From this 21st century vantage point it seems pretty obvious that Christopher Cross was never going to match the improbable success of his start.
Never mind additional hype heaped on him by Grammy voters, who in February ‘81 made him the first (and, until Billie Eilish in 2020, only) recording artist in history with a clean sweep of the top categories, taking home trophies for album, record and song of the year as well as best new artist. (No need to re-litigate past injustices over who or what he beat, like the Pretenders for that last crown or Pink Floyd’s The Wall for the LP prize. It’s well-known the Grammys were myopic and rock-averse back then.)
Whether in this reality or a more adventurous pop world in which his sterile self-titled debut and its singles ‘Sailing’ and ‘Ride Like the Wind’ are merely modest successes, it’s difficult to imagine his career enduring at platinum pace beyond the boomer-driven, divorce-laden dawn-of-the-‘80s zeitgeist from which he most benefitted. Such a likable, unassuming fellow with such schlubby looks and limited range is no one’s idea of a lasting pop star.
No surprise, then, that by the time his fourth album Back of My Mind arrived in mid-‘88 he couldn’t have dented the charts even if he’d gotten assists from Michael Bolton and Richard Marx, Top 40 titans plying that same ol’ Cross craft around that time.
Who he did have lending a hand on this, the flamingo fan’s last major-label release before Warner Bros. dumped him, was: Michael McDonald, his counterpoint pal from ‘Ride’; and, just as unmistakably, Christine McVie, my ongoing deep-dive subject, in one of her final few cameos on someone else’s record.
Frankly, her effervescent lilt is the only detail distinguishing ‘Never Stop Believing’ from the eight songs after it, all utilizing similar keys, themes, melodies, pulse-calming pacing, plastic production. It’s perfectly pleasant dentist-office fodder. In other words: instantly forgettable.
Christine is the reason to listen. Probably not more than once.