Recently my friend and fellow critic Amy Linden and I were discussing the joy of finding buried treasures in the closet; which, in our case means discovering music we haven’t listened to in ages. She recently began spinning the brillant 1995 Society of Soul disc Brainchild, and couldn’t be happier.

This past Saturday, while it poured outside, I went diggin’ in the crates and stumbled across my favorite Luther Vandross collection, Always and Forever: The Classics. Though I’ve never been as big a Luther fan as some folks I know (I’m talking to you DeChelle Forbes), no other contemporary R&B artist has recorded as many great cover songs as that New York City boy.

To me, what made his versions of “A House Is Not a Home” or “If This World Was Mine” so special was that Luther never tried to copy anybody. Like the best recording artists, including the late Issac Hayes and Quincy Jones, when Luther covered a song, he made it his own. Still, having grown-up listening to the cornball pop that used to be played on WABC, I never thought that anyone could ever cover their hit “Superstar” and make me care. Still, when Luther did his version of The Carpenters ditty in 1983, he proved that he was more than a crooning contender.

Though it is somewhat hard to believe now that I am the King of R&B fans, in the early eighties I slept on a lot of great music. As I was telling my new pal Steven Flemming, a young music writer whose blog Aural Examination is worth checking out, when dudes like El DeBarge and Luther were at their height, the only soul on my turntable was Prince, P-Funk and vintage James Brown. Otherwise, it was all about the big bang of the Clash, David Bowie and other Brit-white boys.

Yet, a year after Vandross had recorded “Superstar” (unknown to me, the song was a big hit and went to #5 on the Billboard R&B chart), I got a job at a coffee shop on 57th Street and 6th Avenue called Miss Brooks. Working with a crew of inspiring dancers, writers, actors and other creative types was a blast. Slaving away all afternoon and going to the Irish pub every night after work, we were like one big family.

One of my new friends was this dude named Xavier, who had been dumped by his boyfriend. And, every single night he would put his quarters into the jukebox and play “Superstar.” Though there was a collective groan amongst the rest of the crew (every night), I truly looked forward to hearing that beautiful piano solo, haunting string section and Luther’s stunning vocals.

Although I have not seen Xavier in twenty years and Luther Vandross is no longer with us, “Superstar” has proven itself eternal.