Marvin Gaye may have the most tragic arc in all of American pop-culture history; a gifted, one-of-a-kind talent brought to ruin by his addictions and murdered by his own father in a violent altercation that merely capped off the lifetime of discord between them. He made some of the best music of the twentieth century, most of it with Motown (where he was Berry Gordy's brother-in-law). He experienced epic highs and lows, and cruelly had been on his way back to the top only a year before his death (in the intervening months, his paranoia, fueled by cocaine and insecurity, got the better of him and caused him to move in with his parents, into a dysfunctional situation that resulted in the worst April Fool's Day in modern times).
Michael Eric Dyson's magisterial book "Mercy, Mercy Me" puts Gaye's work as an artist in the context of his tortured life, with a celebration of all that he accomplished both on his own and in collaboration with various female duet partners (especially Tammi Terrell). Dyson goes through Gaye's early development in Motown, where he fought to distinguish himself as a solo artist after a time spent in groups, his idols being Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra. But the standards-singer-to-be found his voice with duets with female partners through the mid-to-late Sixties, when he became the prince of Motown. In the wake of the tumult of the late Sixties and early Seventies, Gaye turned his focus to the social/political with his landmark album "What's Going On" and to the bedroom with "Let's Get It On." His success came at a price: his addictions to drugs and sex grew only more potent, and the discord between himself and his father (who more or less sponged off his famous, wealthy son) only got worse. A bitter divorce from Anna Gordy gave the world the album "Here, My Dear," and Gaye had one final success with the single "Sexual Healing," before his life fell apart and he found himself on the wrong end of a gun pointed by his own father a day before his birthday in 1984.
Dyson, a fantastic writer, captures those peaks and valleys, as well as putting Gaye and his music into the deeper context of the Civil Rights movement, the automation of Detroit (both in terms of automobiles and Motown's recording practices), the awakening sexual revolution of the late Sixties, and so on. The final section, concluding as it does with an extended conversation with R Kelly, might strike readers today, cognizant of the myriad allegations against Kelly in 2020, as a bit uncomfortable (and to be fair, Kelly was facing trial in 2004 for some of those allegations, so Dyson doesn't skirt over those facts at all. It's just awkward to read Kelly's words and know the full story, which was only hinted at at the time Dyson interviewed him). But the book as a whole is a powerful, sobering look at an artistic genius whose life was as painful as his art was profound.