Christopher Cross

This hugely successful record, which swept the major Grammy categories at the 1981 ceremony, prompted sharply divided opinions. There are always people who argue that a work is so innocent that its very innocence is a fault. Certainly, one senses little frustration or anguish here, but neither is there any arrogance or conceit. There is simply the innocent beauty this unassuming Texan creates in his high register. Yet that alone would scarcely have won so many hearts. Michael Omartian's deep commitment was also crucial: he persuaded Warner, hesitant to sign Christopher Cross, to take him on.

Michael's skilful production gives Cross's songs an effective character without resorting to drama, slipping into the listener's heart almost unnoticed. The opening ‘Say You'll Be Mine’ starts suddenly with drums, bass and repeated piano attacks in unison. Caught off guard, the listener pays attention to the song. Cross's unusually emphatic singing is wrapped in Nicolette Larson's lovely chorus, while Jay Graydon, then at the height of his powers, cuts in with hard-edged guitar.

On the whole the music is soft and unforced, but moments of tension and release make it as comfortable as a bathrobe with just the right amount of starch. Above all there is ‘Never Be the Same’: a mournful string introduction, as though depicting the wind, interwoven with guitar tremolo suggesting the flicker of the sea. The singing begins with surprising restraint. That tremolo continues through the ending, changing chords along the way. Immersed in a vast feeling, as if gazing from afar at a sailboat moving slowly through the evening sea, one is quietly overcome by tears.

It seems a work that leaves nothing behind, yet I suspect it leaves a strange, lingering sensation of something having passed through us. The air of casualness that makes analytical listening seem rather tasteless may actually be its essence.