Earworms: You're the First, the Last, My Everything by Barry White

Disco and sex and mainstream success, oh my!

They called Barry White the “Walrus of Love,” which was a decidedly cruel thing to say about a man who was overweight much of his life, leading to an early death at age 58 in 2003. It also indicated a lack of seriousness in the way many people understood his music. White was one of the earliest crossover artists from the disco world to pop in the US and the UK. The backlash would get much worse, but while his records sold millions, there was a decided impression among rock fans and critics that this sort of music didn’t mean anything.

As if pure unbridled joy in the feeling of love and sexuality could mean nothing. Barry White put sex at the center of his records, even when he didn’t use words that described it. It was there in the rhythms, the four on the floor throb of the kick drum, the caressing tickles of the hi-hat, the steady pulsations of the strings, the ecstatic build-up of the song structure, and even the orgasmic release of the way the song’s title is sung. And yet, this is sex tied to love, to a partnership of equals, to a connection intended to last for life. No, Barry White wasn’t just messing around. He was putting all his considerable talents to work on a record that felt sensually and spiritually true.

White was 30 years old in 1974 when this song climbed the Billboard charts to the #2 pop and #1 soul positions. He’d been in the music business for more than a decade, singing in various groups that went nowhere, producing and writing songs for other acts fated to remain hitless, even sometimes putting out solo records under assumed names. His fortunes rose when he produced Love Unlimited, a Supremes rip-off group that he shaped into hitmakers with “Walkin’ In the Rain With the One I Love” in 1972. He put together the 40-piece instrumental group called the Love Unlimited Orchestra to back them up and become an even bigger success with the song “Love’s Theme.” By now, White was fully versed in the new rhythms that were coming out of the gay and African-American underground clubs, and his records were perfect fits with that approach.

In 1973, he released his first album under his own name, and began a string of huge pop and soul hits over the next few years with “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More Baby.” “Never, Never Gonna Give You Up” and “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” followed. It was fairly easy by now to detect a theme. White made music that sounded hedonistic, completely immersed in the sounds of nightclubs where dancing skirted the very edge of ritualistic sex display, yet he was 100% hetero-normative and monogamous in intent. No wonder mainstream America rewarded him so richly. He gave the frisson of sexual freedom with a soupçon of straight love.

For me, his songs hold up enormously well because of this blend of intentions, while also serving as masterful examples of how to arrange and build up sexual tension and release. Take this record, for example. The kick drum softly thumps, and the hi-hats get to dancing, a harpsichord bounces notes, a string section riffs sharply, the bass floats around the upper edges of the fretboard, and White uses that basso profundo speaking voice to set the scene of his relationship. “We got it together, don’t we baby?” he asks, barely keeping his excitement to himself. “We’ve definitely got our thing together, don’t we baby.” There is no question his tone calls to mind the typical cheesy image of a 70s swinger haphazardly hitting on women in a bar, throwing out lines in what they think is a sexy voice and hoping to get lucky. But, at the same time, White knows he really is lucky, and there’s no hope about it. He’s in love, and he’s going to make love.

Higher strings double up the riff after awhile, and White states, “Nobody but you and me, we’ve got it together, baby.” Fifty seconds into the record, the foreplay is over, and we are ready, after an insistent full band stomp, for the song to take off. Now we come to Barry White’s singing voice, a deep, resonant, sensual, and sensitive croon that hugs the melody to the words he wants to share. The rhythm now is built on a full drum kit snare/kick/hi-hat/ mix that propels the music along with the luxurious strings while continuing the four on the floor thump. “The first, the last, my everything,” he sings. “And the answer to all my dreams.” There is a sweetness to the way he lays these words out, and the melody matches it. Female harmonies swirl around in the background. “You’re my sun, my moon, my guiding star,” White climbs up the notes. “My kind of wonderful, that’s what you are.” He retraces his path back down to where he started after a dramatic pause by the whole ensemble.

Another verse leads to the title being softly dropped down as if it’s too soon to reach the sexual peak. Further thoughts of love are offered as caresses, with intensity building and pulling back, urgency creeping into his vocals. “Girl, you’re my reality,” he cries, “but I’m lost in a dream.” The strings and the backing vocals are pushing. “You’re the first,” closer. “My last.” Almost. Slow way down. “My everything,” almost without movement between notes.

Let’s have an instrumental break. The strings and the piano reset everything and after a bit, there’s a harp glissando in the mix. It all comes back to the chorus again. “I know there’s only one of you / There’s no way they could have made two.” He’s feeling it now. “You’re my reality, but I’m lost in a dream.” Quickened breath. “You’re the first.” Female response. “The last.” “You’re the last.” Explosion of volume, expression, intensity, and jumping up to higher pitches: “My everything!” Now comes the falling action. There’s a horn riff that wasn’t there before. As the song fades out, with a similar approach to the long introduction, White reassures his partner. “You and me, babe,” he speaks. “Just you and me. You’re the first, the last, my everything.”

Whew! Hot committed love at the top of the charts, and still resonating almost fifty years later. There are a lot of minor chords in the song, too, which adds a level of emotional richness that helps reinforce the love he’s singing about. And almost every sound on the record, save when White is speaking instead of singing, is rhythmically propulsive, challenging the body to move even if not sexually every single time. It’s my fave of White’s classics, but I never get tired of any of them.