The Beat goes on

By Kath Hansen and Michael McCall

Live Reviews

Most people credit the Bee Gees with inventing disco music. This may be true, but before there was there was KC and the Sunshine Band. Led by Harry “KC” Casey, the group released an unstoppable string of hits in the mid-’70s; they had tons of imitators and spawned a genre of dance music that still draws from their endless well of lyrical repetition, funky beats and silly outfits. Madonna, for one, probably listened to a lot of KC and the Sunshine Band.

With the death of disco, by the early ’80s KC and the Sunshine Band were pretty much washed up. After he spent most of the decade recovering from a bad car wreck, a worse drug problem, and the death of his father, KC detected the beginnings of a ’70s revival in 1989 and began touring again. This is ultimately what brought him to the Music City Mix Factory’s Zoo a couple of weeks ago. He was there in part to make a comeback with new material—but he was also cashing in on the ’70s revival currently raging across dance floors nationwide.

The Zoo was packed with people mostly in their early 20s, many of whom looked too young to be truly enjoying ’70s nostalgia. But the great thing about a cultural revival is that you didn’t have to be there the first time around to participate in the current wave. If you were too young to remember Bicentennial quarters and Farrah Fawcett posters, that’s OK—you can still go down to Retro Pieces, buy some pink satin pants, a polyester print shirt and some platforms.

As I observed the crowd around me, I couldn’t help wondering where the group’s roadies and techs were. I kept expecting some longhaired guys to come out and test instruments, tape things to the floor, and yell “Check, check” into the microphone. As it turned out, there was no need for guitars and drums, because THERE WAS NO BAND!

KC and the Sunshine Band turned out to be just KC and two energetic female backup singers, dancing aerobically and warbling into wireless mics to crappy sounding backing tapes. Holy Bait and Switch! I thought that, after the first song, I’d see a mass exodus to the ticket booth for refunds aplenty, but nobody left. People seemed content to keep on dancing. It seemed as though the need for some sort of time tunnel back to the ’70s outweighed the need for purism.

But I felt misled—if the sign says “KC and the Sunshine Band,” there should be a band. They bill themselves as such at all their dates, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only person who felt suckered.

Despite the unpleasant feeling of being trapped at a Japanese Amway convention, it was damn near impossible to keep from shaking your booty. The groove in songs like “That’s the Way I Like It” and “Keep It Comin’ Love” were still amazingly fresh—which explains why there was such a large crowd for a band most people had probably thought didn’t exist anymore. But poor KC. His 44-year-old booty was all shook out; he was out of breath after even the most anemic dance moves. He still had a little bit of that distinctive, nasally white-boy voice left, though, and he did use it (although, after all the other trickery going on, I was surprised he wasn’t lip-synching).

KC and his backup singers “played” all their hits, from “Get Down Tonight” to “I’m Your Boogie Man” to the dreamy disco ballads “Are You Ready” and “Please Don’t Go.” Sung over bad karaoke tapes, the songs all suffered like a plant in need of water, but they still held up heroically to such abuse—it’s tough to kill a good dance song.

The highlight of the show was just plain surreal. Many people in the audience must have been fans of the ’70s TV dance show Dance Fever, because when KC announced that the show’s hosts, Denny Terrio and Motion, were going to join him onstage, the crowd erupted into screams of delight. Maybe this crowd wasn’t so young, after all.

The disappointment at not seeing a real Sunshine Band playing KC’s songs the way they were meant to be played—loud, funky, and with a living horn section—was pretty much canceled out by the overwhelming feeling of carefree fun and sexual recklessness his songs induced. Whether people were there for a glittery flashback or for a peek inside the doorway of disco, KC proved that recycling isn’t just for garbage, and that some cheese ages particularly well.

As means of an introduction, Guy Clark looked across the Bluebird Cafe stage at a couple of old friends and said, “The three of us haven’t been in one place standing up in 20 years.” Townes Van Zandt’s gaunt, lanky frame was folded into in an upright wooden chair between Clark and a guitar-toting, harmonica-wearing Steve Earle. As the laughter and applause started to die, Van Zandt leaned into the mic and added, “I’m not standing,” then beamed an ornery grin.