Teddy Pendergrass’ “I Don’t Love You Anymore”

Musically, the end of a romance usually lives in melancholy tempos and minor keys. Breaking up, so they say, is hard to do. No matter which side of the coin you fall on—whether you’re the one being left or the one doing the leaving—it’s rarely a cause for full-bodied celebration. That’s why I adore Teddy Pendergrass’ single “I Don’t Love You Anymore” from his self-titled 1977 debut album. It’s a juxtaposition of sentiment and arrangement in the most peculiar form.

I’m a big fan of Pendergrass’ “math love song,” as I cheekily call “When Somebody Loves You Back,” but I wasn’t as familiar with his earlier work until I plunked down $30 for the Soul Train DVD boxset—easily some of the best money I’ve ever spent—and discovered his clearly lip-synced performance of “IDLYA.” Standing alone onstage in a white suit and frayed sunhat, a costume host Don Cornelius pokes fun at in his very Don Cornelius way, Pendergrass’ body language grooves to the freedom of relinquishing something that, with hardly any exposition, he’s dropped like a hot potato.

Instead of faking pain about reaching this decision or the loss it will entail, the song is strangely joyous. Bongo drums deliver a Caribbean rhythm that laces the song with a contagious kind of bounce before Pendergrass declares with abiding fervor, “I don’t love you anymore,” his cadence keeping tight to the beat while a brass section adds pepper vigor to his dramatics. This isn’t a case for head-hanging periods or baiting ellipses—you can practically hear the exclamation point marking the end of the line. He refuses explanation, offering the equivalent of a shoulder shrug: “It’s just that simple.” Ok then.

Pendergrass resists framing what led to this irrevocable split. There’s no mention of cheating or waning affection or any of the things that traditionally scaffold the context of a breakup song. Instead, each verse paints the most quotidian picture, detailing pieces of an aftermath more suited for a court document than an R&B song. “I’ll take care of my responsibilities/ I’ll send you your money/ Every month, you can depend on that,” Pendergrass sings with a growling emphasis any other soul man might employ to achieve a different love-stung effect. “You better believe that you can/ But we can’t live together/ This way, we’ll be much better.”

If you’d come across the title on Pendergrass’ album without first hearing the song, you might be forgiven for thinking of it as a weepy ballad. After all, who would say such a thing in this vivacious manner? It delights me to no end. Pendergrass practically dances out of the doorway. May we all leave the things that no longer serve us with such exuberant conviction.