Smokey Robinson & the Miracles "Going to a Go-Go" [1965]

Almost two full decades after Henry Ford kicked the bucket, somebody in Detroit finally had another good idea: music audiences liked female voices, but because the pre-sexual revolution 60s was still sexist as fuck, the music industry needed a guy who could sing like a girl (and preferably not a fairy). They struck pay-dirt with Smokey Robinson, a young Sam Cooke knock-off who sang like he had a clamp on his testicles. Motown chief Berry Gordy hadn't yet established himself as the totalitarian task-master (substituting Armani for typical military garb, like dictators from most second-world regions [upon which Detroit most certainly qualified] normally did), but he did already have a sweet tooth for strings, horns, vibes and other gooey sentiment. Smokey then employed this syrupy overproduction in his singles that make you feel like you're sinking into tacky 60s living room furniture at someone's home who don't really like all that much -- listening to "Going to a Go-Go" holds the same sort of awkward guilt. Don't be fooled by the puppy-dog looks of this album -- Motown meant serious business, and they were going to have everyone in America buy their 45s, even if you had to hide them from your racist parents. Thus, the operatives of this record company were early and fully conscious sell-outs, hell-bent on buffing the edges of the black American experience in the name of turning a quick buck. Not exactly honorable, but at least no one sicced any German shepherds on Smokey Robinson's ass.