Up, Up and Away: Inside The 5th Dimension’s Grit, Glory, and Heartbreak

Mia Reynolds, 2/5/2026LaMonte McLemore, a core member of The 5th Dimension, has passed away, leaving behind a legacy woven through music, photography, and cultural impact. From chart-topping hits to personal connections, this tribute captures his vibrant life—a journey of artistry and resilience that inspired generations.

Was it ever possible to resist humming “Up, Up and Away” on a sun-blinded morning or let “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” soundtrack the close of an unruly summer party? That’s McLemore’s handiwork—his deep bass underpinned The 5th Dimension’s harmonies, a steady anchor beneath all the psychedelic velvet and bubbling optimism. In the late 60s and early 70s, when the world spun faster and everyone seemed to be reaching for new frontiers (sometimes literally), you’d find The 5th Dimension’s sound—hopeful, soulful, and distinctly lush—running wild on the airwaves.

Picture 1960s America for a moment. Cigarette smoke curling through smoky clubs, protests rumbling just outside city limits, and radio stations delivering little windows of escape. In stepped The 5th Dimension: five voices blending together not quite like anything that came before. There’s that smooth swirl—pop, soul, a touch of what folks then called “flower power.” They made even intricate harmonies feel like a front porch singalong. No small feat.

Truth is, McLemore was much more than just a music man. Raised in St. Louis, he carried the pride and pain of mid-century Black America—sometimes in his voice, sometimes in his eyes. Before any record deals or satin suits, he served in the Navy, worked as an aerial photographer, and (here’s a surprise for anyone who thinks artists only have one lane) spent time in the Los Angeles Dodgers’ farm system, one of the first African Americans to play there. He chased different dreams before landing on stage, and maybe that’s why he understood so instinctively the rhythm of possibility—on a baseball diamond, in a darkroom, behind a lens, or center stage with the band.

And speaking of the lens: McLemore took shots that captured not just faces, but moments of triumph, vulnerability, and ambition—his photos found their way into Jet magazine, immortalizing everyone from sports icons to everyday hopefuls. Imagine juggling all these lives and never losing your sense of humor.

The band’s beginnings were as unglamorous as a drafty dressing room. Opening for Ray Charles under the name The Hi-Fi’s (dig that old-school flavor), then rebranding as The Versatiles, it wasn’t until a record exec gave the nudge—“get with the times”—that The 5th Dimension was born. Sometimes you need a nudge. Sometimes a full-on push.

When “Go Where You Wanna Go” cracked the charts, it was like a door creaked open. But it was the Jimmy Webb-penned “Up, Up and Away” that sent them—not to put too fine a point on it—soaring. Grammy after Grammy followed, including Record of the Year, and suddenly venues that once ignored their calls couldn’t book them fast enough. By the time “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” sat on top of the Billboard charts for six straight weeks in 1969, even the most reluctant listeners couldn’t help but tap a foot.

The parade of hits that followed—“Wedding Bell Blues,” “Stoned Soul Picnic,” “Sweet Blindness,” “One Less Bell to Answer”—each layered the airwaves with a strange and irresistible mix: sophisticated pop tinged with dignity, optimism, and just enough groove. But their real trick? Sneaking orchestral grandeur into American living rooms at a time when such sounds weren’t so common for Black artists. When the State Department tapped The 5th Dimension to tour behind the Iron Curtain in 1973, it was more than music—it was cultural diplomacy with soul.

Away from the stage, McLemore was generous, and not just with his voice. Marilyn McCoo remembered how he opened his photography studio to the group before the hits rolled in. Billy Davis Jr. called him a childhood friend—one of those connections that never really fades, no matter how big the stage lights get. Florence LaRue’s words ring especially real: “We were more like brother and sister than singing partners… didn’t realize how deep my love ran for Lamonte until he was gone.” So much said in so few words.

And while some retired, McLemore kept performing, traveling with different 5th Dimension lineups until 2006—and always, that creative itch needed scratching. In 2014, he laid it all out in his autobiography, “From Hobo Flats to The 5th Dimension: A Life Fulfilled in Baseball, Photography, and Music.” Maybe that’s the kind of title only someone who’s lived three lifetimes earns.

Recognition continued to trickle in, almost as if time itself was catching up. Inductions into the Grammy Hall of Fame, the Hollywood Walk of Fame star back in ‘91, and—more recently—2021’s “Summer of Soul” documentary helped shine a fresh light on their historic role. The 5th Dimension’s music, dreamy yet determined, remains a soundtrack for anyone needing a small reminder that endurance and joy can coexist.

McLemore is survived by his wife of three decades, Mieko, his children Ciara and Darin, his sister Joan, and grandchildren—whole branches of a family tree that keeps on growing. It’s tempting, especially in our stat-loving, timeline-obsessed era of 2025, to measure his legacy in numbers or milestones. But a life like his? It stretches wider than that—woven through every harmony, every sepia-toned photograph, every memory shared by those who knew him on stage and off.

The 5th Dimension didn’t just invite listeners to go where they wanted to go. McLemore picked up the camera and microphone and led the way—showing, if not insisting, that it’s possible to make the world a little brighter, lighter, somehow more possible, one rich note and one perfectly timed shutter click at a time.

Ninety years—impossible to confine a life like LaMonte McLemore’s to a tidy timeline or a row of trophies on a shelf. The man wore so many hats, one could’ve sworn he ran his own vintage boutique. Glancing back now, with the news that McLemore peacefully left us in Las Vegas, his family nearby, there’s the unmistakable urge to pause—maybe even catch a breath—remembering not just the voice, but the soul who helped float American pop music above the clouds. “He died of natural causes following a stroke,” the family shared, but that only tells part of the story.Was it ever possible to resist humming “Up, Up and Away” on a sun-blinded morning or let “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” soundtrack the close of an unruly summer party? That’s McLemore’s handiwork—his deep bass underpinned The 5th Dimension’s harmonies, a steady anchor beneath all the psychedelic velvet and bubbling optimism. In the late 60s and early 70s, when the world spun faster and everyone seemed to be reaching for new frontiers (sometimes literally), you’d find The 5th Dimension’s sound—hopeful, soulful, and distinctly lush—running wild on the airwaves.Picture 1960s America for a moment. Cigarette smoke curling through smoky clubs, protests rumbling just outside city limits, and radio stations delivering little windows of escape. In stepped The 5th Dimension: five voices blending together not quite like anything that came before. There’s that smooth swirl—pop, soul, a touch of what folks then called “flower power.” They made even intricate harmonies feel like a front porch singalong. No small feat.Truth is, McLemore was much more than just a music man. Raised in St. Louis, he carried the pride and pain of mid-century Black America—sometimes in his voice, sometimes in his eyes. Before any record deals or satin suits, he served in the Navy, worked as an aerial photographer, and (here’s a surprise for anyone who thinks artists only have one lane) spent time in the Los Angeles Dodgers’ farm system, one of the first African Americans to play there. He chased different dreams before landing on stage, and maybe that’s why he understood so instinctively the rhythm of possibility—on a baseball diamond, in a darkroom, behind a lens, or center stage with the band.And speaking of the lens: McLemore took shots that captured not just faces, but moments of triumph, vulnerability, and ambition—his photos found their way into Jet magazine, immortalizing everyone from sports icons to everyday hopefuls. Imagine juggling all these lives and never losing your sense of humor.The band’s beginnings were as unglamorous as a drafty dressing room. Opening for Ray Charles under the name The Hi-Fi’s (dig that old-school flavor), then rebranding as The Versatiles, it wasn’t until a record exec gave the nudge—“get with the times”—that The 5th Dimension was born. Sometimes you need a nudge. Sometimes a full-on push.When “Go Where You Wanna Go” cracked the charts, it was like a door creaked open. But it was the Jimmy Webb-penned “Up, Up and Away” that sent them—not to put too fine a point on it—soaring. Grammy after Grammy followed, including Record of the Year, and suddenly venues that once ignored their calls couldn’t book them fast enough. By the time “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” sat on top of the Billboard charts for six straight weeks in 1969, even the most reluctant listeners couldn’t help but tap a foot.The parade of hits that followed—“Wedding Bell Blues,” “Stoned Soul Picnic,” “Sweet Blindness,” “One Less Bell to Answer”—each layered the airwaves with a strange and irresistible mix: sophisticated pop tinged with dignity, optimism, and just enough groove. But their real trick? Sneaking orchestral grandeur into American living rooms at a time when such sounds weren’t so common for Black artists. When the State Department tapped The 5th Dimension to tour behind the Iron Curtain in 1973, it was more than music—it was cultural diplomacy with soul.Away from the stage, McLemore was generous, and not just with his voice. Marilyn McCoo remembered how he opened his photography studio to the group before the hits rolled in. Billy Davis Jr. called him a childhood friend—one of those connections that never really fades, no matter how big the stage lights get. Florence LaRue’s words ring especially real: “We were more like brother and sister than singing partners… didn’t realize how deep my love ran for Lamonte until he was gone.” So much said in so few words.And while some retired, McLemore kept performing, traveling with different 5th Dimension lineups until 2006—and always, that creative itch needed scratching. In 2014, he laid it all out in his autobiography, “From Hobo Flats to The 5th Dimension: A Life Fulfilled in Baseball, Photography, and Music.” Maybe that’s the kind of title only someone who’s lived three lifetimes earns.Recognition continued to trickle in, almost as if time itself was catching up. Inductions into the Grammy Hall of Fame, the Hollywood Walk of Fame star back in ‘91, and—more recently—2021’s “Summer of Soul” documentary helped shine a fresh light on their historic role. The 5th Dimension’s music, dreamy yet determined, remains a soundtrack for anyone needing a small reminder that endurance and joy can coexist.McLemore is survived by his wife of three decades, Mieko, his children Ciara and Darin, his sister Joan, and grandchildren—whole branches of a family tree that keeps on growing. It’s tempting, especially in our stat-loving, timeline-obsessed era of 2025, to measure his legacy in numbers or milestones. But a life like his? It stretches wider than that—woven through every harmony, every sepia-toned photograph, every memory shared by those who knew him on stage and off.The 5th Dimension didn’t just invite listeners to go where they wanted to go. McLemore picked up the camera and microphone and led the way—showing, if not insisting, that it’s possible to make the world a little brighter, lighter, somehow more possible, one rich note and one perfectly timed shutter click at a time.