As just a wee snippet of a kid, deep in that shiny 5-to-9 time zone where music was no more or less enjoyable than the lingering taste of baloney and playdough in my mouth (kind of like right now, actually), my folks had four eight-track tapes by The Supremes, Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash and The Mamas and The Papas on permanent rotation in the family roadster. Over and over. And over again, a subconscious schooling in groove that was to eventually manifest itself in a genuine appreciation of music as more than just the soundtrack to Sunday driving.

I fell into a burnin’ hound dog stopped in the name of love on Monday, Monday, and it changed my life – music was no longer ubiquitous, like air and Kraft macaroni. It became a matter of personal choice, and in so doing it became synonymous with identity. I had my music, so therefore had some semblance of self. It’s funny how little that changes. So I count myself doubly lucky that the parental units weren’t into Jim Croce or Three Dog Night or Grateful Dead or some dreadful shite like that.

In fact, for being two of the whitest types I know, there seemed to be an awful lot of soul, blues and gospel-influenced music kicking in and out of the car console. And it all had a very curious effect: It turned me into a latent and eventually late-blooming Motown fan. No one being more surprised than myself, of course – he who at 13 had renounced virtually all the pop, disco and arena rock of the time for a strict diet of punk/new wave. So I was particularly stoked to catch Motown songwriting legends the Funk Brothers (last week’s Hour cover dudes) at their free outdoor show at the Jazz Fest, Sunday, July 4. And so, apparently, was everybody else.

Though the Gazette estimate of 150,000 concertgoers bears out suspicions that everyone in the boozy impromptu press gallery was seeing double, it was nonetheless an impressive display. The tree-lined stage and unmistakably Montreal architectural backdrop lent a certain drama to the overall aesthetic, and despite being penned in like cattle, the crowd stepped up to the medley of Motown hits. (On a side note, the Jazz Festival might want to seriously consider the wisdom of their much-vaunted security corridors, at least as they pertain to this particular site. In theory they were designed to rapidly stream attendees away from congested areas at the front of the stage, but in reality functioned as a giant lobster trap, feeding people into a central area from which there was no escape. Were somebody to detonate something small, even a firecracker, a panicked crowd would find itself blocked on three sides, and I pity the first several rows of people on the sides, trapped between a surging mass of bodies and as many as three fenced barricades. And it took me a half an hour to cross the street, which I was considerably less than happy about.)

Toronto’s Jacksoul was among those to take his turn at vocals (though many seemed to assess the hip-hop turned R&B/soul singer with undue harshness, I felt he acquitted himself well and shouldn’t be forced to atone for the sins of his area code), along with Joan Osborne (nice pipes, but certainly lacking in the diva-esque qualities and authenticity that some of her higher-priced and longer-lived peers might have brought), Sam Moore (the old gospel/soul singer – whose duo Sam & Dave were the inspiration for the Blues Brothers – still sounds great in that spirited, Sam Cooke-ish delivery, though you’d have to line him up with a fence post to see if he’s moving) and The Four Tops (who turned in the most electric performance, stealing the show with a number of their own Motown hits… or maybe it was the shiny jackets).

On the whole, the Funk Brothers were, as National Post columnist and renowned jazz aficionado Paul Wells laughed on the way past, somewhat "raggedy assed," citing the difficulty the group seemed to be having arriving at consensus on things like, oh, where to end the songs. To my mind, though, that loose live feel was what kept them from sounding like another too-polished Vegas tribute band. What’s soul if not human?

On the other hand, they might have considered rehearsing a bit for what may have amounted to the largest show of their career…

The Motown kept rolling the following night for The Four Tops and The Temptations at Salle Wilfred-Pelletier, both of whom turned in hour-and-a-half-long sets for one of the best value-for-money tickets at the festival. The Four Tops were again in fighting form (both bands featured the same crack, 10-piece horn section culled from Montreal), working low-key choreography to maximum effect as they ran through a medley of tunes. But it was The Temptations, riveting in long yellow jackets, tight in their dance routines and flawless in their renditions Ball of Confusion (still a dark, politically incisive tune lurking just underneath its soul-pop surface, a song that Love And Rockets remade to great effect in 1985), Walk Away Renee (the original Left Banke "baroque rock" hit, also wonderfully redone by Billy Bragg) and, of course, the show-closing My Girl, which brought the PDA audience to their feet for the umpteenth time. You could practically hear all the support hose groaning over the applause…

An excellently cheesily pleasing time overall, and a tip o’ the hat to the Jazz Festival. Though we’re a little late in the game to be trying for absolute authenticity when it comes to bringing in Motown acts (hell, there’s only one original Temptation of the five that were on stage last Monday), it’s a musical genre that fits well with the crossover spirit of the festival. And it sure as hell brought me back to the backseat…