Creativity Quote by Michael Bolton

Bolton is admitting, a little sheepishly, that Stevie Wonder doesn’t just invite imitation; he forces transformation. “To sing along” sounds casual, the way people belt in the car, but Bolton immediately undercuts that ease with a technical truth: Wonder’s melodies demand athleticism. Your voice has to bend, leap, stretch into unfamiliar vowels and runs. The line is a musician’s version of paying dues, and it’s also a fan’s confession that awe can feel like work.

The intent is double. On the surface, it’s praise for Wonder’s craft: those tunes sit in odd pockets of range, pivot quickly between chest and head voice, and require rhythmic precision that punishes lazy phrasing. Underneath, Bolton is defending a certain kind of pop virtuosity. In an era that often treats “easy listening” and big-voiced balladry as corny or unserious, he’s pointing to Wonder as the gold standard who makes even the act of singing along a lesson in musicianship. It’s a quiet rebuke to the idea that popular music is supposed to be instantly accessible.

There’s also an emotional subtext: the strain is the point. Wonder’s songs ask you to risk sounding unpolished, to reach past your habitual limits, which is exactly what great communal music does. You don’t mimic Stevie to become Stevie; you contort your voice because the song makes you want to. Bolton, a singer often caricatured for sheer volume and sentiment, is naming the humbling joy of being outmatched by genius and trying anyway.