'Hey There Lonely Boy' dampens more formal wear, the two Vandellas intoning 'bom-bom-bom' between Reeves' brass-lined croon, and 'Danke Schoen' exacts your vocal toll, but Pete Seeger's skittering 'If I Had a Hammer' commits the ultimate act of imprimatur, ringing civil rights with the righteous 'hammer of justice,' l-o-v-e.

Reeves' burning, yearning titular exclamation opens Heat Wave like puberty, only here comes Phil Spector, Ellie Greenwich, and Jeff Barry's 'Then He Kissed Me,' tripping the lights fantastic with all the gravity of a chandelier crashing down on the prom. 4 chart smash, '(Love Is Like a) Heat Wave,' in covers and filler, only in this case, the place-keepers keep pace with the derby winner. As with all Motown LPs before Marvin Gaye's What's Going On in 1971, the Vandellas' second album couches its No. Rhino Records' regal 4-CD hatbox, 2003's One Kiss Can Lead to Another: Girl Group Sounds Lost & Found, transforms women into Holly Golightly at the drop of a tennis visor, but 28 minutes of Heat Wave cooks Breakfast at Tiffany's. Scrolling past my Guns n' Roses holdings toward her Mediterranean of Morrissey, I punched up that which she'd used to amplify this technological boon one morning on our raft, the first disc I burned her: Heat Wave, by Martha Reeves & the Vandellas, 1963. Once she'd demonstrated her iPhone's tiny external speaker, it was only a matter of time and place before its iTunes got tapped as a 1970s transistor radio. One night, our unreality check washed up on girlfriend's porch as we sat listening to a still 11pm weeknight on the Eastside. (The Sound of Philadelphia)' – bore no relation to the weather. Conversation assumes a Miami moon and in some other room, Love Train: The Sound of Philadelphia showers a quiet storm of soul: 'Expressway (to Your Heart),' the Delfonics' 'Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time),' 'Drowning in the Sea of Love.' On our South Seas sanctuary of the imagination, the Three Degrees – 'When Will I See You Again,' and MFSB's 'T.S.O.P. Time to take a load off, either way, bury the day.

If we were lucky, it was Gordon Lightfoot, sundown. Our raft there – you'd swear it was an ordinary mattress – usually arrived like Paul Simon, late in the evening. On our desert island, a two-story bungalow faces the lagoon, and goats, donkeys, and rabbits forage around the lush tropicalia that parts at the tree line opening to the sea.

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