Love Unlimited Orchestra’s Love’s Theme: A Brief Appraisal

Q? Has Barry White ever saved your life?

A. No, he never got me back with my ex-wife neither BUT with soul food this nourishing it does feel like he’s saved me countless times from musical starvation.

From that opening swirly ascending string line to its faultless fade-out you beg will never come, the richly textured yet silky lush instrumentation paints the canvas equivalent of cradling womb lining. Those syncopated rhythmic wah-wah guitar sweeps almost sound like bush crickets rubbing their legs together with sensuous glee. Maybe it’s because they have ears on their knees and therefore exquisite taste in sweet melodies. Or maybe I’m just hearing things…sexy things.

How can 4 minutes encapsulate so much sensory delight? Even the 7" cover font & colour looks suggestible

Essentially one of the only instrumental not to mention purely orchestral singles to ever top the US billboard, many versions or samples have since been covered & re-recorded adding vocals; most notably the orchestra themselves a year later, but with musical moments this pleasurably languorous nothing needs to be said. It is now considered an influence on the quintessential disco sound (but don’t hold that against it) which began stagnating commercial airplay the following year.

Just to recite the 40 piece Orchestra’s list of charting singles – Love’s Theme (reached no.1 stateside for a week in ’73 but only #10 on our shores), Rhapsody in White, Satin Soul, Forever in Love, Midnight Groove & not forgetting the ‘coughs dubiously’ Theme from King Kong (pt.1). Essentially in all those titles there’s only one thing on that composer’s mind, which just so happened to be one Mr. Barry White Esq. and THAT my friends is the same one thing that King Kong always wanted – the timeless privilege that is gittin it own’!

"Ahur-hur ok ya got me, this ain't really my orchestra but it IS a selection of my finest sexy ladies...arranged like a heart-shaped chocolate box of love...oooh baby"

Most worthy live version I could find:


Joblessnessness & it’s disgusting consequences (Pt.II)

As Prince once wrote (& that floating baby-no-tears doll’s head Sinead O’Connor once sang) “It’s been 7 hours and 13 days since the temp agency took my job away” – 2 weeks sans work & that niggling creeping tick of self-doubt & lack of direction has burrowed under the skin of my little toe to take root in my wavering telephone voice & illegible freehand pen-scribbling abilities…

Always knew I’d have to continue this thread at some point after first trying to summarise how debilitating & humiliating the reluctant process of seeking employment can sometimes feel. Here I am tossed back onto the heap of the faceless million plus some whom the government sub-texturally seem to accuse of being feckless – just another statistic.

But then I tell myself to lip up fatty & turn that frown upside down (without doing any permanent damage to my face). I try & wait at least 3 weeks before resorting to the ole rock & roll (dole) as previously mentioned in Joblessnessness Part 1 that can actually become MORE disheartening.

Anywho looky here – there’s a whole 8 pages of jobs advertised in this Wednesday’s Evening Post (Notts nightly rag) but in reality they’re actual 2 pages of A3 (if you’re being pedantic & pessimistic which I’ve decided to be for the remainder of this post). The last 2 sides are mostly for highly trained barstards supremoes with several minutes expertise conning already depleting pensions from the fuel-impoverished Osborne-taxed change-fearing elderly.

Trouble is, worthwhile & well-intentioned charity, human rights & other humane causes have no choice but to follow ‘ahem’ the suits as salesperson shysters. Harassing people with all too little to spare would be bad enough, but the only ones interested & in my experience usually less familiar with the ‘no pause for breath’ uninterrupted barrage of persuasive script tend to be lonely, somewhat reclusive, mentalist windbags who launch off into a tirade of tangents about ‘how plums don’t taste like they used to’ & why they’ve become convinced that the jackdaws are stealing their mail’. Actually one of my mates was recalling how his grandad has genuinely started to believe that the Chinese are stealing all our fenceposts – the ‘our’ presumably being Britain. I pondered whether he is mistaking this for agricultural intensification.

"Pssst Oi! Ginger, Pebbles, you both have your characteristic charms now cut that out!"

Hmmm now let’s see…for some reason the first listing under ‘General Vacancies Part Time’ is CATFIGHTERS – Feisty women to compete in new sport. Earn £50-100 per hour – flexi hours (& the women too you’d imagine – oh how you could imagine) Age 16+ (and this bit’s very important) No Upper Age Limit! Hold my cabbage helmet yep, you read that right. Catsitting is one thing, but any society that advocates & even encourages what could essentially result in Granny Wrestling I’d rather not remain a member of – although as I’ve included above, they do presently have plenty to be angry about.

Any just when you figured every civilised hallmark of a virtuous & progressive city such as ours prospects had been flushed down the khazi it reads ‘tryouts to be filmed by Sky TV’. Hosanna! And the world is right again. What the heck happened to my hundreds of letters to Meussrs. Murdoch demanding the overdue reintroduction of Foxy Boxing (Homer’s favourite female sport) to our screens as the pride of Britain’s attitudes to women in time for the upcoming London 2012 Olympics? Proudly sponsored by Loose Women & some shit bacterial yoghurt brand no doubt. They’ve been punching women of all ages squarely in the face for years already.

This could well be the flipside to a Diamond David Lee Roth 12"

Keep ya posted on my progress folks!

Have you ever been to Electric Londonland?

Well I haaave and it’s become nigh on inconceivable to ‘do’ a full-on largin’ it propa BANGinyaface weekender bender on under 100 smackers. You’d have more chance of getting Fred ‘The Shred’ Goodwin to fork out on repaying your overdraft (Wahey that wins my ‘Joke of the Moment’ award which shall already make this piece look outdated by next week).

One very effective secret weapon against excessive blowout in that there Nodnol is the glory of Samuel Smith pubs (Creamy bland John’s more credible brother). Ironically although Sam always did the far superior bitter whether Old Brewery or Sovereign, it must’ve been his bro who felt the most bitter about his shortcomings in their vast gulf of difference in brewing tradition. High Holborn holds two gems right round the corner from its underground station; Princess Louise & Cittie of Yorke (if you LOVED Princess Louise then you’re bound to love etc). Even the Gents in the Princess are grade II listed along with the rest of its ornately decorated glass interior – not sure how comfortable I was taking a leak on a Victorian landmark. The general pub decor resembles the Hall in Return to Oz minus detachable heads screeching ‘Dorothy’ at you – this only serves to magnify the wonder. Knowing my dad’s appreciation of the standard of public house facilities he’d probably have been suitably in awe enough to contract stage-fright were it not for his overactive prostate. I would’ve taken a photo were there not common laws of decency through fear of being misunderstood (as George Michael said to that policeman).

Like an urban mirage of readily available & exposed pure brewing excellence

The opening statement about the cost to ensure your continued existence in Londinium is mostly due to ever rising train fares now that I’m over 26 (as the least hedonistic member of the 27 club) & therefore no longer qualify for a ‘young’ person’s railcard. If only applicants were based on their youthful behaviour in preference of age – why just the other day I chortled myself into a coughing fit over a phallic shaped snow rocket with gonad-shaped cylinders by the friend’s porch I was visiting in Holloway. Sadly the government/national transport network chooses not the recognise people who’d still rather ‘go public’ between the ages of 27-60. Presumably to MPs & national rail companies that whole midsection of life (though not for me if I keep inflicting a London lifestyle upon myself) is just a slash in the bedpan of travelling experiences overall. Despite not being a student or pensioner I feel I’m currently living some sub-par combo existence of the two…

Many lifeforms at some point during their 20s seem to either straight up adopt or heavily flirt with the notion of a better life in the wider conurbation of Capital City. The majority move back home or outside the ring of Hades that is the M25 in search of better air, water, soil, drainage, etc. Alright then AND value for money if you’re really that shallow & being pedantic. Alas instalments of one weekend in London are about my breaking point (I would’ve written ‘tipping point’ but everywhere expect you to tip people who often have the same skills as you but are in an infinitely more competitive environment).

Snow did make the whole scene is little easier to swallow however (I strongly advise you read John Doran’s vice column ‘Menk’ for more on the emotive loveliness of snow; Something about its nonjudgmental delicate arrival just sends your sense of unruly mischief spinning & unites all walks of life (as they all look idiotic trying to walk on new ice over older black). Well, that and my mate slipped arse over tit in the west end whilst doing a circular jig muhahahahaaaaaaaar (ahem, pause). Shared moments not of schadenfreude but pleasurable reminiscences are more valuable than any trumped up door fee or novelty Del Boy cocktail in our fair capital. It is these that will keep me coming back (albeit occasionally) to catch up chasing quality boozers into a cocked hat with the boys from the black stuff sporting anti-swastika tattoos OI! OI!

"Mr Snowman, sir why are you waving at my parents being arrested?"