The business of trying to “get the soul out of bed, out of her deep habitual sleep.”. Feel unworthy before the literary treasures they were offering them. More recently, leading critics (in this case, Margery Sabin, in Raritan,. Shrine Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament Raritan. Spiritual Treasures Of My Childhood. Deep lies my soul in the dust.

1. Deep Soul Treasures Raritan Valley
2. Deep Soul Treasures

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Journalist and promoter Dave Godin described his visit to Motown's headquarters in the early 1960s as a 'culture shock'. Of course it was: what white suburban Englishman would not have felt out of his depth amid black Detroit's artistic revolution? Except that it was not Godin who received the cultural jolt, but the Miracles and Supremes who had gathered to greet him. First, there was Godin's appearance: ginger, bearded and bespectacled, he did not look much like Britain's leading soul brother. Worse, he was a vegetarian. The lavish banquet organised in his honour did not go to plan. 'All I could eat was garlic bread,' he later complained.

Perhaps Godin would have cut a peculiar figure in any company. He was a committed anarchist, a devotee of both an ancient Indian religion called Jain and the controversial sexologist Wilhelm Reich. He twice changed the course of British pop history - first masterminding Tamla Motown's UK launch, then coining the term northern soul - despite suffering from what sounds like the country's most pronounced case of musical snobbery. Backstage at Ready Steady Go!, he carried on like a funk version of Brian Sewell. He refused to introduce his former schoolmate Mick Jagger to Marvin Gaye. When he met the Beatles, he claimed not to know their names.

Part visionary, part dingbat: both aspects of Godin are apparent in the album series he spent his final years compiling. Collecting the songs closest to Godin's heart, Deep Soul Treasures are not like other compilation albums. They contain music so emotionally intense as to be frightening, by vocalists who sang as if they were about to start crying, or chasing fistfuls of sleeping pills with whisky, or - in the case of Volume Four's superlative duet You Make Me Feel Good by Lawrence and Jaibi - tearing each others' clothes off. Their booklets bear quotations from Gide and Tolstoy alongside Godin's annotations, which may count as the most intriguing, unusual and enjoyable sleevenotes ever penned: peerless musical scholarship, provocative analysis (he liked the idea that the singers were merely acting and that such powerful music was therefore devoid of the authenticity 'whitey' expects from soul), and, weirdest of all, ruminations on sexual relations, delivered in an earnest tone that recalls a 1950s agony aunt.

Here he is, ostensibly discussing Bobby Moore and the Formost's 1965 weepie It Was a Lie: 'Quite often in life when two people find happiness in each other's being that very bliss can provoke jealousy amongst others who do not share that same good fortune. If we remember that character is destiny, then what seems like mere 'good luck' is nothing of the sort and those who lie and make mischief to destabilise the happiness of others will never know the fulfilment they set out to destroy.' So buck up, Worried of Leicester.

Deep Soul Treasures Raritan Valley

The final volume Godin completed before his death in October this year maintains its predecessors' various standards. A handful of contributors are having a high old time: Garnet Mimms, in particular, sounds ready to bound out of the vocal booth and start high-fiving strangers. But elsewhere, misery abounds: spiritual crises with sublime choruses (The Knight Brothers' Temptation 'Bout To Get Me); unrequited love gloriously orchestrated (Gladys Knight and the Pips' Giving Up); crushing isolation set to muted brass and hushed, gospel organ (I'm a Lonely Stranger by Arthur Conley).

Clarence Carter's agonised Slip Away deals with infidelity, which sets Godin off in the sleevenotes again ('As those who have experienced it know, and those who fantasise it imagine, there is something so romantic about 'stolen kisses'), but an apogee of despair is reached on Doris Duke's I Don't Care Any More. In barely three minutes, the unfortunate narrator suffers unemployment, becomes a victim of domestic violence, is tormented by suicidal thoughts, undergoes bankruptcy, turns to prostitution, and - the final indignity - is forced to ply her immoral trade on 'a lumpy bed'. It ends after two verses, possibly because the writers could think of no further humiliations to heap upon the protagonist, short of having her catch rabies: a small mercy. A far greater mercy is Duke's incredible vocal ability, which transforms overwrought material into something remarkably affecting.

As if to counter the accusations of snootiness, not every selection is wilfully obscure. Amid the unknowns, there is Irma Thomas' Time Is On My Side and the Miracles' Tracks of My Tears. The latter sounds fresher than ever, rescued from the dull familiarity of endless Motown Gold compilations and recontextualised.

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Deep Soul Treasures

Such is the strange power of the Deep Soul Treasures series. They make a strong case for the worthiness of musical obsession. They suggest monomania has its own rewards. They are intense to the point of being slightly odd, but only a fool wouldn't love them to bits. Really, Dave Godin couldn't have wished for a more fitting epitaph.