Disco could be a heavy, unctuous perfume. There were reasons people hated it, and they weren’t all homophobic or racist. On the chart in 1977 was La Belle Epoque’s version of the German/Spanish 60s hit Black Is Black. Originally it had been a hit for another act with a tempting European name, Los Bravos. This 1966 version had been a thing of slab density, a three-note organ riff with a Charlie Watts clone’s monotone drumming keeping it simple as can be, and an unreal human voice, half-crow, telling the world “black is black, I want my baby back.” It sounded like the Stones fed through a telex precursor of Google Translate. It had been perfect – pop as monolithic simplicity. La Belle Epoque’s 1977 version added every imaginable bauble, it went “whooooo!!” on the beat. Musicians who longed to be in James Last’s orchestra played with funkless fingers behind girls who cooed unconvincing come-ons. This version of Black Is Black was a fug, like the ground floor of a department store, a dozen different perfumes hitting you at the same time, far too busy, forced fun, nauseating.
The Bee Gees’ Night Fever was not that dense, liquid perfume that made you feel slightly sick. This was not the sound of too much air freshener. This was air itself. Night-time air. The city. The song, taken from the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever, also transmitted a feeling of nervousness; there was sweetness and there was fear.
