Tears of a Clown

The paradox at the heart of this record is built right into its architecture. The music is jubilant in a way that feels almost aggressive — a bouncing horn arrangement, a circus-bright melody, a tempo that practically skips. Yet the emotional content is the story of a man performing happiness so convincingly that no one notices he is breaking apart. Smokey Robinson understood this tension better than almost anyone of his generation, and he plays it without irony or self-pity, which makes it cut deeper. His tenor is a remarkably supple instrument here, gliding over the cheerful surface while the words beneath describe isolation and loss. The song belongs to the late-sixties Motown moment when the label was still committed to immaculate craft, every element in its right place, nothing wasted. It became a kind of anthem for a particular emotional experience — the competent sufferer, the one who keeps the party going. Listen to this when you want to feel understood in a way that doesn't require anyone else to know what you're going through, when the performance of okayness has become its own exhausting art form.