Bill Withers' wonderful odyssey is at an end, but his music will live on forever

It is one of a handful of immaculate songs that came to define Withers. Lean On Me, from 1972, is a work of gospel genius, with Withers at the piano, one of the all time great songs of spiritual succour, a funkier Let It Be, that has been recorded by other artists over 100 times, and has twice been a US number one.

Use Me, also 1972, rides on a scintillatingly funky keyboard part and liquid bass, with Withers surrendering himself almost sacrificially to an abusive lover. “I wanna spread the news, if you feel it's good gettin’ used, just keep on using me til you use me up,” Withers sings, and makes masochism sound like a vocation. It may be the lightest dark song ever recorded.

And then there is Lovely Day, from 1977, bubbling along on a delicious bass groove adorned by gentle strings, surely the most perfect encapsulation of ordinary contentment ever, with Withers effortlessly holding a sustained note at the end for 19 blissful seconds when time seems to stand still. And what about Just The Two Of Us from 1980? Another one for eternity, written and recorded with saxophonist Grover Washington Jr, a delicate avowal of interdependency.

There is plenty more good stuff where that came from, spread over seven albums recorded between 1971 and 1985. Who Is He (And What Is He To You?) is a personal favourite, a jealous stinger with a sinuous, sinister weave of guitar and bass, adorned with shivers of strings and Withers conveying internal turmoil without even breaking a sweat.

And there’s the gorgeous Grandma’s Hands, in which Withers recollects the loving embrace of his grandmother, which was later sampled for the hook of Blackstreet’s superfunky No Diggity. Withers' original was drawn on memories of his country upbringing in West Virginia, the youngest of six children in a mining town. He enlisted in the navy at 18 and served for nine years. He worked factory jobs after that, all the time writing songs and making demos. Even when Aint No Sunshine became a hit, he initially refused to give up his day job in case music didn’t work out.

Withers had no great love for the music business. He joked that the initials A&R (Artists & Repertoire) stood for Antagonistic & Redundant. When he got into a dispute with Sussex Records in the mid 70s, he erased an entire album that he had recorded rather than let the record company put it out. “I could probably have handled that different,” he later remarked, with laconic understatement.

The thing is, though, that Withers wasn’t a particularly troubled or difficult artist. He simply embodied straightforward values rooted in his small town upbringing and navy service. When his career stalled in the mid 80s, with his album Watching You, Watching Me failing to break the top 100, he decided it was time to do other things. “You gotta figure I was in my thirties when I started doing (music),” he later explained. “It’s not like my whole life was wrapped up in this entertainer thing. I started building houses, bought some tools, a truck, so there’s no rule that says your life has to be one thing. It’s all life, you know, as long as you’re doing something.”

Following a brief first marriage to actress Denise Nicholson in the early 70s, he married Marcia Johnson in 1976 and they had two children, Todd and Kori. They were all with him when he gave a celebrated speech in 2015 whilst being inducted to the Cleveland Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. A white haired Withers was relaxed, confident, funny and wise, thanking the musicians he had played with for a “a wonderful odyssey with ups, downs and sometimes screw me arounds.”

The odyssey is at an end. But the music has already outlasted Bill Withers career, and is sure to survive him. He is still there to be leaned on. It may be a sad day, but when Bill sings, it will always be a lovely one.