The ballad of Peabo Bryson has reached its final verse. The Grammy-winning singer, whose duets with Celine Dion and Regina Belle became the soundtrack of a generation, died yesterday at the age of 72. The cause was complications from a stroke, according to his publicist. His voice, a warm baritone that could soar without strain, helped define the adult contemporary sound of the 1980s and 1990s. But for millions, his legacy is chained to two Disney songs: "Beauty and the Beast" and "A Whole New World."
Bryson was not a pop star in the traditional sense. He was a craftsman, a singer's singer who came up through the Chicago soul scene and paid dues on the Chitlin' Circuit. By the time he recorded "Beauty and the Beast" with Celine Dion in 1991, he was already a veteran with two Grammys for R&B duets with Roberta Flack. The pairing with Dion was a masterstroke: his seasoned timbre balanced her crystalline youth. The song became an inescapable hit, winning the Oscar and Grammy. It also tightened the knot between pop and animation, a link that would define Disney's renaissance.
Four years later, he returned with Regina Belle for "A Whole New World" from Aladdin, winning another Oscar and Grammy. Those two songs alone made him a household name. But Bryson was more than a soundtrack singer. His solo work, including albums like "Crosswinds" and "I'm So Into You," charted consistently. He wrote for other artists, produced, and mentored younger singers. He was, in the parlance of the industry, a "musician's musician."
Celine Dion's tribute came via social media early this morning. "Peabo was a giant with a gentle voice," she wrote. "He taught me how to sing a love song without pretending. I will miss him." The news hit the cultural world with the weight of a falling tree in a silent forest. Tributes poured in from Quincy Jones, Smokey Robinson, and Alicia Keys. Each recalled his professionalism and warmth.
But why does this loss feel so acute? Bryson's voice was a sonic anchor in a shifting period. The early 1990s were a time of musical fragmentation: grunge, hip-hop, and teen pop were pulling audiences apart. Bryson's duets offered a shared experience. They were the songs played at weddings, proms, and school assemblies. They were the songs your parents loved and you secretly did too. In an era of increasing cultural tribalism, Bryson helped preserve a common ground.
His death also closes a chapter in the story of the power ballad. The genre has been in decline for years, replaced by digital production and algorithm-friendly hooks. Bryson's style, rich with live instrumentation and vocal interplay, feels almost antique. We may not see his like again.
The biosphere of popular music is losing species. Each death of an artist like Bryson shrinks the ecosystem. We are left with recordings, but recordings are fossils. They cannot improvise, cannot tour, cannot console a grieving planet. His voice, now silent, leaves a hole in the cultural ozone. Mourn him. Listen to his songs. And note the quiet.
Peabo Bryson is survived by his wife, two children, and a catalogue of music that will outlive us all.
