By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
What's missing throughout Davis's extensive body of work, however, can best be explained by James Brown, who in his 1986 autobiography, The Godfather of Soul, wrote that Davis was "multitalented, but he never did himself." It's an astute observation. In his attempts to be all things for all people, an audience-pleaser at any cost, Davis never found his own voice, never eclipsed his influences, and never matched the work of his pop and R&B contemporaries. No doubt he achieved the kind of fame and celebrity practically unrivaled by his African-American peers. For instance, in 1963, while Davis was headlining venues such as Miami Beach's Fontainebleau hotel, Sam Cooke was doing matinee performances at Overtown's famed Harlem Square Club, singing gritty, sweat-soaked R&B for the city's most poverty-racked community. And while Ray Charles made frequent appearances on television variety programs, Davis hosted his own variety shows and ran with the consummate top dogs of white America's entertainment hierarchy: Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.
That's not to accuse Davis of being a cultural sellout (that notorious Richard Nixon-bear hug photo notwithstanding). To accuse him of not being "black enough" or too pop, is to forget about the crossover success of Nat King Cole, Sam Cooke, and countless doo-wop groups, or to ignore the rock and roll innovations of Jimi Hendrix. Davis's identity, though, was his very lack of identity. He neither flaunted nor denied his ethnicity or African-American heritage. Like a show-biz Zelig, Davis merely adapted to his surroundings, whether hoofing it as a kid at the Apollo Theater or yukking it up for the snowbirds who flocked to Miami Beach for Vegas-style entertainment. Whatever clicked with the audience is what Davis would do. Thus the bulk of Yes I Can! is devoted to standards recorded hundreds of times by literally hundreds of artists. Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and countless others all took their turns at the likes of "The Birth of the Blues," "Too Close for Comfort," and "Begin the Beguine," often turning them into masterfully artful personal statements. In Davis's hands, however, they are mere vehicles for his admittedly powerful voice, a voice that was technically proficient but utterly bereft of anything resembling sincerity or heartfelt emotion. "That Old Black Magic," a Top 20 hit for Davis in 1955, is about as schmaltzy and glib as anything in the lexicon of popular music, as are the inevitable tunes from his 1958 shot at Gershwin's Porgy and Bess. His interminable version of Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Soliloquy," meanwhile, is a flaccid attempt at glitzy pyrotechnics that is simply empty.
Showstopping schmaltz has always been at the core of Davis's work. It's what first caught the eyes and ears of Sinatra back in the early 1940s, and it has helped to make him one of the towering figures of the postmodern cocktail craze of the past few years. It held tightly the Harlem-born Davis from the age of three, when he made his first appearance (in blackface, no less) with his parents in the 1928 burlesque revue Struttin' Hannah from Savannah. In short time he was picking up work as a dancer, impersonator, and singer with Will Mastin's Gang, a popular flash-dancing trio with whom Davis would perform for the next twentysomething years. He got his first taste of racism while serving in World War II, and despite his ever-growing popularity following his discharge in 1945, such hatred would continue to dog the tireless entertainer, even among his friends and cohorts. (Who can forget the 1960s Rat Pack concert aired several years back on A&E, during which Dean Martin picks up Davis, then thanks the NAACP for the trophy?)
Davis persevered as though it were all part of the act, and in the process opened the doors for numerous black entertainers. He also established himself as a consistent draw in Vegas, Hollywood, and Broadway, along the way netting nineteen hits on the pop chart. Yet the evolution of his music represents a complex knot of contradictions. During the 1960s wave of African-American outbursts of disenchantment and reform, Davis was laughing it up onstage at the Sands, a willing stooge for the smart-ass Rat Pack. During the early 1970s outbreak of politically charged soul and R&B, Davis had a number one hit with the unctuous "Candy Man," a song he purportedly loathed. He became a smarmy, jive-ass hipster, flashing peace signs, embracing the fashion of psychedelia, and becoming the quintessence of a hapless man trying to stave off old age.