And Barry made the music of love…

An unpublished German documentary on the career of the singer with a symphonic voice, to watch for free on the Arte site until August 20

Too much sweat, too many kilos, too much hair oil, too many strings, too much sugar, too much honey, the music of Barry White (1944-2003) was too much and is still used today without moderation. The preacher of love, generous with harmony and lyrical flights, who plunged into the bass to seduce his large audience, did not count his notes in a teaspoon. He had no doubts about the orchestration, it was ample and rich, flamboyant and dreamy, overflowing and dripping with good feelings. He is not aware of budget austerity policies. He was Keynesian by nature. He favors the request of his listeners and the gathering of bodies, in the evening. It eliminates distances and power losses. It is exactly the opposite of the government’s current action. For her, we are quite hot on the dance floor, summer and winter. The singer who has the size of a silent Buddha does not move on stage with his only drum machine to make “people”. On tour, his endless musical suite consists of several coaches. He emphasizes when others have skin rations. We are always on the verge of overdosing his cavernous soul with disco logorrhea. In the 1970s, he was criticized for his four-poster bed ecumenism, his fat mockery, his too consensual or too commercial side, not radical enough for the aristocrats of criticism who enjoyed sandpaper. The singer of anti-crisis and romantic expansion of the entire planet, Barry White replaces the blue pills so that we can finally see life in pink. He is the best marriage counselor in the post-AIDS era. After a soft spot in the 1980s, it came back stronger and more pachydermically silky in the next decade. On the Arte site, until August 20 in free access, the documentary “Barry White – A dream of love” by Oliver Schwabe traces this long career with 300 million records sold, from his childhood in a poor district of Los Angeles where he was arrested for stealing hubcaps from a Cadillac to his redemption of the studios by inventing a glamorous-disco-philharmonic style. I never liked the hateful laughter of the specialists when we evoked our admiration for Barry. They judge us, they snub us, they only know how to disqualify the impulses of the heart and spoil the popular music (and even then filled with a complex decoration) of this unique matchmaker. Let’s not be ashamed to love Barry! Let’s not be afraid to say it loud and clear! We all think we know him, we’ve heard him so many times, in shabby nightclubs, bad bars or slow car radios that his hits seem to flow to us, never reaching us. Think again! Because miracles always happen. When Barry appeared in an American television archive in an apple green or lapis lazuli blue suit with shiny reflections, a diamond ring on his little finger, a curly beard of a god Greek, who washes his forehead abundantly with a square hand, is not equal to anything. aesthetic dogma, which does not imitate any of its predecessors, behind a white piano or sensually holding his silver microphone and then, and then… His voice, that other tempting instrument, entered into a thousand variations, drawn from our daily weariness. With him, weightlessness is a permanent coup. He took the words out of his mouth with the disproportionate and quiet power of a V12 engine of Rolls-Royce origin, without swaying, in a dreamy fluidity, in an aristocratic wave The extension is amazing, the timbre is surprising, its tempo plows our memory. Who can resist this telluric force? It shakes the most blasé among us. Barry, summer comes again, each time, the same and a little different in old age, the season of love that lands on our sunken lands, the expression of a sincere, sweet song and depth that with our wanderings. Ulysses is going home.

To see Arte here.

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