For a foundational architect of late ’70s and early ’80s dance music and a crafter of more than a dozen Hot 100 Top 20 hits, Rod Temperton is striking in his anonymity. Largely, that’s by design: Temperton—whose death last week, at 66 following a short battle with cancer, has just come to public light—chose to remain reclusive while writing massive hits for his own band Heatwave, and then Michael Jackson, George Benson, and many others. Temperton’s peak period of productivity came to an end in the mid-’80s (his last hit was Michael McDonald’s “Sweet Freedom”), but the quiet Englishman leaves a towering pop legacy, belied by a career-long desire to remain in the shadows. In the decades since Temperton’s songs ruled the radio dial, his heard-but-not-seen approach has become even more common among pop’s top tier of songcrafters.
Born in 1947 in the English resort town of Cleethorpes, Temperton grew up listening to and miming pop music—he claims his father put a transistor radio in his crib as a child. After working a variety of odd jobs and gigging in dance bands as a drummer, he answered a Melody Maker ad posted by an American service member stationed in Germany named Johnnie Wilder, Jr. in 1974 that led to the formation of the R&B/dance band Heatwave. Temperton switched to keyboards for that group and quickly emerged as its lead songwriter. In a BBC documentary, he remembers sitting in his flat in Germany working on scales, and discovering a knack for penning melodies, not just playing an instrument. It was then, he recalled, that he decided that songwriting was his calling.
For Heatwave, Temperton would write several tracks that crossed over in the U.S. and challenged Earth, Wind & Fire’s dominion over upscale, hook-driven disco-pop. The slow jam “Always and Forever” cracked the Top 20 in 1977, but the song would go on to be covered dozens of times (most notably by Luther Vandross), becoming a staple of soft-R&B playlists. “Boogie Nights” was a more immediate hit in ’77, reaching No. 2 on the Hot 100; the following year, “The Groove Line” hit No. 7 (and remains indelible). It was around this time that Temperton, never a fan of playing live, quit Heatwave to concentrate on writing. “It was not a career decision in the sense of I knew what I was going to do,” he told the BBC. “I had no idea where I was going…If I was any good, somebody will call me, I guess.”
That person turned out to be Quincy Jones, whose own multi-decade career as a producer, songwriter and arranger was set for its own resurgence. Jones linked Temperton with several big-name artists as a songwriter, permitting the shy Brit to craft hook-driven adult pop that merged R&B and disco. Temperton’s lithe, minimalist “Give Me The Night” took jazz guitarist George Benson to No. 3 on the Hot 100 in 1980, and before the middle of the decade, he’d penned hits for Chaka Khan and Rufus, Donna Summer, Aretha Franklin, Herbie Hancock, the Brothers Johnson, and Klymaxx. Temperton wrote the Quiet Storm staple and No. 1 single “Baby, Come to Me” for Jones’ artists Patti Austin and James Ingram, and later penned the chipper Michael McDonald-sung “Sweet Freedom,” which reached the Top 10 in 1986 on the wings of the Billy Crystal and Gregory Hines film of the same name.
Oh, and Temperton also wrote “Rock With You” and “Thriller” for Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall and Thriller albums—both produced by Jones—along with “Off the Wall,” “Burn This Disco Out,” “Baby Be Mine,” and “The Lady in My Life.” Apart from Jackson and Jones, Rod Temperton was the chief architect of two of the biggest-selling pop albums of all time, penning the title tracks for both. He was still writing for Heatwave (which replaced him on keyboards) when Jones called him in 1978, but the demo tracks Temperton sent were compelling enough for Jones to fly him to L.A. on weekends to arrange them for Off the Wall. Jackson, who was hanging around Studio 54 at the time, wanted a song based around a dance called “The Rock,” and Temperton came up with the lyrical double-meaning and the gossamer backing track for Jackson’s feather-light falsetto. The second single from the album, “Off the Wall” shot to No. 1 and played a significant role in launching Jackson’s adult career as the biggest solo pop star of all time.
When Temperton joined Jackson and Jones to start the sessions that would become Thriller, Jones issued a directive: “At that time, young people were only interested in video games,” recalls engineer Bruce Swedien. “Quincy turned to us and said, ‘Okay guys, we’re here to get the kids out of the video arcades and back into the record stores.’” Temperton’s song provided the title for Off the Wall, and after discarding titles like “Starlight,” “Midnight Man,” and hundreds of other options, Temperton settled on “Thriller.” Once the idea was set, Temperton wrote the lyrics quickly, as well as the legendary bassline, played by Greg Phillinganes on interconnected mini-Moog synthesizers. In a cab on the way to the studio, Temperton also penned a creepy spoken monologue to help get those kids away from Donkey Kong and Space Invaders; thanks to Jones’ Hollywood connections, Temperton's words were delivered, legendarily, by Vincent Price. Jones speaks incredibly highly of his collaborator: “I’ve never, ever enjoyed working with anybody more,” he said in the aforementioned BBC doc. “He covered my back…and I will his. I’ll do anything for him.”
Temperton would never reach Thriller heights again (to be fair, nor will anyone ever), but his tireless work ethic kept him going a bit longer. He collaborated with Jones on the theme song for a new talk show hosted by up-and-coming Chicago newswoman Oprah Winfrey, as well as the soundtrack to The Color Purple.
As the decades wound on, Temperton’s legend never rose much beyond those who scoured Thriller’sliner notes for insight into the genius (including yours truly), or the DJs who spun Heatwave tracks at nightclubs, bars, and wedding receptions (ditto). This was, of course, Temperton’s own wish. Much like modern songwriting svengali Max Martin and any number of European or LA-based recluses who silently man the joysticks of 21st century global pop dominance, Rod Temperton never had any need for public performance or the trappings of pop fame. Yet at the same time, during one of the record business’ most tumultuous ten-year periods, from the late 1970s to the dominance of MTV and the re-formatting of black radio in the mid-1980s, there was Temperton, chain-smoking in a room surrounded by staff sheets and keyboards, quietly penning effusive soundtracks to countless memorable nights.