Enter the Disco Band

Disco is the ultimate social dance experience. So say its devotees. The less enchanted flee its aural and visual din as from Chinese water torture. No matter. In thousands of mirrored, strobe-lighted discotheques around the U.S., the beautiful people, and some not so beautiful, dance the night and morning away to a loud, seamless stream of glossily recorded rhythm-and-blues songs. Disco has become not only an energetic way to play the mating game but also one of the hottest subindustries in the popular-entertainment field. In terms of the hit singles that can now be made, the stereo and quad equipment that can be peddled to the club owners, and the crowds that can be drawn in at $5 or more a head, disco is a multimillion-dollar business.

The latest trend in disco will not necessarily change all that, but it is still something of a shocker. Disco is going live-o. At the start, the focal point-of the average discotheque was that man in the glass booth--the one with the earphones on, the head bobbing rhythmically, the hands leaping adroitly from twin turntables to control sequencers. He was, and still is, the disc jockey, busily programming your dancing pleasure. Did the little lady want to dance the Hustle or the Muscle? Ol' Deejay had a ditty for every kitty and her boogying big daddy as well. One reason for the rise of the deejay was that he came much cheaper than the rock and rhythm-and-blues bands. Today there are so many deejays spinning vinyl that discotheque owners, to attract audiences, are starting to turn to the novelty of live groups. Says John Sassak, manager of the Poison Apple outside Detroit: "The attraction of discos now has to go beyond just music because every other guy has the same records we do."

Voil`a, the disco band. No disco band works harder or more regularly than an eleven-man combo from Philadelphia called the Trammps. Six years ago, when the vagabond image seemed a good idea, the members of the group wore dungarees and dubbed themselves the Tramps. Later, when they decided to give their act some class, they added the second m to their name and a wardrobe worth $70,000. A favored outfit these days is a bright orange tuxedo with purple trim and flowered lapels.

The music of the Trammps is as snazzily tailored. The intense pulsating play of the drums lights the choreographic fire. The distinctive sound of the group is supplied by its jazzy, hard-chugging trumpet and saxophone, soaring guitar solos and sweet, soulful male vocals. "If we can't get you on your feet, we give up," says Singer-Drummer Earl Young, 37, leader and founder of the group. Such is the popularity of the Trammps that they now perform 340 gigs a year. With added income from their hit records--their Atlantic album Where the Happy People Go (to the discos, natch) has been on the bestselling charts for 3 1/2 months--the group grosses $750,000 a year.

Honking Horns. Though hardly an overnight sensation (they grew out of a mildly successful 1960s outfit called the Volcanos), the Trammps are the latest example of what has come to be known on records as the Philadelphia sound. That music today dominates the rhythm-and-blues field much the way Motown did in the 1960s. The Philadelphia sound, notable for its honking horns and syrupy strings, is most familiar perhaps from the hits of the O'Jays, Billy Paul and Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes. All of these performers record for the mini-giant of the city's musical scene, Philadelphia International Records. When Drummer Young settled down after his first big job, touring Europe in 1967-68 with Stevie Wonder, it was as a member of Philadelphia International's stable of studio musicians.

Young still sits in on recording sessions for other groups, brotherly love and the fees for a sideman being what they are ($40 an hour). But much of his time is spent producing songs for the Trammps, along with two former Volcanos, Norman Harris, 28, and Ronald Baker, 35. It was Baker who wrote That's Where the Happy People Go, the group's biggest hit. They are a congenial trio who have their eyes ever on the latest trend. The Trammps feature the new disco dances like the Abbey (danced in a crouch) and the Sly (mostly a series of jumps, splits and kickouts) and teach them to their audiences. Says Young: "We sort of look at ourselves as the Johnny Appleseeds of disco."

Not, says Baker, that they are all that zealous about it: "It's not gonna last forever. Right now everybody's talking about the Philly sound. Six months from now, it could be the Cleveland sound." As far as the people in Philly are concerned, however, the Trammps' identification with disco is complete. In addition to their current success as a live act, they were one of the lucky groups earlier on to have their records picked up by discotheques. "When they started the disco thing, we were just sitting there waiting for it," says Harris. And they knew what to do when it was dropped in their laps.

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