BARRY WHITE

Just Another Way To Say I Love You (20th Century)

Right. This molasses-voiced monument to unashamed bulbosity and the death of Isaac Hayes knows so goddam many ways to say those three little words that you don't even think he's beating them to death unless you're rational. I seriously doubt if most of the people reading this like Barry White; most of his audience is either black (and I'm not talking about Young Americans) or incredibly straight and middle-class.

But listen. I was converted. I went down to see him at Olympia Stadium right here in my Motor City, plunged myself into the middle of an audience that looked like Africa in a sportin" hat with sprinkle seasoning of gays and white folk who were just plain weird—old moms and dads, nut and bolt joiners off the factory line, lonely pubescent girls...The only reason I went, of course, was that the tickets were free, and I wanted to take out this girl who was real big on Mr. BShe turned out to be a dud (refused to kiss me at midnight on New Year's Eve, said something about "you've got bad breath"—I'd like to see Barry write a song about that), but somehow in the process of trying to feel her leg and getting weird looks back while almost being put to sleep by the Ohio Players and then staring in a minor league, scaled down version of some-1 thing approximating awe (don't wanna get carried away with the superlatives here, that's how us critics lose our credibility) at The Barry White Show in all its opulent glory...somehow, some way, somewhere just this side of the rainbow there's a place for us, all of us, and Barry White is mapping out this so to speak virgin turf.

See, first of all tnis massive orchestra comes out, all dressed in tuxedos and black ties (even the women), and starts sawing away (even the harpist was sawing) at "Love's Theme," which the first five thousand times I heard it on the radio I did find truly pleasant. They ocean on like thisfor a bit, then Barry makes his first Grand Appearance ☆, and damn my fillings if he ain't a stunner, nineteen hundred pounds of pure lumbering animal, piakes Leslie West look like Steve Tyler, wrapped in a coal-red cape fit to put your eyes out. But this is onty a preliminary sort of preview: what he's doing is leading out the Love Unlimited Singers. By hand. What a gentleman, transcends the debonair he do, really lives

up to his image maybe better'n Lou Reed even; he's yanking the pore li'l things out under his humongous red wing just to see to it that their sweetkooze don't get hassled by any rampaging perverts who might be lurking in an audience of otherwise stolid, simple, upstanding, loving, Barry White fans. Then the L.U. Singers do a straight Supremes imitation lounge act that's quite boring actually* and after 20 or 30 minutes^ of that The Man returns, Himself, In The Flesh,'

magisterially resplendant as he takes the stage, the orchestra lurching into one after ahother of his hits while he does (a/1 he does;) is walk around the stage (which is in the center of the arena) in a circle, moaning the word "love" over and over in a stupefyingly insinuative basso, while he bestows his big loving eyes on various sweetbuns in , the audience, and every once' in awhile he'll reach out to take a rose from or merely squeeze the hands of these papting lovelies for one tremulous second which they'll carry with them, unlike certain communicable diseases,, for the rest of their lives. ,

Neal Preston

The old boob does this for a half hour br so, then wanders off to his dressing room; "Looove...looove...looove..." And that's it! What an easy gig! I have never been so jealous since I missed the diance to produce Four Way Street. The crowd, of course., eats it up.

I never saw anything quite so immaculately vacant, and after an experience like that (the test part was seeing a guy get murdered a few feet from our car while waiting to get but of the postconcert traffic jam) my whole attitude toward the Big B underwent a radical change. I actually left his songs on when they cakne on the radio. I was diggin" where the cat was, cornin" from and where he was goin", as a matter of fact the sooner he gets there the better, but in the meantime I'm gonna wallow in each-new B.W. single, like a vat of cocoa butter even if I still can't tell "enrapart. As an even more special bonus, I've got a whole ;new album of Barry White masterpieces, and you can bet I play it all the time. You gotta do something when you get tired of the Dictators "cause you've played "em thirteen times in a row.

I don't have to tell you what kind of a treat you're iri for if you fork over your hard earned for Just Another Way To Say I Love You— Barry White is one artiste-you can trust. But there is a special surprise herein foif his fans and those of us, that special elite cadre who have come to consider him not just another globulous crossover act but something more akin to a god; Barry has mouthed "looove" so many different ways you'd think the man would be hard pressed by now to come up with a new one, but he's succeeded. His technique: slide ever-so-gently, like a palm going down a shoulder to a.tit in a movie house, from simple declarations of undying devotion into the realm of prurient interest and ultimately to outright HOT DRIPPING KOOZODELIC BUTTERED SC\UL, er...anyway, It happens on1 "Love Serenade (Part I)": starting out as a typically tropical B.W. instrumental deck, the big fella trots put his tonsils and slides them up some truly titillational stuff: "Take it off.. .Baby, take it all off.. .1 want you the way you came into the world.. .fdon" wanna feel no clothes...1 don" wanna see no panties...Take off that brasierre, my dear.. .Everybody's gone... We're gonna take the receiver off the phone... Because baby,,you and me, heh...This night, we're gonna get it on..."

Jesus, is this-ever volatile stuff! If you look at it one way, just reading those words cold, it could. 1 be interpreted as a rape scene. Or even listening to Barry'S unctuous, pooze-ooze voice. It is conceivable that this'man is dangerous; at any rate, there is absolutely no question that he's gonna get what he's after.