Dionne Warwick – “Déjà Vu”

TOP 40 DEBUT: December 15, 1979

PEAK POSITION: #15 (February 2, 1980)

No one orchestrates a good comeback like Clive Davis. Arguably one of the most famous record executives of all time, his signings read like a who’s-who of future legends: some good (Janis Joplin, Bruce Springsteen, Whitney Houston, Alicia Keys), some less so (Tony Orlando, Barry Manilow). Occasional questionable taste aside, the man had a singular knack for reintroducing an aging artist to a younger generation. 1999's Davis-produced Supernatural is no one’s idea of a good Santana record, but eight Grammies and 30 million copies later, it’s become the textbook example of How To Craft The Perfect Comeback. And Supernatural was far from Davis’ first attempt at career rejuvenation. Twenty years earlier, in more low-key fashion, he accomplished the same feat with Dionne Warwick.

“Déjà Vu” was the second massive single from Dionne, the 1979 release that remains Warwick’s best-selling album to date. It came on the heels of “I’ll Never Love This Way Again,” the kind of over-the-top show-stopper that a certain cousin of Warwick’s would eventually turn into a mission statement. (“I’ll Never Love This Way Again” peaked at #5. It’s a 4.) “Déjà Vu,” thankfully, isn’t near as noisy about its commercial intentions. Mind you, it still smacks of product, but it’s product that gets the job done in the most tasteful way possible.

In 1971, after signing with Warner Bros. Records for a then-unheard-of $5 million, Warwick promptly lost her touch. Or rather, she lost her collaborators. Burt Bacharach and Hal David, the songwriting team behind Warwick’s monumental ‘60s run with Scepter Records, had planned to follow her to the new company. But the pair produced only a single underwhelming album (1972’s Dionne, unrelated to the 1979 one) before shifting focus to a new project: providing an original score for Lost Horizon. The 1973 film, a musical remake of the 1937 Frank Capra classic, was Columbia Pictures’ attempt to create a lavish, big-budget blockbuster. Instead, the studio wound up with, charitably, one of the worst movies ever made. And in the wake of the film’s commercial and critical fallout, Bacharach and David ended both their creative partnership with each other, and their professional arrangement with Warwick.

Left to rely on a revolving door of outside producers, Warwick stumbled hard. Four albums in a row charted in the bottom reaches of the Billboard 200. From 1975 to 1978, eight of her nine singles missed the pop charts completely. She changed her last name to “Warwicke” on the advice of an astrologer, only to change it back when sales got worse. And her one bright spot during this whole era wasn’t even recorded for her own label.

“Then Came You,” released as a one-off Atlantic Records single in July 1974, teamed Warwick with the R&B group Spinners. Thanks to the guiding hand of producer extraordinaire Thom Bell, the Spinners in the Seventies were as red-hot as Warwicke (still with the extra “e”) was ice cold. Nor did their contrasting styles seem like a promising fit. (Warwick reportedly disliked the song so much, she made a $1 bet with Bell that the single would flop.) And yet, the unlikely pairing worked to absolute perfection.

Sharing the spotlight with lead singer Bobby Smith and a flawless Philly soul production, Warwick unveiled an entirely new set of skills, shaking off years of vocal reserve to give herself over to the groove for four glorious minutes. “Then Came You” became the first #1 single for either artist. (It’s a 9.) Bizarrely, it took Warwick nine months to capitalize on her sudden success with a proper album. Then Came You, with no Thom Bell productions beyond the single, peaked at #167.

Clive Davis brought Dionne Warwick to Arista Records in 1979 with a classic Clive promise: “You may be ready to give the business up, but the business is not ready to give you up." To his credit, he made good on that promise almost immediately. Both “Déjà Vu” and “I’ll Never Love This Way Again” won Grammies the following year, making Warwick the first female ever to garner Best Pop Vocal and Best R&B Vocal in the same ceremony. The songs may be different stylistically, but each presents a similar vision: Dionne Warwick as respected elder, singer of “classy” pop songs for adults. It would be a box where she would stay, comfortably enclosed, for the remainder of her Arista tenure.

“Déjà Vu” is an odd marriage between two competing strands of late ‘70s pop: deep burgundy soul and schlock-heavy soft-rock. In one corner stands Gene Page, the masterful arranger responsible for conducting the Love Unlimited Orchestra and composing the blaxploitation score to Blacula. And in the producer’s chair sits… Barry Manilow, Clive Davis’ golden boy and possibly the least hip person in America in 1979. Manilow shares backing vocals with Ron Dante, best known for singing lead for the cartoon group the Archies. (The Archies’ biggest hit is “Sugar, Sugar,” which peaked at #1 on September 20, 1969. It’s a 10.) Manilow’s longtime collaborator, Adrienne Anderson, provides lyrics. The session players were fresh off working with Barbara Streisand. And the politely funky bass line comes courtesy of Will Lee, three years before his stint on Late Night With David Letterman.

What finally, and barely, tips the scales in favor of Dionne—and “Déjà Vu”—is the song’s co-writer, Isaac Hayes. Warwick first met the legendary soul singer on their joint 1976-77 tour, dubbed “A Man And A Woman.” The oddball match-up actually made a weird sort of sense: Both parties had been mutual admirers for years (Warwick once referred to Hayes’ symphonic-soul deconstruction of her classic “Walk On By” as the “definitive version”), and both were mired in career doldrums at the time. The resulting concert album A Man And A Woman, while not a huge success, still outsold any of Dionne’s Warner-era releases. She and Hayes remained good friends after the tour ended. And for her 38th birthday, he wrote her a song.

I’d love to hear a version of “Déjà Vu” with Isaac Hayes’ smoky baritone front-and-center. (The closest I could find is this 1990 duet, with neither artist at their peak.) But to Warwick’s credit, she channels a fair amount of his singular delivery into her own vocal inflections. And it helps that her supper-club elegance pairs well with a melody that’s all satin sheets and expensive bourbon, a Black Moses for the cocktail crowd. Too bad the Hayes of 1971 isn’t also sitting behind the boards. “Déjà Vu” is a solid composition, and Warwick sells it exquisitely, but Clive Davis’ team of ringers plus Manilow’s production prove a bit too much to overcome. Combined, they smooth out any trace of a rough edge—along with sixty percent of the song’s soul in the process.

Of course, that was always the point. The Dionne Warwick who cut loose on “Then Came You” was as much a one-time proposition as the single itself. The Dionne Warwick who luxuriates in the gentle current of “Déjà Vu” was built for long-term success, calibrated for an aging audience that didn’t expect—or want—surprises. A few years previous, R&B stations were the only outlets playing Warwick’s singles. By 1980, they were barely part of the equation. Even with an Isaac Hayes co-write, “Déjà Vu” only got to #25 on Billboard's Hot Soul Singles; on the magazine's Adult Contemporary charts, it hit #1. Dionne Warwick would never chart higher on the R&B side again.

GRADE: 6/10

12"ERS: Technically, the long version of “Déjà Vu” was never released on a single (Dionne wasn't catering to DJs by 1979), so I'm cheating here. It's still worth a listen. Again, would've loved to hear a (surely no less than) 12-minute Hayes rendition.

BONUS BITS: Made Men, one of Master P’s many (many) No Limit signings to disappear after one album, effectively remade “Déjà Vu” as a thug anthem (complete with interpolated chorus) for their single “Is It You (Déjà Vu).” Here’s the every-bit-as-ridiculous-as-you'd-expect video.