Air Supply “The Vanishing Race”
You remember the scene. Robin Williams’ “Dr. Sean” tells Matt Damon’s “Will Hunting” that the abuse he endured was not his fault. “It’s not your fault,” Williams repeats. “I know,” Damon half heartedly demurs. Will tries to resist Sean’s gentle reminders. But, by the third refrain, he cannot tolerate it — his defenses crumble. His face cracks, though we only briefly see the carnage. We get just a glimpse of a tear before he buries his face in his Sean’s chest. He’s howling in pain. It’s beautiful, but it’s more so unbearable.
There’s something too naked about strong, young men weeping. We are generally fine with our leading men choking back a tear or hiding their face in their hands when they sob. Oscars get handed out for that sort of thing. But head on, face crumpled, full throated crying is more than we can stand. It’s too honest. Too broken. Too loving. Those moments are reserved for funerals or churches or bathrooms. Not for public consumption.
Air Supply were the naked, bawling men of Pop Music. Between 1980 to 1983, they scored eight consecutive top five hits, a feat only matched previously by The Beatles. They wrote songs about too much love and too much loneliness and played them with a piano, strings and a plainly beautiful tenor that was clear as a bell. They were the band for exhausted, dejected, lovelorn ears. And, as it turned out, that described most of the world during the post-Carter, early-Reagan era. Though they have soldiered on for forty years since, all of their success in English speaking countries occurred during that early run. But even back then, when they sold millions of records and tended to our wounds, they were never, ever -- not even for a single moment -- cool.
For most everyone born after the 1980s, Air Supply seems unfathomable. They made earnest Pop music that stood at the intersection of Jim Steinman Way and Andrew Lloyd Weber Boulevard. In fact, Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock (yes -- they share a name) met while performing in the Australian production of Weber’s “Jesus Christ Superstar.” Russell played guitar and piano and wrote ballads. Hitchcock played no instruments, and could not write a song, but could sing like a bird, in sunrise, over the ocean. From the very beginning, Air Supply was exceptionally unhip. Russell looked like an overgrown Jeff Daniels with feathered hair. Hitchcock was tiny, with a massive perm. Together, they looked like a Saturday Night Live sketch about a Hallmark ad for roller-skating buddies who loved cats.
And yet, they were huge. First there was “Lost in Love.” Then there was “All Out of Love.” And then “Every Woman in the World” and then “The One that I Love” and then “Here I Am,” which included the line “here I am / the one that you love,” but was somehow not the same song as “The One that I Love.” The hits about love and loneliness kept on coming, up and through the Steinman-penned classic, “Making Love Out of Nothing At All.” They had one more hit in 1985. A couple more minor hits before the end of 1986. And then, that was it. In America and the U.K., at least, Air Supply was no longer seriously considered. They weren’t even outcasts. They were instant nostalgia -- bric a brac for cut out bins or for your romance-novel-reading Auntie. In Australia, they held homeland value, but not enough to get them on the charts. Throughout Asia, however, Air Supply’s dominance persisted for decades to come. By 2000, in The States, they were relegated to casinos and dinner theaters. In Japan, however, they sold out arenas.
As remarkably uncool as they were, Air Supply was not a tonal outlier. The origin of “Quaalude Rock” is hard to find, but it may well begin with The Carpenters in 1970. Once downers, unemployment and economic reality began to dampen Hippie idealism, we hear a style of music that is sad and lovely, but tired. Olivia Newton John’s “I Love You, I Honestly Love You” is a high, low-watermark. Frankly, most of the Bee Gees’ pre-disco songbook could qualify. “I Started a Joke,” “To Love Somebody” and “New York Mining Disaster 1941” all abide. Even “How Deep is Your Love,” which coincided with Disco, is an unusually vulnerable Pop song. For several years in the late seventies, American bands like The Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan employed cool Jazz and light Blues to push back the tears, but the sad escape was just beneath the surface. Captain and Tennille tried to put lipstick, wine and a sailor’s cap on the sadness, but it did not work. In 1978, Barbra Streisand covered Neil Diamond’s sadsack “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” Soon thereafter, the duo turned their respective versions into one inevitably massive hit song. And, just a moment later, Air Supply arrived into a lonely, depressed, post-Disco world. They were the band that no young, Rock-loving soul ever wanted. But they were clearly exactly what most of North America, Australia, Western Europe and Asia desperately needed.
The basic ingredients of Quaalude Rock involve unadorned vocals, piano, profound longing and, possibly, something Australian. It’s unclear what was going on down under throughout the seventies and early eighties, but there is clearly a through line from The Bee Gees and Olivia Newton John to Little River Band and Air Supply. More than any continent, Australia cornered the market on beautiful tenors singing sad, calming love songs. Air Supply was a continuation of the lineage, possibly its zenith and certainly its conclusion. They lacked the songcraft of the brothers Gibb and the star appeal of Sandy from “Grease.” But what they had was an enduring friendship -- which many casual fans assumed was a love affair -- and a lead singer who could soar higher than any man in Pop. Russell Hitchcock’s had more range than even Freddie Mercury or Dennis DeYoung, from Styx. He lacked the rasp of Steve Perry, but he could climb higher without straining. His voice was probably made for theater more than it was for Rock and Roll. But, as much as anything, his throat was designed for minor chords. Russell Hitchcock’s instrument perfectly straddled love and sadness at the moment when the world was sulking on that intersection. It was an absolute wonder.
It didn’t take long for Graham and Russell to realize the downside of being teddy bears to the world. By the end of 1983, Lite Pop and Yacht Rock and Quiet Storm were being eclipsed by Michael Jackson, Prince, The Police and Bruce Springsteen -- artists closer to the zeitgeist who had either grit or edge or something that required you to get out of bed to appreciate. Additionally, as the first Reagan administration became the second one, the downcast days of Nixon and Ford and Carter were pushed away. Like America itself, Pop and Rock music projected their mojo. And Air Supply had zero mojo. They tried to compensate. Graham showed his chest hair and strapped on an electric guitar. Russell unbuttoned his top button and donned a red Members Only jacket. They recorded “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” with Roy Bittan and Max Weinberg from The E. Street Band. Rick Derringer joined on guitar. They made not one, but two, music videos for the song that attempted to show wanton, virile heterosexuality. In one, Graham and his wife make out in a cone of lasers and smoke. In another, a World War II Marine returns home, falls in love and repeatedly berates his wife, before finally reconciling and making love out of nothing at all. It’s a tremendous ballad -- possibly the best of their career. It’s also peak Jim Steinman, with the strings and the electric guitar in the second half and the singer rushing too many words into a verse out of sheer passion. They gave it their all. But they could not become anything other than what they were -- the crown princes of Quaalude Rock. Within two years, Air Supply were not gone, but, in America, at least, they were forgotten.
Not many artists have had more top ten singles than Air Supply. And those who have, are generally iconic names. Moreover, unlike other bands who enjoyed meteoric success and then flamed out, Air Supply never broke up. In 1985, Russell Hitchcock relaxed his hair and the band had two more minor hits, mostly on the shoulders of their previous success and the undeniable lead singer. But, as far as I knew, that was it. I simply presumed that they’d either broken up or disappeared, like so many Soft Rock acts from the 70s.
I was wrong. They continued to release albums, unsuccessfully attempting to modernize the sound that had made them superstars. Moreover, they built a massive career in Asia just as they were expelled from pop culture in English speaking countries. Sad Boomers had birthed a new, alienated generation who were more cynical or frustrated than sad and confused. These young music fans wanted their heartache to really hurt. They didn’t want the salve that Air Supply provided. But there were still apparently plenty of fans -- some aging and some, in Asia, just discovering them -- who wanted Quaaludes with their ballads. For those fans, there was no substitute for Air Supply.
The transition from beloved, Soft Rockers to Asian Adult Contemporary gods was not painless. But it ultimately proved lucrative for Graham and Russell. 1993 was firmly in the middle of that journey, from sensitive young Pop stars to out of fashion husbands and fathers. It was the year of high Grunge and early, mainstream Alternative and Hip-Hop. It was only a decade removed from Air Supply’s last, major hit. But it felt like a different century on a different planet. That year, the group released “The Vanishing Race,” an album that was purportedly inspired by the plight of Indigenous Peoples in North America. In truth, the record only barely concerns itself with that subject. It is an album full of big, cloying love songs, straining for Pop appeal, resisting the onset of middle age. Within two years, the band would make the inevitable, and intelligent, turn towards the Adult Contemporary chart. “The Vanishing Race” is not quite ready to accept that perceived slight. It’s the last gasp of a great singer and a nearly great songwriter. It’s an album that almost nobody in America heard. An album that was barely reviewed in the press. And, perhaps most amazingly, an album that apparently topped the charts and sold four million copies throughout Asia. That’s right: four million.
“The Vanishing Race” is not exactly a lost relic -- it was wildly successful by most any measure that is not American. But it is probably inessential listening from a band past their prime. Fortunately, Graham and Russell do not embarrass themselves with Hard Rock or New Wave. Instead, they sound intent on updating their original, winning formula. The result is probably closest to late 80s Quiet Storm -- much less sexy than Sade and much less soulful than Luther Vandross. However, as with those artists, there is atmospheric synth, occasional windchimes and tasteful strings. There are some light, beachy beats and Classical guitar. Whereas great Quiet Storm tracks generally get you into the bedroom, though, “The Vanishing Race” really does sound better suited for household chores or winding down with a glass of wine. In 1993, Air Supply was still romantic enough for Valentine’s Day, but too sterile for anything hotter. They were easy targets, if critics had bothered to listen. But, being middle-aged, desperate and out of fashion is not the same thing as being lackluster. And, for all of its cheap poetry and limp rhythms, “The Vanishing Race” still has some luster. When the melody fits, Graham and Russell shine like it’s 1981.
The album opens with “It’s Never Too Late,” the closest thing the record comes to a show-stopper. A distant synth wind gives way to piano keys and Graham Russell’s lilting vocals. He milks the verses, gilding the cliches, until you are fully ready to skip to the next track. You wonder, “Where’s Russell Hitchcock? Why are they hiding him?” And, not a moment too soon, he appears for the chorus and time stands still. The contrast between the two singers was always an effective trick. The tall blonde has a lovely, if pedestrian voice. The short brunette is the star. The trick where Graham cedes the floor for Russell has played countless times. But, when it works, it still works. It works so well here, in fact, that they double down in the second half. The song makes a slight key shift. The strings and guitar get louder. And Russell Hitchcock has his moment. While the song is ostensibly about lost love, the more impassioned the singer gets, the more it sounds like he’s really singing about middle age and obsolescence. In fact, it probably works better that way -- imagining these two old friends, partners and superstars fighting to reclaim their greatness, protesting their expulsion from the charts. As a Pop song, it’s batty. As a statement of purpose or a show tune, however, it’s darn near perfect.
In middle-age, and slightly more concerned with relevance, Graham Russell wrote songs that were more tasteful than his early 80s hits. As a result, a lot of “The Vanishing Race” features slow, listless synths mixed with breezy acoustic guitars and (electronic) maracas. It’s not terribly far off from Toni Braxton or Anita Baker or Billy Ocean or Lionel Richie. But Graham Russell is featureless compared to those singers and Russell Hitchcock can’t help but overpower the songs. When Hitchcock succeeds, he transports the songs from the beach to Broadway. When he fails, it’s because he’s decided to hold back. The one possible exception is “Goodbye,” a song tailor made for Air Supply by mega-writer, David Foster. Foster is to theater as Steinman was to opera. And both modes serve Russell Hitchcock well. “Goodbye” is built around a simple piano, but draped with strings and singed with electric guitar. It would have worked well on the “Top Gun” soundtrack, except that film preceded “The Vanishing Race” by seven years. In 1993, “Goodbye” couldn’t find a home on American radio, but it topped the charts across Asia for a very simple reason -- it’s a beautiful ballad, exceptionally sung.
The rest of the album stalls out in middling, aseptic R&B fare. The title track, which is the only discernible reference to Indigenous Peoples, opens with a drum circle and chanting that walks the thin line between appreciation and appropriation. Moreover, it then makes a hard right turn into a dull, dowdy synth plodder. In the back half, there’s a spoken word section that is delivered in a language that I presume to be of Indigenous Peoples. In 1993, I doubt anyone considered the song to be offensive. It may not be. I’m confident that the intention was generous and sincere. But it’s still an ill-begot premise and a mediocre song.
On “Faith,” Air Supply takes a stab at the same title and idea that scored for George Michael, but without the hooks or wiggles. The result is a strange, Gospel-inspired show tune that features the unforgettable line: “when the world's coming at you like a hungry alligator / you got to have faith.” These odd excursions away from syrupy romance, however, are outliers. Most of “The Vanishing Race,” while neither exciting nor disastrous, stays on brand. “Too Sentimental” (actual song title) could be a review of the band’s career, even if it weren’t for the combination of congas and sax. It’s one of several songs that unnecessarily restrains Russell Hitchcock.
The closer, “I Remember Love,” is the album’s biggest swing and miss. The problem is not that it’s sloppy or embarrassing or anything like that. The problem is with the expectations that it sets for itself. It initially presents as a naked piano ballad -- just minor chords and stings deep in the recess. Surprisingly, Russell, who can sing bigger and better than almost anyone, chooses to whisper the verses. You hope that it’s all a set-up for one of those gigantic Air Supply choruses. The wind starts to blow as the bridge approaches. “Here it comes,” you tell yourself. But the chorus snuffs out the hope you were expecting. Hitchcock howls the climax. It doesn’t sound like the bleat of love or the hurt or loneliness. No -- to me, it feels like the fear of flight. He stays close to the ground.
In 1983, Russell Hitchcock would have soared, even with lesser material. His perm would have floated in the wind. Nearby, Graham would have smiled and nodded, recognizing that his songs had been taken to unfathomable heights. Air Supply’s younger naïveté was not cool. But, in its vulnerability, it was oddly fearless. A decade later, Graham and Russell knew exactly what was at stake. They’d once had nothing and then they’d had everything and then it was almost gone again. It seems defensible -- possibly obvious -- to suggest that “The Vanishing Race” is an album entirely about middle-aged, former Pop stars.
There have been five Air Supply albums since 1993, the last being “Mumbo Jumbo” from 2010. After “The Vanishing Race,” Graham and Russell leaned into their fate: They were not Pop stars. They never were Rock stars. Their value in the U.S. and the U.K. had become almost exclusively nostalgic. In Asia, they continued to sell albums and headline arenas. But, gradually, and pragmatically, they assimilated into the realm of Adult Contemporary. In 2010, they even scored a couple of minor hits on the Billboard AC chart.
As the years passed, Russell could still sing, but not the way he did in 1983. There was more harmonizing. More backing vocals and reverb and Spanish guitar and gentle flourishes. But Air Supply never broke up. They barely stopped touring. Graham wrote. And Russell sang. Many of us simply forgot about them. Critics still snickered. Devotees sang along and wept to their greatest hits. In 2018, the inevitable finally happened: “All Out of Love: The Musical” debuted on stage in the Philippines.