Love Unlimited
In Heat

Memories of a Casanova, part 2.

Because it can't always go wrong for you.

And so, there you are, basking in the glory of your three and a half minutes of fame, knowing that you've given your best, honored the jersey, believed all the way through.

Then will come acrobatics and forbidden moves, latex, humors, liquids, ropes, leather, scraped knees, hair, sweat, freckles, chains, cartilages, and various contortions….

Even some matches in the major league.

But for now, it's muuuch more important to participate than to win!

And she, while she's there choosing names for future children and weighing the words to tell her friends everything, what does she know that blonde Viking Olafs, lifeguards from Fregene, and Caribbean Mandingos will show her the art of juggling and the joys of extra time?

Screw tomorrow. Now is perfect.

And she smiles.

Now, if you've never been enlightened by that sixteen-year-old smile, if you don't know what I'm talking about, well, maybe that's why growing up you became a bit of a jerk.

Me, even though I'm not sure I remember her name, I'm certain that it's thanks to her that even today I don't know the participants of VIP talk shows, I don't tan at Christmas, I've never believed that loving a woman justifies wanting to own her nor have I ever voted for the League…

It's thanks to that light that I'm no longer afraid at night.

Everything is perfect.

But you know that perfection is more fragile than a Bohemian crystal, as unstable as a millennial's job, ephemeral like beauty.

I mean, it takes just a gust of wind, an out-of-place laugh, a little fart unrestrained, a ringing phone, a sock suddenly peeking out, a nothing, for the mocking gods to take back what they are gifting you.

So she gets up to put on some music.

You see, at my house there has always been - there was then and there is still today - a turntable and, on that turntable, there has always been - there was then and there is still today - some record (any one) waiting.

So she gets up to play some music (and to show you her ass) and you are hit in the heart: what will be on the turntable?

You quickly pass through the names of the most credited deities at the Stock Exchange of Granted Graces and pray to all of them in a celebration of religious tolerance.

- "Let there not be the wrong record sleeping on that turntable!"

Not a whining singer-songwriter, nor an experimenter with scrap and oscillators, no pale gothic vampires dressed in black or angry jazz musicians!

But above all, let there NOT BE A PROG RECORD on that deck!

In certain moments, prog is the most powerful contraceptive.

At that precise moment, you realize that prog is music for w***ers (and I've listened to tons of it!).

But instead — screw Murphy and his law! — the air in the room fills with the notes of "Move Me No Mountain," the first take from "In Heat" by Love Unlimited.

Hot! What a groove!

Now, at that time, for sure you didn't know that those three gals had been around since '69 and genuinely believed they could be the new Supremes. And that behind that record there's a love story, Unlimited Love.

Well, the James sisters (Linda and Glodean) and their cousin Diane Taylor are certainly not the new Supremes (though they're not bad!), but Glodean - besides having a strange name, a velvety voice, nails longer than fingers (try looking at some photos!) and a smile that seems like a halogen lamp – has always had a long eye for things.

And those eyes rest on Barry Eugene Carter who, perhaps, said like this, won't mean anything to you, but who in the civil register of those favored by Euterpe goes by Barry White.

Barry is 28, with a failed marriage behind him and four kids; already a musical genius: composer and producer among the best, and, together with his buddy Gene Page, he's a man with clear ideas.

But he's not yet a singer, he will become one - by pure chance - in '74.

Yes, but that's another story, just as this is not the place to ask why (perhaps trapped in an image that aimed too much at pleasing a predominantly white audience or perhaps - mistakenly - caged in the Disco cauldron and dragged into its damnatio memoriae, or for his singing style, personal but soon becoming a cliché) our Barry isn't seated in the Olympus of Black Music alongside a Stevie Wonder or an Isaac Hayes.

Then, in those early seventies, Barry wasn’t even thinking about singing, so he takes the three aforementioned gals into the studio (and takes Glodean to the Altar) to sing his songs.

And they immediately hit it big: “From a Girl's Point of View We Give to You... Love Unlimited” in '72 sells over a million copies and the follow-up, “Under the Influence of... Love Unlimited,” does even better reaching number 3 on the Billboard Pop Albums chart. Both with plenty of hit singles inside.

This “In Heat” is from '74 and, for the writer for equally evident sentimental reasons, it's the most beautiful. Sure, here there's the sung version (the instrumental one was in the previous record) of “Love's Theme” which, by the way, was the real reason why that record - already rather old and scratchy - was on that turntable.

Who knows at which party you swiped it, who knows which skillful milf was lamenting its absence….

And Priapus, to whom you have long dedicated laurels and raised hymns, has graced you with his favor, letting you find it right there and in that very moment.

“In Heat” is also Love Unlimited's swan song, because precisely in that '74, by pure chance (as already mentioned) Barry decides to become a singer himself; so the three chicks become his backup singers and Love Unlimited becomes an Orchestra (an orchestra of over 40 stellar people like Ray Parker Jr. or Wha Wha Watson, Lee Ritenour, and Ed Greene and a bunch of others) and Barry's star outshines everything else.

Love Unlimited will record two more albums, not bad but slightly more anonymous, then Diane will die of cancer at only 38 years old and the story ends there.

Glodean will remain by Barry's side and in '81 he will record a disc with her “Barry & Glodean,” then their story will end as well.

You're still there, listening to that soulful and sinuous soul. That soft, warm, and sticky groove.

- Baby, ooohhhh baaaby, oh yeah, mmmmmhhhhh, baaby...babyyyy

Perfect.

She turns around, looks at you, and comes back to you, hinting at a few dance steps. And you, I swear, instead of drooling over bouncing breasts or being hypnotized by the Garden of Venus, the place of all delight, you look her in the eyes!

Everything is perfect.

And you go on making out hard as if there were no tomorrow.

And you're too drunk on life to stop and think that maybe, elsewhere, someone, perhaps guilty of not believing enough in the power of Dionysus, or maybe condemned by his bad taste, is there in his little room - alone - listening to some trashy metal or a 15-minute mellotron solo….

Someone who, perhaps, today walks around with a huge hole, shouting: "Italians first!".