavely sensuous, gliding blissfully on the updrafts of the rhythm, cooing his trademark "wooooh" and cajoling his lovers with endless endearments ("oh baby... darlin'... sugar..."). Behind this mask, though, was a charming muddle who longed to be a messenger but hadn't much to say, who sought "sanctified love" yet beat and humilated his women, and who wasted his last years on tacky synth backing-tracks for erotic clichés murmured from a sofa like a voice-over actor in a sex-movie dub studio.