Earth Wind and Fire September

Earth Wind and Fire - September

Just look into his eyes. He doesn't believe this. Every aspect of this work is choreographed and designed to actualise an end goal.

Maurice White stands on a hill and draws back the great bow of fate. He takes careful aim and the arrow flies impressively across the starry sky. A group of teenagers have pulled off the road with two trucks and a crate of beer. Maurice touches his coiffered hair and rubs slightly at his greasy forehead. His hair is receding and he's getting old. Maybe too old. Perhaps he's had his chance? He pushes the thought into the bad places of his mind. No, tonight his magic arrow will land true. He is like cupid but instead of kindling love he will kindle disco. The arrow flies high in the night sky, but what's this? A sudden gust of earth-fire-wind catches the arrow and it flies away from the intended target. The teenagers clink their bottles together and turn the radio up. They're not even aware the arrow is there. On the bolt flies, majestic and deliberate, passing not only through the sky but forward through time. And here, ten years hence, is a church hall where two of those very teenagers, now adults, are celebrating their marriage. The arrow flies cleanly in through the open window, approaching the dancing crowd. Fat old Aunt Marjory has dropped her piece of wedding cake on the floor and she bends down with the paper plate still in her hand to pick up every dirty morsel of the spilt dessert. As she bends over she offers up her enormous rump to the open window and it jiggles slightly as she scouts out the crumbs. A second rate covers band has taken to the end of the hall in an area demarcated by wires and microphones but which doesn't deserve to be called a stage. The saxophonist sighs. Another night, another dollar. The band leader strikes up the tune and the great arrow of fate strikes deeply into the flesh of fat old Aunt Majory's behind. "Oh!" she exclaims like a Carry On extra, "Oh! I say! Earth Wind and Fire!" On the hill, Maurice White is watching the scene through his interdimensional binoculars, which he quickly drops to his waist. He snarls slightly and a bead of liquid runs down his face. Is it a tear? Or is it a bead of grease? He looks at his watch. September. Maybe he has left it too late.

The late Maurice White was a true hero of music design. By sheer force of will he brought into being this and many other similar songs. These are not pieces that would have manifested without his determination and drive. Some music is more a product of a time or a place, a cirumstance or a movement. But while there certainly would have been disco without Maurice White, there would never have been this.

Shot 1. The keyboardier is wearing fancy duds and the lights in the studio are trailing for the camera. If you were seeing this live there would be drugs. You are not seeing this live so the drugs have been faked for you. Disco = drugs. That's what the young people like.

Shot 2. This bassist is pretty regal: his clothes, his twirl, his striking features. Is this some sort of afro-futurism. The otherworldly power of Disco. We could build a better world if only we inhabited the power of youth.

Shot 5 or something. It's the first close up of Maurice White at about 0:18. Look at the intense sadness in his eyes. That hollow feeling, that emptiness and despair. He's conjoured all of this into existence to try and fix something in his soul. What is it that burns so painfully that even all of this has failed to salve it? So many people contributing so much to try and fix it. The musicians, the costume makers, the hairstylists, his make-up artist (that foundation is thick) the sound engineers, the record company and the financers, the distribution, the record plant workers, the packaging artists, the guitar and equipment manufacturers, his loyal fans, the coach driver, the taxi driver, the security guard, the catering, the camera man, and you the present audience. All of you toiling even now to fix that existential deficiency he felt. He burns with failed ambition. A dream too long in the coming. The secret knowledge that he is past it and that the golden days of youth are forever behind him. He thinks of a girl he once knew and how youthful she was. He doesn't let himself think of her how she must be now. He remembers that one night in a nightclub with the youthful girl with all the prescient power and deception of nostalgia. As he sings, he reaches out, casting his fingers towards his imaginary companion. But she's not there and a drop of fluid falls from his face. It isn't sweat and it isn't grease, it's really a droplet of his tortured soul escaping. His false smile just enough to plaster over tears. Inside he is dying of grief. Do you remember? That one night in September. That one perfect night of youth. Keep it together, Maurice, just get through the video shoot. You can cry later when no-one is here. Do it for her. Do you remember? Yes, I remember. That one perfect night when love was changing it's path. Oh God to be back in the arcadia of youth. This is my gift to the world. I have laboured long - so long - to distil the essence of the idea of youth into a saleable and packageable pop song. The work of a lifetime of sacrifice and suffering all so that I can tell you the one thing I have learnt. Every step of this process built by sweat and hard work. Everything I have, everything I am capable of giving and then some more, all to make this song perfect so that you can have a mainline to that feeling. The greatest feeling I have ever experienced. Youth. That will chase the clouds away. Come on guitarist, if you take the chorus we might just get through this.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gs069dndIYk&spfreload=1