Milestones: The Heat Is On by The Isley Brothers

If the Heat is indeed on, it remains a steady burn—one that has warmed five decades and shows no sign of dimming.

In those early days, O’Kelly, Rudolph, Ronald, and their younger brother Vernon shaped tight vocal blends that owed as much to jubilee quartets as to the doo-wop harmonies drifting across Ohio’s airwaves. Vernon’s untimely passing might have ended most high-school groups, yet the surviving brothers pressed on, earning a reputation for show-stopping finales where audiences joined in mid-song call-and-response—a dynamic later immortalized on “Shout.” That single’s predatory organ stabs and hand-clap breaks previewed how the Isleys could make holiness and sensual release feel like neighboring rooms. A stint in Detroit’s hit factory yielded “This Old Heart of Mine,” but the factory model soon felt confining; autonomy beckoned. By the time the brothers reactivated their T-Neck label and issued “It’s Your Thing,” they had redefined not just their career arc but the very notion of who could own the means of groove production.

That taste of self-determination set a precedent. When the 1970s arrived, the original trio expanded into a six-piece that blended bloodline intuition with fresh instrumental vitality. Ronald remained the emotional center, his tenor capable of soft caress or declarative fire; Rudolph and O’Kelly deepened each chorus with grainy baritone shading. Their kid brothers brought new colors: Ernie on drums and guitar—adept at both steady pulse and sky-tilting solo—plus Marvin on bass, whose thick, rubbery lines grounded even the loosest jams. Brother-in-law Chris Jasper added gospel-trained piano touch and a fascination with analog synthesis. For The Heat Is On, they invited technologists Malcolm Cecil and Robert Margouleff to translate Jasper’s keyboard sketches into tactile layers of ARP and Moog, the same duo whose programmable tones had become studio lore. Sessions unfolded at Kendun Recorders in California with the family writing, arranging, and producing every note. The result feels precisely balanced: drums and bass breathe like a stage performance, while synth overtones stretch the stereo field without nudging the music into gadget territory.

Side one’s curtain-raiser, “Fight the Power,” wastes no time. A crisp hi-hat count cues Marvin’s bass to mirror Ernie’s clipped guitar riff, each note landing with percussive emphasis. Jasper’s clavinet darts between the beats, thick enough to suggest a horn line yet spare enough to let Ronald’s voice ride high. The lyric insists that nameless “powers that be” cannot dictate a person’s vision or labor, an ode to self-governance that echoes the band’s own break from assembly-line songwriting. Rather than preach, Ronald phrases each sentence like conversation overheard on a city stoop, steady and matter-of-fact. That accessibility gave the song a second life a generation later, when a hip-hop collective repurposed its hook as a rallying cry, proof that the Isleys’ mix of defiance and danceability could outlast changing tempos. The record’s genius lies in showing resistance as something ordinary people can move to—no soapbox required, just a groove sturdy enough to carry shared conviction.

With momentum secured, the title track follows and stretches the band’s funk vocabulary. The drums lock into a mid-tempo strut while the bass picks pockets of empty space, giving every thump emphatic weight. Jasper leans on electric piano clusters that drip rather than clang, and subtle flanger effects nudge the harmonic overtones forward. Approximately halfway through, Ernie pivots from rhythm to lead, launching a guitar solo whose phrasing balances clean sustain with a kiss of feedback. Each bend feels conversational, never a flurry for show, but the quick flourishes betray hours spent studying the feedback sculpting of a certain Seattle-born mentor. Ronald answers not with a melisma but with clipped exhortations, treating voice like a brass section. The interplay demonstrates the Isleys’ internal checks. Groove first, embellishment second, message upheld through structure rather than verbal amplification. The tune winds down on repeated figures, reinforcing the family’s capacity to engineer tension without disrupting flow.

The album’s second half shifts tone without sacrificing unity. “For the Love of You” opens on gently arpeggiated acoustic guitar, the nylon strings recorded so intimately that fret squeaks feel like breathing. Jasper cushions the progression with sustained Moog notes, their rounded envelopes blurring attack edges into velvet. Over that cushion, Ronald lingers on vowels, giving ordinary words elongated gravity; he makes each line sound simultaneously personal and universal, as though whispering directly to a partner while speaking for anyone lost inside affection. Bass and brushed cymbals hover behind the beat, encouraging the listener to slow pulse and exhale. The song would later become a template for nocturnal R&B programming, but its distinguishing feature remains conversational intimacy—technology employed not to dazzle but to keep every sonic element glowing at human body temperature.

“Sensuality” retains the low light yet introduces richer harmonic layering. Ronald’s lead shares space with muted responses from the older brothers, their background stacks mixed barely above a whisper, suggesting overheard dialogue rather than the formal chorus. Jasper toggles between clavinet flicker and sine-wave synth that hums like distant organ pipes, lending a spiritual undertone to an overtly romantic lyric. Ernie declines another spotlight solo, choosing restrained fills that reference his gospel upbringing—double-stop chords voiced high on the neck, each allowed to resonate and fade. The performance showcases how the Isleys seamlessly blend secular and sacred elements without sermonizing; intimacy becomes a dimension of devotion rather than its antithesis. That emotional overlap continues on “Make Me Say It Again Girl,” which closes the side in an unhurried seven-minute sprawl. Hi-hat splashes and tambourine clinks form a loose lattice over which Ronald pleads for affirmation. Synth strings float above, tape-saturated enough to feel tactile, while Marvin’s bass dials groove so soft it approaches heartbeat. Layered Fender Rhodes comping and light guitar harmonics give the arrangement a suspended-animation quality: time stretches, lines repeat, desire circles back on itself until the fade leaves only memory. Sampling generations gravitated toward this texture because it already sounded like a loop; the Isleys had, in effect, built future production tools into analog tape.

Half a century later, The Heat Is On remains a working model for how autonomy, craft, and evolution can coexist. Ronald Isley’s tenor, still touring stages well into his eighth decade, reminds listeners that expressive subtlety can convey magnitude without volume wars. Ernie’s guitar vocabulary—part Hendrix-inspired sustain, part Curtis Mayfield-style melodic patience—continues to influence players who straddle rock and soul but seldom receive mass-market acknowledgment. Chris Jasper, who passed away earlier this year, leaves behind a catalog that proves classical training and funk instinct are not opposing forces; his passing underscores the importance of each contributor’s role in shaping the collective sound. Younger artists draw inspiration from bass lines, lyric fragments, or entire harmonic sequences in these tracks, yet the originals never feel eclipsed because their architecture resists obsolescence. Everything rests on the family’s core principle: respect the song, let every instrument speak its piece, and never forget that listeners dance and reflect in the same breath. If the Heat is indeed on, it remains a steady burn—one that has warmed five decades and shows no sign of dimming.

Masterpiece (★★★★★)