Bill Withers “‘Bout Love”
He worked in the Navy as an engineer. Later he did some construction work. One day, he had a recording contract. Soon, he’d have hit songs and albums. He wrote everything. He managed himself. He owned his publishing. He was a star. He made a lot of money. When he stopped enjoying it, he just retired. He kept busy. He had his family. He didn’t fuss.
Bill Withers didn’t start recording music until he was thirty. He retired from music at forty seven, but, really, was done by forty. His active career was only eight years. In between -- in that less-than-a-decade -- he recorded enough hits to fill an earnest “Greatest Hits.” As an unassuming late bloomer, he was like Kurt Warner, who went from undrafted grocery store clerk and past prime rookie to Super Bowl quarterback in a year. As the rare star who retired near his peak, he was like tennis legend Bjorn Borg. And as an artist, he was like German designer Dieter Rams, who religiously ascribed to the “Less, but Better” design ethos.
He wrote concise songs about simple ideas, added uncomplicated chord progressions, let his band do their jobs. He delivered his vocals with all of the honesty and none of the flash of his contemporary, Al Green. Bill Withers simply never wasted a note.
By 1978, though, Withers was forty and almost already done with it all. R&B music was increasingly produced and marketed with a disco dysmorphia that was sustained by the “blaxperts” (Withers’ term, not mine) at record labels who claimed to know what music people really wanted. Simultaneously, though, he had enough cache to make one final record on his own terms. “‘’Bout Love,” would be his penultimate release, formally the beginning of a seven year hiatus preceding one, final, forgettable album.
If “‘Bout Love” is an artist packing up his desk for retirement, he does it with the tidiness and care with which Bill Withers did everything. As the title suggests, nearly every song on the album is explicitly about Love. Not “love,” the metaphor. “Love” the real thing. Four of the songs actually have the word “love” in the title. And, at only eight songs and less than forty minutes, Withers was going not going to belabor the farewell.
Almost every Bill Withers song is constructed on a simple idea, that is described in simple verse or refrains, and placed on top of an equally simple chord progression. “Lean On Me” and “Ain’t No Sunshine” are, perhaps, the more popular examples of this style. The difference between a good Bill Withers’ song and a great one generally depends on the precision of the chorus (“Lean on Me”) or the hook of the refrain (“Lovely Day”). However, nearly every Withers’ song is a good Withers’ song because of his steadfast devotion to his construction style. The man who was once, and always, a builder at heart, preferred simple design and construction.
“‘Bout Love” is no exception from his rule. With Withers’ sturdy construction as the foundation, he collaborated with famed jazz accompanist Paul Smith to embellish and play. And, although there are no hits here and no songs that would be remembered in his canon, there is not a single miss, either. Nearly every song introduces the lyrical idea (normally about love of partner, love of brothers and sisters and love of love itself) early on and then telegraphs the economical bass and melody lines. Throughout the songs, Withers’ and Smith may deftly add a layer of vocals, strings or horns to the foundation. They then peel back each layer, revealing the original song and its elegant studs.
The most familiar versions of this device are on “All Because of You” and the late album “love trio,” which includes "Look To Each Other For Love,” “Love” and “Love Is” (those are the actual titles). All of those songs are excellent, mid-tempo, R&B pop songs that only lack in that they do not have a readymade Pop chorus.
The outliers here, and, to be clear, Withers never strays too far, are “You Got The Stuff” and “Memories Are That Way.” The former is a late 70s, almost cosmic Funk song, occupying a space between P-Funk and (yes) LCD Soundsystem. The five minute outro, complete with WIthers’ scatting, horns, cowbell and synth popcorn, is a revelation. Meanwhile, “Memories Are That Way” is a plaintive farewell. He nurses the notes and carries them as though he is not only considering his words but feeling some very specific memory. Like many Withers’ songs, it contains a simplicity worthy of Hemingway:
Memories tell you that
All the best times
In your lifetime
Are the times of yesteryear
It’s such an incredibly sad suggestion. And you briefly believe that Withers’ believes it. But, then the song slowly disappears. The album ends. And Bill Withers is done with the memories. Too much fuss.