Why It’s EARTH, WIND & FIRE Dummy!

When 22,000 exhausted concertgoers try to leave an arena simultaneously (in this case, Washington D.C.’s Capitol Center), the odds are excellent that no one will get anywhere.

Certainly not the lead Earth, Wind & Fire limousine, jammed with band members' and friends, and trapped deep in the bowels of the traffic jam. A noisy, off-key symphony of car horns echoes across the parking lot. The chauffeur spits in disgust as he tunes in a local soul station.

“I feel like a monkey in a cage,” complains Philip Bailey, the group’s falsetto vocalist, safely ensconsed in the back seat. His female companions, one on each arm, giggle unsympathetically. “You better get on the case,” mocks the one in hot pants, staring wide-eyed at the throng of young female admirers surrounding the gunmetal grey vehicle.

Bailey, who bears an eerie resemblance to the late Sam Cooke, warily rolls down the window to accept hand slaps and special requests. “Autograph my hand, nigger!” jeers a pint-sized black enthusiast. Bailey begrudgingly complies, reaching languidly across the half-open window and flashing a smooth matinee-idol smile.

As a member of Columbia Records’ top box-office attraction, the slender young singer has been through this movie before. Although they’re mostly ignored by the white rock press, E,W&F has compiled an enviable chart record, wiping out practically every attendance and sales figure in soul history.

Their publicists gladly rattle off the

familiar litany. The band’s last studio effort, That’s The Way of The World went into platinum three months after release, selling over three million copies to date. 'Their recent single, “Shining Star,” broke the 1.5 million sales barrier. And according to pirated Columbia promotion data, E,W&F is the label’s biggest act, outdistancing household names like Chicago, Paul Simon, Barbra Streisand find, yes kids, even Aerosmith.

E W & F spiritual leader Maurice White, no relation to Barry, chumps, but he pounds out a heavy beat nonetheless.

Earth, Wind & Fire, purveying the infectious |uking dnd jiving that keeps Black Rock expense accounts nice and fat.

Much of their staggering commercial acclaim can be traced to the adept ear of Maurice White, th'e group’s 32-yearold founder and spiritual leader. As a veteran studio musician, arranger and bandleader (he spent most of the ^60s toiling at Chicago’s legendary Chess Studios), he soaked up a startling variety of musical influences, ranging from the xool, street-wise falsetto of The Impressions to the syncopated, celebratory stance of Sly and The Family Stone.

The resulting hybrid is frequently more imitative than innovative. Xike. most current black supergroups, the E,W&F assemblage owes a great deal to soul’s original Stagger Lee figure, Sly Sylvester.

Their loping base figures and staccato horn arrangements follow his lead, but more importantly, Maurice White’s lyrics often emerge as carbon copies of Sly’s early, optimistic, communal outpourings. (E,W&F’s show/for example, opens with the chant “higher,” while their hit “Singasong” recalls Sly’s “Sing A Simple Song/”)

By the early 1970s, when Sly retreated to a grimrner, les^ accessible vision of the world, the time wasYipe for a new generation of soul proselytizers. E,W&F fills the aural gap perfectly. In concert, they exhibit little of the annoying self-indulgence and sloppiness that haunts otherwise adept studio groups like Graham Central Station and The Ohio Players. /

The band also displays a spectacular / theatrical sensibility . Dwarfed by a trio' of massive teepee-like structures, their show opens and closes in clouds of smoke, the group sporting scarlet capes and silver lame jump suits. One tip: don’t step out for a hot dog during Verdine White’s bass solo. He loosens up with a set of obligatory octave figures, but ends with a dizzy Dr. John impression (half voodoo, half Vivian Vance) that is not to be missed.

Some have dismissed the band’s material as bland and monotonous. “It seems an unfair complaint. E,W&F draw heavily from black gospel, a musical tradition steeped in repetition and rooted in the constant restatement of affirmative group rituals.

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The group’s “church” heritage affects more than just their music. Band members adhere to a strict spiritual code: no drugs, liquor or cigarettes. Most are strict vegetarians as well. Their 2:00 a. m. post-concert banquet, your correspondent noted with chagrin, offered only salads and fried fish. Backstage are three cubicles—dressing room, tuning room and a meditation room, where the band huddles for a series of hushed, pre-concert prayers.

Fortunately, these regulations don’t apply to social interaction with the opposite sex. The group’s Maryland hotel complex was mobbed by hordes of eager young nubiles. Most of the younger lushettes settled for autographs, but several older enthusiasts were selected for more intimate contact. A cluster of visiting conventioneers were rather non-plussed by the group’s noisy reception. “Who are these people,” one middle-aged matron hissed, gesturing at a E, W&F pre-performance conclave. “Basketball players?”

Coming from a closely knit family (two brothers play in the band, a third manages the group), Maurice White is acutely conscious of E, W&F’s common cultural heritage. Born in Memphis, the singer grew up in a devout neighborhood. “By the time I was six,” White said, devouring an early morning supper, “I was singing gospel on stage in a quartet.”

As a kid, White was also exposed to the supple rhythms of the Stax/Volt school of musicians. Booker T. Jones (founder of Booker T. and The MGs), was a childhood chum. After being entranced by the local bugle corps parades, Maurice took up drums, believing them to be “the easiest instrument.”

' “For a long time,” he remembers, “the only drum set I had was two sticks made out of broomhandles. I had originally wanted to be a doctor, like my father, but one day I was passing the band room at school whefe some cats were jamming. I strolled in and started playing and the guys jumped up and down and hollered ’bout how good I was. So I was a drummer for life.”

White sees E,W&F’s bubbly optimism as a natural outgrowth of the black American experience. “We create fantasies for our audience to get the message across,” he explains, waving a forkful of fish for emphasis. “Fora time, black people instilled pride with militancy. We want to instill pride—for both blacks and whites—by making people believe in themselves.”

The group’s critical neglect provokes only muted bitterness. “It’s frustrating,” White volunteered, “but it’s a reality that as a black man, I have to acknowledge. I’ve lived with it all my life. It simply takes time for penetration to take place, for white outlooks to change. You can be sure the truth will prevail.”