. . . And Introducing the Class of ’89 : Here’s what made the new inductees the greats

Roll call time for the new members of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame will be Wednesday night at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City: Dion, Otis Redding, the Rolling Stones, the Temptations and Stevie Wonder join the 30 other acts inducted since the Hall was established three years ago (though the groundbreaking for the Hall’s I.M. Pei-designed Cleveland home has yet to be scheduled).

Also honored this year in the early influences category will be blues belter Bessie Smith, vocal group the Ink Spots and the gospel Soul Stirrers, while “wall of sound” producer Phil Spector was selected as a non-performing member.

Dion

Like the fabled Rose of Spanish Harlem, “doo-wop” vocal groups--thus named due to their practice of reducing background vocal parts to a stream of nonsense syllables--grew in the street, right up through the concrete back in the ‘50s. At least 5,283 of these pimply mooks made records, of which Dion & the Belmonts’ were arguably the baddest of ‘em all--mostly because lead singer Dion DiMucci was the best white vocalist in the idiom.

While the tracks waxed with the Belmonts ranged from such monumental towers of babble as “I Wonder Why” (distinguished by a second verse that contains not a single word in English) to an uncomfortably ethereal version of the pre-rock standard “Where or When,” Dion’s single finest vocal performance comes on his 1960 solo recording of “Ruby Baby,” which blows no less than the Drifters’ original version into the next galaxy.

How? Well, partially it’s due to the incredibly sexy edge that he puts on every syllable and partially it’s due to the incredibly cat-footed sense of rhythm he displays, but mostly it’s due to the stoned immaculate timing of the vocal asides (“nowlistennow”) of which the record is a virtual compendium. This was the moment on which the myth of Dion as the apotheosis of sharkskinned hipster, the paragon of gesture (in this case, finger-snappin’ cool), the teen-aged missing link between Frank Sinatra and Bobby “Blue” Bland, the Eternal Wanderer, was made.

This myth takes on a further resonance with the knowledge that along with his string of hits (“The Wanderer,” “Runaround Sue” et al), Dion was himself strung out on heroin. Eventually he kicked the habit and mounted a ’68 comeback with the reflective “Abraham, Martin and John.” After several years of semi-success, he moved into the realm of contemporary Christian music and is currently preparing a new album of secular material for Arista.

Otis Redding

There are people who’ll tell you that the Big O was the greatest soul singer to ever trod sod. There are others who maintain that Redding’s death in a 1967 plane crash--months after he’d been one of the few blacks to perform at the Monterey Pop Festival--did more to catapult the Macon, Ga., native into the pantheon of hipster saints than anything else.

But any discussion of Redding’s career must be tempered with the knowledge that he was only 26 when he died and that the posthumous “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay” was not only his biggest pop hit, but also his most contemplative, least affected work to date.

Don’t get me wrong. Redding was a powerful vocalist, equally adept at anguished, churchy ballads (“I’ve Been Loving You Too Long,” “Try a Little Tenderness”) as he was at driving, all-stops-out, up-tempo tunes (“I Can’t Turn You Loose,” “Respect”). When his patented, stuttering, “gotta-gotta-gotta” approach worked, as on the classic “Live in Europe” album, the effect was singsational. When the tunes weren’t there, the performances too often collapsed into mannerism at the expense of genuine emotional expression.

Ultimately, however, an artist must be judged by his best work, and seeing as how Redding not only wrote almost all his own hits, but also penned Arthur Conley’s “Sweet Soul Music,” only the tragically hip would deny that the man merits inclusion strictly on the basis of the recorded evidence. Sleep on, Otis.

The Rolling Stones

Mean, moody and magnificent. The self-proclaimed “greatest rock ‘n’ roll band in the world” would almost qualify for Hall of Fame status on the strength of its bad-boy image alone. But no one maintains a 25-year career strictly on the ability to raise eyebrows--look though the “Drummers Wanted” ads of any musicians classified section and count how many people are looking for a “Charlie Watts-type drummer.” That ain’t image, that’s real life--and that is what the Rolling Stones have always been about. Hard knocks and dirty sox.

Meanwild, in the capable hands, lips and hips of Mick Jagger (who knew a thing or two about performin’) even the earliest Stones live shows redefined all previous notions of sexuality and showmanship. Musically, there’s not much to say at this point. The Stones started out as a high-level rock/blues combo and recorded about four albums’ worth of mostly old R&B; tunes (“It’s All Over Now,” “Time Is On My Side”), most of which were as stunning as they were almost unprecedented.

Spurred on to ever-greater heights of outrage by their first manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, the Jagger/Keith Richards team exploded as songwriters, composing such bedrock numbers as “Satisfaction” and “Paint It Black.” Ah, but it’s with the series of LPs that began with “Beggars Banquet” and continued through “Exile on Main Street” that the Stones really hit their peak.

Though still capable of occasional flashes of brilliance--notably, the “Some Girls” LP--it is this late ‘60s/early ‘70s stretch that has proven so rich, so durable, so amoral that neither the Stones nor anybody else has been able to improve upon it much since.

The Temptations

Although the Supremes were Motown’s most-successful act, it was their male counterparts, the Temptations, who had the reputation for being able to “outsing, outdance, and outdress” any vocal group in sight.

While the Detroit-based quintet always prided itself on being a group with five lead singers, it wasn’t until 1968’s “I Can’t Get Next to You” that writers/producers Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong took a page from the Sly Stone songbook and constructed an entire tune around the concept of constantly shifting leads.

The team then grafted the style to such sociologically significant themes as drugs (“Cloud Nine”) and the fatherless family (“Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone”) to create some of the most grimly realistic slices of ghetto life to grace the upper reaches of the pop charts.

The group’s earliest hits were more conventional, showcasing either the scorched-earth baritone of David Ruffin (“Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” and “My Girl”) or the stratospheric tenor of Eddie Kendricks (“Just My Imagination”).

Along with basso profundo Melvin Franklin, founder Otis Williams and the late Paul Williams (no relation), this first edition of the Temptations was as versatile as the second, they just didn’t pack it all into one three-minute song.

Nevertheless, it was the second edition, in which Ruffin was replaced by ex-Contours member Dennis Edwards and ex-Monitor Richard Street filled in for Paul Williams (who wound up a 1973 suicide), that went on to greater heights and is still out there scoring R&B; hits, dazzling three generations’ worth of audiences and inspiring such spiritual godsons as the Jacksons and the New Edition night after night after night. Temptations sing !

Stevie Wonder

Born blind, this charter member of the Motown family signed his first contract at age 8, landed his first hit (“Fingertips, Part 2”) four years later and hasn’t really looked back since.

Wonder has never limited his music to strictly R&B;, although “Uptight,” “I Was Made to Love Her” and “Superstition” are all so tough, you’d have to shave ‘em with a blowtorch, and over the years he’s ventured into reggae (“Master Blaster”), jazz (“Sir Duke”), Dylan covers (“Blowin’ in the Wind”) and Las Vegas lounge lizardry (“For Once in My Life”).

When Wonder turned 21, he negotiated a multimillion dollar contract that not only set industry superstar standards, but also gave him unprecedented control over his recordings. Together with Marvin Gaye’s ground-breaking “What’s Going On” album, Wonder’s earth-shattering “Talking Book” LP sounded the death knell for Motown’s old system-of-specialists.

Through the ‘70s, Wonder’s mixture of percolating synths and Pollyannaish social comments remained wildly popular. Lately, however, the records have become more infrequent, and his greatest success has come via gooey ballads (“I Just Called to Say I Love You”), so it’s somewhat understandable that his standing among dyed-in-the-black-leather-jacket rock fans has slipped a bit. Nevertheless, Wonder’s talent is such that he could get a hit tune out of an electric toaster, and many of us would not be surprised if in the very near future he did.