ROBERT PALMER : Music & Style

Robert existed in a strange stratum somewhere above cult figure and below major pop star. But his relaxed, charming sense of style, those international-playboy record sleeves, a pure, unflustered love for just singing and his quick-witted reaction to new pop syles meant he could charge into the slick, well-dressed 1980s without looking like a trend-chaser.

In 1984, as though he were on an all-expenses-paid holiday, he took the role of lead singer in the dance-pop supergroup Power Station, formed with the guitarist and the bassist of Duran Duran and the drummer from Chic, Tony Thompson. This temporary alliance paved the way for a brief energised run of chart-topping hits that deftly mixed the energies of rock and disco, produced by Chic bassist Bernard Edwards with glistening simplicity. The big hits came ten years after those fantastic first two albums, but Robert finally became the star I was always convinced he would become, with traces of every style, pose and dream-musical combination he'd tried as he'd been sailing along. Robert represented what I believed Island stood for, getting behind artists who were looking not for quick, short-lived success but for a lifetime of making music.

In 1985, when I heard a new song Robert had written called Addicted To Love, which suggested an undercurrent of further addictions to sex and drugs, I thought: That's a hit. But it was six minutes long and needed an All Right Now edit to be more radio - and TV - friendly.

These were the MTV years, so we needed a video that was as direct and stylish as the song. A great video would complete the song. Videos were adverts for singles and I wanted to break outside the usual pop-video clichés and create something that projected Robert's world.

Aware that Robert always seemed to look better when photographed with a woman, I thought of Terence Donovan, the London photographer whose sensual, tousle-haired portraits of a mysteriously moody Julie Chritie helped launch the Swinging Sixties.

Terence had a knowing sense of irony similar to Robert's, a playfulness when it came to creating imagery. I called him and asked if he'd do a video. He wasn't so sure - it wasn't something he usually did. I said I would send over the song. He called me back and said he liked the song and that he had an idea for it: a band made up of some models he had spotted on auditions and liked the look of. Robert would sing the song in front of them.

To me, this sounded dreadfully corny, almost a non-idea. Even so, I had a lot of confidence in Terence. He was an artist and not the usual kind of video director from whom you would want a detailed proposal. With an artist, you look to get something that can't simply be put into an outline. You want their imagination.

Robert came back to the Bahamas straight after filming the video and I asked him how it went; he thought it went really well. 'The girls looked great,' he said, which was the first thing on his mind. It didn't look corny? No, no, not at all, said Robert, looking a little shifty. I wasn't convinced I believed him.

The finished video was sent over to me a couple of weeks later, and we sat down to watch it. It wasn't what I expected: the five models were in severe makeup, all flaming-red lips and accentuated cheekbones, their hair slicked back from their pale skin. They held their instruments like they weren't even going to pretend they knew how to play them and they twitched robotically, out of sync with the music. Which, of course, was what made the video so fantastic and, eventually, iconic.

Robert was dazzling but no-nonsense in his dress shirt and expensive tie, pretty much his daily outfit, with jacket off to show he meant business and was feeling a little loose. He had filmed his part separately, so he didn't really know what the girls were doing in the background. He stood out front in his own limbo and sang it perfectly seriously with a straight face, while behind him, at a video distance, was this glorious indifference, five girls in their own world creating their own rhythms. We sat there a little open-mouthed and then both at the same time said, 'It's unbelievable.' And really funny and sexy. I checked in with Island Records and told them to press all the switches they could to make sure it was a hit. Terence had found a distinct way to create a spectacle perfect for the cavalier swagger fo the song. Addicted To Love ended up as one of the defining videos of the 1980s, and the 'band' - Terence Donovan and the girls, with Robert confirming in surreal videoland that this was the life he really led - stayed together for a couple more singles, playing deadpan in the promo clips for Simply Irresistible and I Didn't Mean To Turn You On.

Addicted To Love and those off-kilter robotic girls elevated Robert to something beyond the versatile, adventurous white-soul singer I had first met. The song was number one in the US and Australia, number five in the UK, and Robert won a Grammy for Best Male Rock Performance in 1987 - the same year Steve Winwood won a Grammy for Higher Love with Chaka Khan, who was originally set to sing Addicted To Love with Robert as a duet until her record company stopped her doing it. Another great diva, Tina Turner, made the song a spectacular staple of her live show, which thrilled and flattered Robert as a huge fan of Tina, especially from the Sue days.

One consequence of Addicted To Love was that other labels started to get interested in Robert and offered the kind of money that Island never could. EMI massively outbid me for his services and not even my nice recording and living complex in Nassau could keep him around. His Island years came to an end. I lost touch with him, which happens even with artists you have become friendly with. People you've been close to wander off on another path from you and you both have plenty to occupy your time.

I missed him, especially when I visited the Bahamas where we had enjoyed such good times together. There was a moment in 2003 when I was going to call him, see what he was up to, but something came up and I never got around to it. A few days later, I heard the news that he had died while he was doing some promotion in Paris.

He was only fifty-three, but that life that he lived so well - sometimes a little too well - had caught up with him. Terence Donovan died too early as well, tragically committing suicide at sixty. They both knew how to have a decent amount of fun and not take themsleves seriously, though their commitment to louche decadence evidently took a toll. I am glad I brought them together to create such a shared memorable pop-culture event.

Read more :

The Islander: My Life In Music And Beyond by Chris Blackwell with Paul Morley (Gallery Books / Nine Eight Books - 2022)