My First, My Last, My Everything
Dave Hill
When I was a teenager growing up on the mean streets of suburban Cleveland, Ohio, just a quick drive yet a world away from where EarthQuaker Devices would one day set up shop in majestic Akron, my friend Tony’s dad gave him his old Jeep shortly after Tony got his driver’s license. It was a topless Jeep, not unlike the ones we’d seen them cruising around in on old episodes of M*A*S*H, perfect for showcasing our adolescent stupidity at stoplights, in mall parking lots, or even our own driveways while we waited for one another to pile in for another hot night on the sleepy town. More importantly, though, the Jeep came with an eight-track cassette player. And among the handful of eight-track cassettes Tony had inherited along with it were a few albums by Barry White, who was entirely new to my relatively sheltered ears at the time.
For the remainder of our high school years, we’d spend most weekends driving around the east side suburbs of Cleveland with Barry White as our soundtrack and, before long, an obsession was born. The melodies were infectious and the string arrangements intoxicating. And Barry’s mellow baritone gave us feelings of hope and stability in an often scary and confusing world, especially when the Burger King drive-thru was closed. And the fact that we knew we were probably the only teenagers in town listening to this music at the time gave us a feeling of superiority over our peers that nourished us through some of life’s most delicate years.
Don’t even get me started on the lyrics. Not only would Barry White effortlessly toss out gems like “Take off that brassiere, my dear” from “Love Serenade”, but he would do it without irony or even a hint of giggling whatsoever. This was a man who meant it and his confidence as an artist and, presumably, a lover was inspiring, even for a kid like me whose romantic life up until that point consisted entirely of mumbling nervously into the phone with girls until my mother would inevitably pick up the extension and ruin the whole thing before I’d had a chance to say anything even slightly resembling “cool.” And while I had no intention of working any of the lyrics to “Love Serenade” into my vernacular back then or, admittedly, even now, I still give at least partial credit to that song for giving me the courage to say “Hi, I’m Dave” in those odd moments when speaking feels otherwise impossible.
It’s scary to think that there was almost no Barry White as the world knows him today. Apparently his first solo record began as a collection of songs he’d demoed with the idea that someone else would ultimately sing them instead since Barry was set to remain behind the scenes as a producer. But eventually, and reportedly after much arguing, White’s music business associates convinced him to reluctantly step forward and record and release the songs under his own name, thus changing the course of a Jeep-load of suburban Cleveland teens’ lives forever. The lesson here, of course, is that - hey - if you don’t do it, someone else will. And who wants that? After all, what kind of world would this be if Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” had gotten into the wrong hands? I almost just passed out even thinking about it.
As fate would have it, I once had the opportunity to thank Barry for all of the above myself, but I totally blew it. It was way back in the nineties and my band at the time, Sons of Elvis, had just released our debut and, yes, only album, which we had titled Glodean after Barry White’s wife. Somehow this was enough for our record label to talk someone into giving us backstage passes to Barry’s concert the next time he and his band happened to be pulling through Cleveland, even after we’d found out that Barry and our album’s namesake were no longer together (Remember this was pre-Internet, so info like the marital status of the greatest baritone of all-time wasn’t at everyone’s fingertips).
It was our second time seeing Barry. And, just like the first time, Barry played tee-ball with the hits all night long. After the show, we were ushered backstage along with a handful of other people desperate to bask in his glow. There we waited and waited in a room that had to have been at least a hundred degrees until eventually, despite the oppressive heat, Barry emerged from his dressing room, immaculately dressed in a full suit topped with a floor length black leather jacket. And it was in that moment he taught me a whole other lesson- the fact that almost no one will remember how hot it was when the pictures were taken, but everyone will know whether or not you looked incredible at the time.
I had brought a handful of Barry White CDs with me in hopes of getting him to sign them, but when our turn came to meet him, not only could I not bring myself to shove a bunch CDs under his nose, but I couldn’t even speak. Instead, I just stood there as he towered over us and spoke in that unmistakable voice I had first heard while rolling along in Tony’s Jeep just a few years earlier. I was so dumbstruck, I have no idea what he even said. For all I know, he could have asked me to take off my brassiere. And had I heard him and actually been wearing one at the time, I certainly would have.
As I sit here today, seventeen years after Barry White’s passing, I remain grateful for all the incredible music he left us. And I am reminded that, while I may be no Barry White, I am at the very least a better version of myself because of him.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some eight-tracks to go listen to.
Photo by Bill Wadman.
Dave Hill is a comedian and musician who plays in the bands Valley Lodge, Painted Doll, and Witch Taint. He is the author of three books - Tasteful Nudes, Dave Hill Doesn't Live Here Anymore, and Parking the Moose. And his new comedy album The Pride of Cleveland is out now on 800 Pound Gorilla Records. Get it here.
