The Bee Gees Almost Gave Away “How Deep Is Your Love” — Then One Man Stopped Them
In 1977, the Bee Gees were sitting on a song beautiful enough to become one of the defining recordings of their career.
And for a moment, they considered letting someone else sing it.
Barry, Robin and Maurice Gibb were working in France during the period that produced several songs eventually connected with Saturday Night Fever.
Among them was a gentle ballad built around a warm keyboard progression.
“How Deep Is Your Love.”
It sounded very different from the songs that would soon make the Bee Gees kings of the disco era.
There was no pounding dance beat.
No urgency of “Stayin’ Alive.”
Instead, the song moved slowly, carried by Barry Gibb’s soft lead vocal and the extraordinary harmonies the three brothers had spent a lifetime developing together.
But the Bee Gees had never been afraid to give great songs to other singers.
And there was discussion about having Yvonne Elliman record “How Deep Is Your Love.”
Elliman already had a powerful voice and was connected to the same musical circle through manager and producer Robert Stigwood.
Then Stigwood heard the song.
According to Barry Gibb, his reaction was essentially immediate:
The Bee Gees should keep it.
He believed the song was simply too good for them to give away.
So Barry, Robin and Maurice recorded it themselves.
The early version took shape in France, while the finished recording was developed further at Criteria Studios in Miami. Keyboard player Blue Weaver helped shape the electric piano sound that became one of the recording’s most recognizable features.
But the real magic came from the voices.
Barry sang the lead while Robin and Maurice surrounded him with harmonies so smooth that the three voices often seemed to become a single instrument.
Released in 1977, “How Deep Is Your Love” reached No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and stayed there for three weeks.
Even more remarkably, it became the beginning of an extraordinary run of consecutive American No. 1 singles for the Bee Gees.
And Yvonne Elliman?
She did not leave the Saturday Night Fever story empty-handed.
The Bee Gees gave her another song they had written, “If I Can’t Have You.”
Her recording also reached No. 1.
So one songwriting period produced two chart-topping hits — one the Bee Gees kept, and one they gave away.
Decades later, it is difficult to imagine “How Deep Is Your Love” belonging to anyone other than Barry, Robin and Maurice.
Perhaps Robert Stigwood understood something the brothers themselves had not fully realized yet.
They had not simply written another good song.
They had written one that needed their voices.
And sometimes the difference between giving away a hit and creating a classic comes down to one person saying:
Keep this one.
When an Undefeated Cage Fighter Threatens His Girlfriend's Mother, His Coach Suddenly Recognizes Her
I spent fifteen years teaching Marines how to fight, and I had one rule I never broke: never put your hands on a civilian unless you have no other choice. Then my daughter landed in the ER with a concussion and bruised ribs, and her boyfriend told everyone she "fell down the stairs." I drove straight to his fight gym. He laughed in my face. Every man in that room thought he was looking at a gray-haired mom in a carpenter's jacket. They were very wrong.
PART 1: She Fell Down The Stairs
His name was Colt Lusk. I didn't like him from the very first handshake.
Too confident. Too loud. The kind of young man who thinks scaring people is the same thing as being strong.
My daughter, Lainey, had been dating him for five months. She was twenty-three, a nursing student at the community college, with my stubborn chin and her late father's kind eyes. Colt was twenty-six. He was a cage fighter. Eight wins, no losses. In our little beach town of Morehead City, North Carolina, people treated him like a movie star.
His uncle, Boyd Lusk, owned the gym where he trained. He also owned the biggest car dealership in the county, half the buildings on Main Street, and the sheriff's last three election campaigns.
Colt knew all of that. That's why he walked around like nothing could ever touch him.
I started noticing the changes in Lainey in the spring.
She wore long sleeves on hot days. She stopped laughing the way she used to. She jumped when her phone buzzed. She canceled Sunday dinner with me three weeks in a row.
Then one night in April, she came over to help me in my woodshop. I build kitchen cabinets for a living now. When she reached up to grab a box of screws, her sleeve slid back.
There were bruises on her upper arm. Four of them, in a row. Shaped like fingers.
Something inside me went very cold and very quiet.
"Lainey," I said. "Who did that?"
"Nobody, Mom. I bumped into a door."
The mother in me wanted to drive to Colt's apartment that same night.
But the Marine in me knew something else. Anger without information gets people hurt. So I waited. I watched. And I started asking quiet questions around town.
I found out Colt's last girlfriend had moved to Ohio in the middle of the school year, without telling anybody why. I found out the girlfriend before that had filed a complaint with the sheriff's office two years ago. The complaint had disappeared.
A week later, Lainey showed up at my door at midnight, crying so hard she could barely talk.
"Mom, please don't do anything," she begged. "Please."
I held her by the shoulders. "What happened, baby?"
She shook her head. "He said if I ever leave him, he'll make my life hell. He said his uncle owns this town. He said nobody can protect me. Not even you."
I pulled her against my chest. "I'll handle it."
She grabbed my shirt with both fists. "Mom, no. You don't understand these people."
I understood men like Colt Lusk much better than she knew.
Two weeks later, the phone call I had been dreading finally came. It was my sister, who works at the hospital.
"Sloane, Lainey's in the ER," she said. Her voice was shaking. "She has a concussion. Two bruised ribs. And a cut over her eye."
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. "What happened?"
"She's telling everybody she fell down the stairs at his apartment," my sister said quietly. "Sloane, his apartment is on the ground floor."
I should have driven to the hospital.
Instead, I turned the truck around and drove to the gym.
The Lusk Combat Club smelled like sweat, bleach, and old leather. Heavy bags swung from steel chains. Loud music thumped from the speakers. And there was Colt, by the fighting cage, laughing with his coach and three of his friends.
He saw me walk in. His grin got wider.
"Well, well. Mommy came to visit."
His coach looked me over. A gray ponytail. Paint-stained carpenter's jacket. Work boots. Fifty-two years old, with some extra weight around the middle I didn't have twenty years ago.
He laughed. "What are you gonna do, Grandma? Give us a lecture?"
I stopped about six feet from Colt.
"You put your hands on my daughter," I said.
Colt smirked. "Your daughter's clumsy."
Then he took a step closer. "She said her mom used to be some kind of soldier. She said you'd protect her. So I showed her what that's worth."
His friends started to move. One to my left. Two behind me. The coach walked over and stood in front of the door.
"Here's how this goes, lady," the coach said. "You turn around and walk out of here. Or you leave on a stretcher."
I smiled. Not because anything was funny. Because for fifteen years, I watched cocky young Marines make the exact same mistake. They saw gray hair. They saw a few extra pounds. They never saw the experience.
"For fifteen years, I was a hand-to-hand combat instructor for the United States Marine Corps," I said quietly. "I trained Marines. I trained the men who train Marines."
One of Colt's friends stopped smiling. Colt laughed anyway.
But behind him, the coach by the door suddenly went very still. He was staring at me. At my face.
He had just recognized me.
