Before getting himself Sam-Cooke'd (i.e. shot by a woman in a hotel room, not to be confused with being Robert Johnson'd, or killed by a cuckolded husband), Sam Cooke was one of the brightest stars of the late 1950s and early 1960s American R&B movement, as well as a successful gospel singer, civil rights activist and record label owner. And there's a pretty good reason for this - the man had a VOICE.
The music is all huge swells of strings, muted horn and subtle, almost rhumba-like percussion. It's pretty generic and, to be honest, ridiculously schmoove. Far too schmoove for me. Luckily, it's not the main attraction - that honour goes to Cooke's voice, which is smooth as an oil-slicked penguin and seems to treats the verses as an opportunity to soar above the mundanity of the song. And the song really is mundane - the lyrics are as cheddar-tastic as the music.
The result is an annoying muddle - the song is too corny to really do anything other than use as a cod-romantic soundtrack to some kind of nauseating pseudo-romantic moment, but Cooke's voice is so phenomenal that it almost rescues the song. Almost. I want to like the song, hell, I want to love it, but it's cheesier than a bath full of cottage cheese. Having Cupid on permanent rotation for about 45 minutes helped me realise that it's just an innocuous song - it's lack of an edge means that it's going to be condemmned to be background music, a role in which, sadly, it functions just fine.
Verdict: Not gouda-nough
Tomorrow: Chubby Checker - The Twist
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