‘Earth, Wind & Fire (To Be Celestial vs. That’s the Weight of the World)’ Review: From Cosmic Funk to Pop Perfection

I have the impression—debatable, but not entirely unlikely—that my interest in Black music in all its forms goes back to a childhood encounter with September by Earth, Wind & Fire. I first heard it on a UNICEF fundraising album released in 1979, which was quite popular at the time. I must have been around ten. I knew nothing about the band, their origins, or the broader history of music—information didn’t exactly flow freely back then—but the song was undeniable: festive, direct, impossible to resist. That initial spark eventually led me down a deeper path into soul and R&B, a journey I spent years exploring—something that wasn’t particularly common where I grew up. But it wasn’t a journey centered specifically on the band itself, whose presence gradually faded for me, eventually becoming one of those legacy acts touring their greatest hits. It wasn’t until the era of illegal downloads, and later platforms like Spotify, that I was able to really dive into their catalog and history.

For Questlove, the story of Earth, Wind & Fire is one of many musical obsessions, and the subject of this exhaustive, journalistic, music-driven documentary—much like his previous film on Sly Stone (Sly Lives!), both of which followed the success of his acclaimed archival documentary Summer of Soul. Questlove is, first and foremost, a musician, and it shows. Without abandoning the personal and biographical aspects of his subjects, he digs into the songs themselves—their composition, arrangements, even their mixes—in an effort to understand what makes them work, what turns them into hits. At the same time, he brings a deep understanding of rock history—particularly its African American dimension—into the mix, shaping the film into something like a masterclass that moves fluidly between the personal and the social, the musical and the contextual.

What’s key is that his fascination never turns him into a blind devotee. Beyond his obvious admiration for EWF’s music, he maintains enough distance to be critical—not just of certain phases of the band’s evolution, but also of the personality and leadership of Maurice White. The documentary finds a way to both celebrate his genius—his ability to bring together multiple musical subgenres into one ambitious, multifaceted project—and to scrutinize his behavior, particularly in his relationships with his wife, his children, and the other band members, many of whom were often sidelined.

The evolution of Earth, Wind & Fire—from an experimental, jazz-inflected, funk-psychedelic band in the early ’70s to the hit-making machine they became in the latter half of the decade—is traced here in rich detail, and it’s a pleasure to watch, understand, and unpack. With the help of former band members and a handful of commentators—including Stevie Wonder, Flea, and even Barack Obama and Michelle Obama—Questlove narrates while also letting us hear and see how the band evolved, both musically and onstage. The journey runs from extended, almost mystical jam sessions—an essential element of EWF’s identity and a lifelong obsession for White—to the tighter, dance-driven disco tracks like Boogie Wonderland and Fantasy.

The result is an extraordinary documentary, whether you only know a couple of their songs from classic hits radio—likely one of the above, or Shining Star—or you’ve followed that entire arc from early ’70s psychedelic funk through their less successful mid-’80s attempts at a synth-driven R&B comeback. It’s also a chance to take in more than a decade of shifts, trends, and transformations in Black music through the lens of a band—and a creator, as brilliant as he was complicated—who still doesn’t get quite the recognition they deserve.