The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

‘Sexual Healing’ – Marvin Gaye

American R&B, Funk, and Soul musician Marvin Gaye performs onstage during the 'Sexual Healing' tour at Radio City Music Hall, New York, New York, May...

About the Song

In the realm of soul music, few names resonate with the power and passion of Marvin Gaye. His voice, an instrument of raw emotion, soared through the airwaves, carrying tales of love, loss, and the human experience in all its complexities. Among his many enduring classics, “Sexual Healing” stands as a beacon of hope and sensuality, offering solace to troubled souls and igniting a fire in the hearts of lovers.

Released in 1982, “Sexual Healing” emerged as a beacon of hope amidst a world grappling with the harsh realities of the early 1980s. Gaye’s soulful plea for emotional and physical connection resonated deeply with listeners, offering a balm for the weary hearts of a generation yearning for love and solace. The song’s opening notes, a gentle cascade of piano keys, set the stage for Gaye’s impassioned vocals, his voice imbued with a vulnerability and longing that touched the very core of listeners’ emotions.

“Sexual Healing” is more than just a love song; it’s an anthem for emotional liberation and self-discovery. Gaye’s lyrics paint a vivid picture of a man seeking solace and connection in the arms of a lover, his desire not merely for physical gratification but for a deep and meaningful emotional connection. The song’s chorus, with its repeated refrain of “Sexual healing, baby, is good for me,” becomes a mantra, a declaration of the healing power of love and intimacy.

Gaye’s performance on “Sexual Healing” is nothing short of legendary. His voice, imbued with a raw emotion that is both tender and powerful, conveys the depth of his longing and the urgency of his plea. The song’s instrumentation, a blend of soulful grooves, funky rhythms, and understated strings, perfectly complements Gaye’s vocals, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and sensuality.

“Sexual Healing” has transcended its status as a mere song; it has become a cultural touchstone, a symbol of love, hope, and the transformative power of music. Gaye’s legacy lives on in this timeless masterpiece, a testament to his enduring artistry and his ability to connect with listeners on a profoundly emotional level. As the world continues to grapple with challenges and uncertainties, “Sexual Healing” remains a beacon of hope, offering a reminder of the healing power of love, connection, and the human spirit.Marvin Gaye, 1970.

Video 

Lyrics: Sexual Healing

Get up, get up, get up, get up!
Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!Oh, baby now let’s get down tonightOoh baby, I’m hot just like an oven
I need some lovin’
And baby, I can’t hold it much longer
It’s getting stronger and strongerAnd when I get that feeling
I want sexual healing
Sexual healing, oh baby
Makes me feel so fine

Helps to relieve my mind
Sexual healing baby, is good for me
Sexual healing is something that’s good for me

Whenever blue teardrops are fallin’
And my emotional stability is leaving me
There is something I can do
I can get on the telephone and call you up baby

And honey I know you’ll be there to relieve me
The love you give to me will free me
If you don’t know the thing you’re dealing
Ohh I can tell you, darling, that it’s sexual healing

Get up, get up, get up, get up
Let’s make love tonight
Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up
‘Cause you do it right

Baby, I got sick this mornin’
A sea was stormin’ inside of me
Baby, I think I’m capsizin’
The waves are risin’ and risin’

And when I get that feeling
I want sexual healing
Sexual healing is good for me
Makes me feel so fine, it’s such a rush
Helps to relieve the mind, and it’s good for us

Sexual healing, baby, it’s good for me
Sexual healing is something that’s good for me
Well, it’s good for me and it’s so good to me my baby, ohh

Come take control, just grab a hold
Of my body and mind, soon we’ll be making it, honey
I’ll be feeling fine,
You’re my medicine, open up and let me in
Darling, you’re so great, I can’t wait for you to operate

I can’t wait for you to operate

When I get this feeling
I need sexual healing
Oh when I get this feeling
I need sexual healing
I gotta have sexual healing, darling
‘Cause I’m all alone
Sexual healing, darling
Till you come back home

Please don’t procrastinate
It’s not good to masturbate

Related Post

Tucked away in a private drawer, far from the polished sets of her television show, lay a bundle of 341 letters. These were not press clippings or scripts; they were brittle, handwritten testimonies from servicemen stationed in remote barracks, deep in war-torn tunnels, and across desolate battlefields. During the long years of the Second World War, as Hollywood presented a glossy, curated image of American life, Donna Reed spent her nights reading these letters and, more remarkably, personally answering them. This was the quiet, invisible work that defined her, long before the public labeled her the quintessential television mother. Behind the camera during her production years, Reed was a different person entirely. She was rarely seen holding a script for a scene; she was more likely to be found hunched over lighting diagrams or studying the intricacies of cinematography. She possessed an uncredited producer’s mind, constantly analyzing how the frame could better reflect the reality of the family she was trying to depict. The studio environment was frequently cold and high-pressured, but she moved through it with a meticulous attention to detail that frustrated those who wanted to treat her as merely another pretty face in the cast. These tactile remnants—the stacks of ink-stained paper and the forgotten notes on camera angles—tell the story of a woman who never truly fit the box Hollywood built for her. While the world remembers the steady, comforting image of a television home, she lived a life carved out of hard labor and deep empathy. She carried the weight of those soldiers’ stories and the technical burdens of the studio floor until her final days, forever balancing the fragility of her public image against the demanding, gritty reality of her actual life.

In the winter of 1956, Elvis Presley did not quietly arrive on the American scene; he tore through it like a shockwave. Breaking sharply away from the safe, coat-and-tie crooners who dominated black-and-white television screens, he introduced a raw, electric friction—dressed in bold, unconventional styles and moving with a physical freedom that sent tremors through polite society and left the older generation deeply unsettled. Network cameras scrambled, nervously cutting away or framing him strictly from the chest up to conceal the provocative rhythm of his performance, while mainstream critics dismissed the frenzy as a fleeting, vulgar fad. Yet every attempt to muzzle or contain him only added fuel to the fire. The harder the guardians of culture tried to push him back, the louder young America demanded to let him in.

Eighteen years ago, on an October morning in 2008, Lisa Marie Presley welcomed her twin daughters, Harper and Finley Lockwood, into a world already heavy with the echoes of a legendary grandfather. But beneath the flashing headlines and the inevitable weight of the Graceland lineage, they were simply her little girls—two bright, anchoring lights she fought fiercely to protect, nurture, and raise with a quiet normalcy the rest of the world could never quite understand. Today, those little girls have stepped across the threshold of adulthood, reaching a milestone that feels profoundly poignant. Lisa Marie is no longer here to watch them blow out the candles, but the fierce, protective love she poured into them remains woven into who they are—leaving behind two young women their mother would look upon today with a breathtaking, unbreakable pride.

You Missed

Country

Waylon Jennings spent his life filling concert halls and radio airwaves, but his final days were quiet, spent in the seclusion of his Arizona home. The contrast was painful: a man known by so many could still find himself far removed from the crowds. When he died on February 13, 2002, the world lost an icon. His family faced a silence no hit record could fill. He had asked for a quiet burial, taking back some of the privacy he had shared with the public since the sixties. Five weeks later, friends and family gathered at the Ryman Auditorium, where his absence became painfully clear. The memorial brought them together, though nothing could bring back the man they remembered. Travis Tritt, Shooter, and others put their grief into the music, playing the instruments that had once accompanied him. There was something haunting about hearing his songs in a room full of people celebrating him, knowing he was no longer there to listen. Near the end of the service, a recording of Waylon’s voice filled the auditorium. He sounded so clear and present that, for a moment, it was hard to believe he was gone. The audience roared back, caught between the pleasure of hearing him again and the pain of knowing they never would in person. Their response carried both recognition and grief. For those few moments, the voice everyone knew met the loss his family lived with, and the people at the Ryman were left to reckon with the quiet, personal cost of his extraordinary life.

Country

Thousands of fans filled the Nashville arena, restless after waiting two years to see Loretta Lynn again. She sat in the shadows beside the stage, weakened by the stroke that had taken her mobility in 2017 and the broken hip she suffered the following year. When the house band started the familiar rhythm of ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter,’ the room seemed to hold its breath. Her sister, Crystal Gayle, leaned over and encouraged her to sing. Loretta waved her off at first, looking down, apparently content to stay quietly in the wings. Then something changed. As the crowd pressed forward, humming the song that told her own story, their response seemed to reach her through the exhaustion. She reached out suddenly and firmly, closing her hand around the microphone’s cool metal. ‘Let me have that damn mic,’ she muttered. Her voice carried through the sound system with unmistakable authority. She was taking back the place she had held for more than fifty years, brushing aside every doctor and therapist who had told her to slow down. The crowd’s roar hit the stage and seemed to shake the rafters. For a moment, the frailty of the past two years faded from view. The audience saw the Kentucky girl who had lived through hardship and made music out of it. Loretta leaned into the song, her voice cracking a little but still carrying the grit that had defined her career. As the last note lingered, everyone in the room understood: she was giving them more than a performance. She was reminding them who was still in charge.

Country

RCA’s doors stayed closed to Dottie West, enough to shake any performer’s confidence in Nashville. Her stints with Starday and Atlantic had left her with little beyond empty pockets and unpaid bills. By 1961, she and her husband, steel guitarist Bill West, were living in a small house in West Nashville. It felt less like a home than a place to make one last, desperate attempt. For years, they had driven back and forth from Cleveland, spending time and money on trips that brought them no closer to getting through the industry’s doors. At that house, Dottie began taking a different approach. Instead of chasing executives, she fed hungry songwriters. Willie Nelson, Roger Miller, and Red Lane started coming over, finding something at her kitchen table that the labels hadn’t offered: someone willing to listen. Auditions gave way to suppers, with Dottie hearing unfinished verses as her guests unpacked their battered guitar cases. If she couldn’t get into the business, she would bring it into her home. Each meal was a deliberate investment in the songwriting Nashville claimed to value but had yet to recognize in her. Things changed the night Jim Reeves heard her song, ‘Is This Me?’ and took it to Chet Atkins. One straightforward exchange over a melody opened a path that had been blocked for years. It wasn’t simply a lucky break. It grew out of her decision to stop asking for a place and create one herself. When she became the first woman to win a country Grammy, the award meant more than recognition. It confirmed that those lean years in the West Nashville house had produced some of the most important work of her life.

Oldies Musics

Tucked away in a private drawer, far from the polished sets of her television show, lay a bundle of 341 letters. These were not press clippings or scripts; they were brittle, handwritten testimonies from servicemen stationed in remote barracks, deep in war-torn tunnels, and across desolate battlefields. During the long years of the Second World War, as Hollywood presented a glossy, curated image of American life, Donna Reed spent her nights reading these letters and, more remarkably, personally answering them. This was the quiet, invisible work that defined her, long before the public labeled her the quintessential television mother. Behind the camera during her production years, Reed was a different person entirely. She was rarely seen holding a script for a scene; she was more likely to be found hunched over lighting diagrams or studying the intricacies of cinematography. She possessed an uncredited producer’s mind, constantly analyzing how the frame could better reflect the reality of the family she was trying to depict. The studio environment was frequently cold and high-pressured, but she moved through it with a meticulous attention to detail that frustrated those who wanted to treat her as merely another pretty face in the cast. These tactile remnants—the stacks of ink-stained paper and the forgotten notes on camera angles—tell the story of a woman who never truly fit the box Hollywood built for her. While the world remembers the steady, comforting image of a television home, she lived a life carved out of hard labor and deep empathy. She carried the weight of those soldiers’ stories and the technical burdens of the studio floor until her final days, forever balancing the fragility of her public image against the demanding, gritty reality of her actual life.