Bee Gees “E.S.P.”
Heavy is the crown of the oldest brother. Heavier still if he is a Pop star. Suffocatingly heavy if his younger brothers are also in the band. And terminally heavy if he looks like a lion king and sings like a lioness. However, if ever there was a man destined to wear that crown, it was Barry Gibb. In the later 1970s, when he was sporting white, bedazzled suits, his luxuriant hair seemed like an ideal perch for some royal headdress. By 2014, however, Barry was, sadly and famously, the last surviving Gibb brother. With his iconic mane mostly gone, he confessed to keeping the bathroom lights dim in his Miami mansion, so that he could squint and imagine his younger, regal self in the mirror.
Unlike Liam and Noel Gallagher or Ray and Dave Davies, where alphas and betas were defined, and unlike the Wilsons, where the singular genius was evident, the story of the Gibb brothers is more complicated. Barry was the eldest, by about three years. Then came twins, Robin and Maurice. Years later, Andy, the baby, arrived. The family left England for a more bucolic life in Australia, where Barry, Robin and Maurice, through fits and starts, found modest success at very young ages. Throughout the 1960s, the brothers experimented with various forms of the time -- Skiffle, Pop, Rock and Folk. As they would do for the rest of their career, they proved unusually capable of wrapping aching melodies and genetically enhanced harmonies into whatever the prevailing style required. They understood how to sing and write songs together in ways that sounded both entirely natural and curiously unnatural. Robin’s nearly operatic tenor could vibrate so much that it seemed bound to crack. But it never did. Barry sang with more chest, but could match Robin’s notes with incredible precision. On some harmonies, you cannot tell the two apart. Always in the middle was Maurice, the gap-filling, fun loving, younger twin, who could not sing like his brothers but who, seemingly, could do just about everything else.
For most of the 1960s, The Bee Gees were not stars. As the decade progressed, however, they could be frequently seen performing on television and had developed some renown across England and Australia. Then, in 1967, the group landed a management deal with Robert Stigwood, then partner to The Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein. Stigwood would prove to be a true believer from the start, even favoring the Bee Gees to his other supergroup, Cream. Under his guidance and with dogged promotion, the Bee Gees quickly struck gold, first with the orchestral Pop of "New York Mining Disaster 1941” and then with the positively timeless, “To Love Somebody.” Both songs were bonafide hits. The former raced up the charts in the U.K. before it caught on in the States. The latter did not fare as well in the U.K. but proved to U.S. audiences that the brothers were capable of writing and performing Soul songs as soaring and beautiful as Otis Redding or Sam Cooke. By 1968, the group were international Pop stars.
From an early age, Barry and Robin had demonstrated rare adaptability as writers and performers. Pop music, as a form, had slowed down to the brothers to the point where they could redraw it and score in almost countless ways. In 1968 alone, the Bee Gees released two full length albums and achieved major success with “Massachusetts,” “I Started a Joke” and “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You.” It is notable, however, that, increasingly, Barry was standing slightly front of stage even while these hits mostly featured Robin on lead vocals. This unsubtle star-making was not lost on the introverted, goofy, buck toothed twin, who was blessed with greater vocal talent but much less physical appeal than his big brother. Robin rightfully sensed that Robert Stigwood, who had eyes on Broadway and Hollywood, saw something generationally attractive in Barry.
During their formative years, while the brothers were naturally competitive, they were also relatively meritocratic in their songwriting. Whatever differences they had were generally set aside in pursuit of a great melody, harmony and song. The fraternal pecking order and competition worked, even thrived, in spite of its tension. With the pressures of success and increasing personal and financial independence, though, the growing pains began to heat to a boil. In 1968, Barry was twenty-two and Robin and Maurice were just nineteen. But they had been performers and even stars since they were quite young. The trio was exploring life outside of the nest and the sharpness of their differences began to feel more like conflict than contrast.
Less than two years following their breakthrough, Robin Gibb left the Bee Gees. On the surface, the break would only leave a temporary bruise. Robin would return to the band by the end of 1970 and, of course, the brothers would soon discover unimaginable success. However, the scab from this wound would never fully heal. Barry Gibb, years later, would famously say that he, Maurice and Robin were always brothers, almost always bandmates, but never really friends. That sentiment would come to define and occasionally overwhelm the band, even throughout the heights of their great success. Upon Robin’s return to the group, olive branches were extended. The three brothers would share vocal duties on the smash hit, “Lonely Days,” and Barry and Robin would join arms for “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” the first of many ballads they would write wherein it is unclear if the love is of a romantic or fraternal nature.
Much has been written and documented about the Bee Gees stratospheric rise in the 1970s. In truth, the first half of the decade, following the success of their reunion, was relatively dry for the band. Throughout their career, the group was consistently popular and beloved, but was only very briefly “cool.” And from 1971 to 1975, the Bee Gees were decidedly uncool. That began to change in 1975, when they moved to 461 Ocean Boulevard in Miami, the address made famous by Eric Clapton the year before. They were joined in the sunny city by their guitarist Alan Kendall, and their new drummer, Dennis Bryon. Writing and playing together in close quarters, the band that had conquered Pop, Soul, Rock and Roll and, nominally, Country music, found something new in that house and that city -- a groove. Additionally, during this time, Barry discovered the uncanny strength of his falsetto, an instrument that would quite literally change the way he wrote and recorded music. “Jive Talkin,” the first of many hits from this era, is the through line to “Saturday Night Fever” and the music that would soon coronate but eventually betray the Bee Gees.
From “Main Course” in 1975, through “Children of the World” in 1976, the “Saturday Night Fever” soundtrack in 1977, and, even, “Spirits Have Flown” in 1979, the Bee Gees were among the most successful groups in the history of Pop music. They scored seven top five hits and sold tens of millions of albums. Moreover, they operated, in spite of their many differences, as a band. Success, in this case, was a welcome opiate for the tension and a bandaid for the bruises. As massive and hard won as their success was, however, the backlash was swift and brutal. Many have effectively written that the eventual disco revulsion was driven as much by racism and homophobia as it was by the post-Punk resentment of excess. And while this is almost undoubtedly true, it obscures the very greatness of the Bee Gees output during these years, wherein they wrote and performed some of the most enduring dance tracks and some of the most beautiful ballads of the twentieth century.
Although they rightly perceived something between fatigue and disdain, the Bee Gees were still impossibly fertile in the years after the detonation of disco. Between 1980 and 1987, the brothers wrote or produced the equivalent of twelve full length albums. Only one of them was released as the Bee Gees. Robin released several solo albums during this time. “Juliet,” from his 1983 release, “How Old Are You,” is the nearly forgotten, but entirely great single which places his high tenor on top of an electronic bass and beat that sounds not unlike New Order. Maurice even released a couple of singles during this period. But it was ultimately Barry who proved wildly successful as a writer and collaborator during the Bee Gees hibernation. Although many songs from this time are credited to more than one Gibb brother, it was Barry who stood next to Barbara Streisand on “Guilty” and who co-wrote and co-produced huge hits for Dionne Warwick, Dianna Ross and, of course, Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. The Bee Gees were still famous during their popular downturn but it was Barry who emerged as “the star” and who had found a deeper creative well. By 1985, the eldest Gibb had demonstrated the rare ability to write Pop songs in many forms, and the even rarer ability to write them for male and female voices with equal proficiency. Excluding Lennon/McCartney and Jagger/Richards, it would be fair to say that Barry and Robin Gibb rank alongside Smokey Robinson and Carol King and Gerry Coffin as the greatest songwriters of the twentieth century. While their late 70s run suggested as much, it was their early 80s work that confirmed it.
With some distance from disco and on the wings of Barry’s success as an elite songwriter for hire, the Bee Gees began work on a comeback album in 1985. By this time, the lines between New Wave, Pop and R&B were noticeably more fluid. The biggest Pop artists in the world included Michael Jackson, Madonna, Prince and Whitney Houston, each of whom found greater success in the ashes of the Bee Gees popular flame out. Additionally, older, mellower Baby Boomers gravitated to a new radio format called “Adult Contemporary,” which seemed incredibly well suited for the Gibb brothers’ ballads and mid-tempo Pop.
Agreeing that a comeback was well timed, Warner Brothers Records signed the group to a lucrative new deal. However, the Gibbs were now on the cusp of middle-age. Barry turned forty in 1986. They had grown up and, through marriage and fatherhood, necessarily, grown apart. Moreover, Barry and Robin had developed marginally independent careers but significantly different writing and recording styles. Barry was purportedly more structured and organized, preferring to have songs written and crafted before entering the studio. Robin was more spontaneous and intuitive, bringing in melodic or lyrical sketches that he liked to develop during the recording process. As always, in the middle, would be Maurice, the translator and peacemaker.
With the help of producer Arif Mardin, who had urged Barry Gibb to embrace his falsetto in 1974, the Bee Gees entered the studio again in 1986. Over the course of the next year, while revisiting old muscles and older wounds, the band produced “E.S.P.,” their first full length album in six years. Much of the world, especially the EU and the Nordic countries, received the new material with great excitement. In fact, the album’s first single, “You Win Again” reached number one on many European charts. However, even in a year dominated by synth-laden, danceable Pop music, the song never cracked the top forty in the U.S. Here and in Australia, the two countries that had once most adored the Bee Gees, audiences responded with something between mild curiosity and apathy. Loyalists and a few journalists considered the album an innovation that embraced new, digital sounds and methods. Most, however, considered it tepid and lacking in the Pop craft and vocal excitement that had defined the band.
The truth is likely somewhere in the middle. While not among their ten best albums, “E.S.P.” has rather few significant missteps -- though the serious and seriously ill-conceived rapping on “This is Your Life” is an indefensible gaffe. The album may not sound “live” and “immediate” like the band of the late 70s, but it does not sound watered down either. Sonically, it resembles the synth-leaden Funk Pop that mid-80s artists like The Pointer Sisters to Phil Collins were succeeding with. The beats are often complex but heavy-handed, making them hard to dance to unless you are Michael Jackson. With the Pop music from this era, it can be a challenge distinguishing between synth-bass, synth-piano, synth-strings, synth-horns and synth-drums. The upbeat numbers all have the feel of an excited, digital stew. In this way, however, “E.S.P.” is music of its time. What makes the album unique are the ease of the melodies, the occasionally breathtaking harmonies and the feeling that it is less a Bee Gees’ album and more a compilation of Barry songs and Robin songs recorded in the same session. “E.S.P.” has the feel of a Pop production, wherein two stars both appeared with the support of an ace producer and session players. Most of the songs sound like “Barry songs,” but some were clearly written for Robin’s voice rather than Barry’s. Above all, even thirty years later, you can almost feel the years of distance and the burden of expectation, both familial and commercial.
“E.S.P” opens strong. The title track, and opener, evokes later Roxy Music, except with Robin’s soaring voice differing from Bryan Ferry’s croon and out-dueling Barry’s Kenny Loggins imitation. The chorus is an almost sinister, harmonic whisper that helps the groove of the song set in. It’s a subtle, melodic R&B that presages boy bands like Backstreet Boys and Boys II Men. But, if any group has a fair claim on that ground, it’s the Bee Gees. The second track, “You Win Again” was the hit single from the album, reaching the top of the charts in several countries. It features typically great, sunny vocals from Barry and Robin, as they detail a relationship fraught with both love and rivalry. The melodies and harmonies, however, are not the problem. “You Win Again” is burdened by an insistent, metallic clank of a beat that mostly worked for Peter Gabriel, but only because his music was built on the rhythm. “You Win Again” is built on melody and harmony but is overwhelmed by the percussion. For what it’s worth, nearly every acoustic cover of the song is entirely lovely and hints at what the song should have been.
"Live or Die (Hold Me Like a Child)" resembles the music that Barry’s close friend, Michael Jackson, was making at the time. With its odd tempos, syncopated vocal leads and disarming falsetto, it would fit in admirably on “Bad.” And like Michael Jackson, Barry Gibb seemed to be working out some very deep and complicated father, son, brother, lover issues:
Only the strong survive the silent sacrifice
And I, I will be your heart of steel but power has a price
Ain't it time that you believe in someone
Ain't it wrong to let the years go by
Standing face to face forever live or die
Hold me like a child, I'm not alive until you do
What you hold in your hand is a miracle
And it's dead if I don't have you
When Robin takes the lead, as he does on “Giving Up the Ghost” and “The Longest Night,” his incredible voice is underserved by the material. The former track resembles the not fast enough Funk that was popularized on the “Beverly Hills Cop” soundtrack. The style does little to highlight Robin’s voice and, by the end, you might think that you are listening to a very professional 1980s Bar Mitzvah party band. “The Longest Night” does showcase Robin’s voice and the brotherly harmonies sound effortless, but the loneliness of the sentiment is not matched by the melody. You keep waiting for the tune to find itself or the chorus to rescue it, but help never comes. Given that these are two of the songs wherein Robin’s fingerprints are most evident, there is a sense that either the elder twin did not bring great material to the table or that Barry dominated the sessions. Whatever the truth of the sub-plots, “E.S.P” does not feature a great Robin song.
“This is Your Life” is very nearly the album’s Waterloo. Amid a string of self-sampling, including lyrical and melodic references to past hits, Barry throws falsetto bombs and the aforementioned verse of rap in an effort to approximate Michael Jackson. It’s almost a Bee Gees’ novelty song, but is more a collage of ideas than a song. Fortunately, the autobiographical massacre is followed by the sumptuous “Angela,” a Latin-infused ballad with long, slow verses and a simple, melodic chorus. It calls to mind “More Than a Woman,” right down to Barry’s closing statement falsetto. “Angela” was never a hit, but it is a deep cut ballad worth savoring.
Following a professional, but middling, Maurice song and a cheap reggae track that is salvaged by the strength of the singers, the band closes with “Backtafunk.” On the basis of the title, one might fear something desperate and trend-chasing. One might even skip the track altogether and leave the album early. However, it turns out to be a solid piece of 80s R&B, with genuine funk to it. It’s the sort of song that Justin Timberlake could have released twenty years later to squeals of delight. It’s the sort of song that DFA could get on dance floors with only nominal remixing. It grooves. It sounds alive. In fact, for the first time on “E.S.P.” a song actually sounds like it is being performed by a band. When they were great, which was for more than a decade, the Bee Gees were absolutely more than just brothers. They were a band.
The Bee Gees would go on to make five more albums together. While, none of those final records improved upon “E.S.P.”, 1989s “One” was feted with a VH1 special and a late career hit single. With each passing year, though, in each successive interview or appearance, the great strain of the brotherhood seemed more evident. Especially following the death of Andy Gibb, there was a sense of profound sadness, loss and distance in the band. The pains that these siblings would endure so that they could sing together seemed wholly genetic, but also extraordinary. Until the very end, they were brothers but they were not friends. Maurice died unexpectedly in 2003. Robin died after a battle with cancer in 2012. Barry is the lone, surviving brother, contemplating the family torch from his dimly lit mansion in Miami.