When I first heard Bobby Caldwell (god knows when that was, he feels like he’s been there, caramel-smooth, from the get-go), like many others, I thought he was black. (NB: He ain’t. Here’s he is in 1980, the definition of blue-eyed soul, before Jamie Lidell* was but knee-high to a grasshopper.)
There’s just something about Bobby that automatically transports you to a relaxed, happy place. How could he not?
He’s the guy hovering in the corner, ready to play that slow dance at just the right time.
He’s the man standing at the ready to tell the remnants of that crowd in the club to hurry up and go home already – and to fill their hearts with joy as they make the most of the dancefloor before they shuffle out the door.
And he’s the trooper waiting to step in when you fail at 4am, gently telling you it’s time to call it a night and go nigh-nighs.
Cheers Bobby. You’re just so damn awesome.
* Look! Same but different.