"I've worked hard all day," the fifth song opines, "I just wanna relax/Take my shoes off—kick my feet up/Put on an old Marvin Gaye track…" A unwise antecedent to invoke, for over the course of ten pleasantly Peabo'd urban soul slices, Mr. Perry shoots to the vocal stratosphere from his own backyard armed with one neat trick — the women singers who tag-grab his glissandos like stage-two rockets after he falls away from them — for an apogee, of, perhaps, the shoulder blade of the supine mountain range that is Marvin. Marvin will never move again. Marvin can not hold Mr. Perry in the hollow of his hand.