Herb Feemster of Peaches and Herb Fame Lives the Life of a Working-Class Soul Man

The material is what you'd expect from Peaches and Herb, circa any era: pleading, sentimental love songs. "That's the type of music we do," Feemster says. "It's never a negative thing. It's not about killing people, knocking people down or raping somebody. We promote love."

He's unsure what will happen with the album, which will be promoted with a 6 p.m. concert Sunday at the Knights of Columbus in Forestville. "I hope to have a hit, but I'm not putting any expectations on it," he says. "I don't expect things, because you're disappointed when you don't get them. If they don't want what they hear, then they won't buy. But I hope they like it. I just don't know why it took me so long to get back to doing it."

Breaking Through

Feemster grew up in Barry Farm, a tough neighborhood in Southeast Washington, one of five boys raised by a single mother who, he says, sang like gospel great Mahalia Jackson. As a child, he performed in the church and on street corners, and at some point he decided he wanted to be the next Little Anthony.

After getting married and spending several years in the Navy as an electrician's mate, he took a job at the Waxie Maxie record store near Howard University, hoping to catch the ear of the producers who were always stopping by the shop. "I'd always ask them to listen to me sing, and they never would," Feemster says. But he finally got the attention of producer-writer-arranger-singer Van McCoy (of "The Hustle" fame), who came up with the idea of pairing the newly rechristened Herb Fame with another D.C. soul singer, Francine "Peaches" Hurd.

In December 1966, the duo with the easy, breezy style had its first hit, "Let's Fall in Love," which was soon followed by a string of chart successes: "Close Your Eyes," "For Your Love," "Love Is Strange," etc. But Hurd grew tired of the grind and quit, and Feemster followed suit in 1970. "I had just decided that I wanted to get out of music, and I'm riding down Benning Road one day, and the police had this recruiting trailer over by the stadium. I stopped, took the exam, passed and went through the police academy."

Law enforcement would seem to be an unlikely field for a recovering pop star. Feemster explains it thusly: "I grew up in Barry Farm, and I saw a lot of bad stuff coming up. I knew what I didn't want to be by growing up there."

In the academy and, later, on the force he was the target of friendly razzing from fellow cops who called him a has-been. He was also something of a curiosity to crime suspects. "Sometimes, when I would lock somebody up, you'd hear: 'Man, you know who locked you up?' And I hated that. But it could also stop pain. I would go into a home where there was a domestic dispute, and they'd recognize me and it would defuse everything because we'd start talking about music."

Why, exactly, Feemster left music in the first (and second) place seems to depend, as his answer periodically changes. He was either worried about not being there for his four children or weary of constantly trying to please everybody or worn out from all the work or flat-out disillusioned with the business end of the music business. Probably a little bit of all of that.

But his feelings about the music and craft never wavered, he says. "My love of all, the woman that's never disappointed me, is music. It gets inside of me and turns me upside down. It relaxes me and does all the things you would do normally if you had a woman. That's my woman. Besides my wife."