House Music

In Every Dream Home A Heartache

“A house is made of walls and beams; a home is built of love and dreams.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s sweet little rhyme invokes the domestic paradise we may harbor in our fantasies, but the grim realities sometimes dwelling within those walls and beams invariably find their way into song — thankfully. For nothing brings out the expression of sweet suffering in a diva quite like heartbreak.

Each of these three jewels of regret, sadness, and sheer pissed-off anger presents the great pop-song paradox: We wouldn’t wish any of this pain on our worst enemies, yet hearing these superb singers convey it is sheer bliss.

I revere Burt Bacharach. As a composer, arranger, and producer, Bacharach stands alone as a musical icon of Sixties pop, the innovative genius who bridged the gap between the earlier giants of the Great American Songbook and the musical iconoclasts that a new era ushered in. And I have great respect for Hal David, the inventive lyricist who shared authorship with Bacharach on some of the most delectable and often affecting pop songs of a fertile time. Together they composed some of my very favorite tunes.

“A House Is Not a Home” is not one of them.

Clumsy in melodic construction, overly melodramatic in mood, and downright awkward lyrically (“A chair is still a chair” is no way to begin a song, period) ,“A House Is Not a Home” somehow became an instant standard after its introduction as the theme song of a now forgotten 1964 film of the same name. It was eventually recorded by artists ranging from saxophone star Stan Getz to R&B legend Luther Vandross.

The great Mavis Staples took a shot at it in 1969 and hit the target dead center. Proving — like her peer Aretha Franklin — that she could sing anything by unearthing the emotional core of a song, Staples transforms a piece of overwrought balladry into a stirring anthem of romantic commitment. For me, if this house still stands it’s because of her.

Two years earlier Tammy Wynette had her first country-music number one hit with “I Don’t Wanna Play House.” What makes this a classic rather than a cookie-cutter Nashville weepie? First, it’s cleverly written, with an alternating point of view between a narrator-mother and observant daughter. We’re not talking Henry James here, but the unexpected back-and-forth adds emotional dimension and depth.

Second, the production is crisp and clean, with overt sentimentality left on the curb of Music Row. Typical Nashville-isms are held in check: The piano maintains a respectful distance, the steel guitar cries only when absolutely needed.

Third and most important, Wynette sings the stuffing out of the whole thing. Yet, in keeping with the controlled production, Wynette’s modulated vocal is a model of dynamics; hear how her foot stays firmly on the brake, letting loose only when it’s time to drive home a point, and then down-shifting again, the sincerity and compressed pain in her voice holding it all together. If this one doesn’t get you, check your heart for steel fillings.

Mavis may be regretful, and Tammy heartbroken. Ann Peebles, on the other hand, is out for blood. “Breaking Up Somebody’s Home” (as it was titled on the 1972 single) was produced by Willie Mitchell, with the same slow-groove majesty he brought to Al Green’s recordings of this same time. Like Wynette, Peebles holds intensity in reserve, letting it rip only when called for. She may keep things close to the vest, but honestly, Peebles’s seething vocal leaves little for us to read between the lines. She wants what she wants and she’s going to get it no matter what it takes.

Get out of her way — no house will be left standing.