Love

Arthur Lee, singer and guitarist, a wayward talent of the Sixties with an ambition – perpetually frustrated – to land a chart hit, found with Love (and especially with Bryan Maclean, guitar and vocals) the right formula to make his mark. Top ten glory never arrived, but three albums steeped in psychedelia, flamenco and late beat followed, earning critical and public acclaim, a fittingly chronic drug addiction and an inevitable crisis: the story of Love closes with the troubled recording of "Forever changes": it's a multicoloured prism that perhaps lacks Floyd's "dark side", but is certainly not short on vision (albeit a more accommodating and slightly less unsettling one), buoyed by its mix of raw beat suggestions (Stones and Kinks) and electro-acid trips in the vein of the Byrds, all steeped in the ecstatic wonder of a sensual, decadent Latin spirit.

Listening to it induces a sense of vertigo: the delicacy of the opening arpeggio on "Alone Again Or" quickly gives way to a helping of energetic, aching flamenco-beat, with the orchestra sketching velvety contours and a great trumpet solo (the kind Stuart Murdoch and co. must have listened to until they'd fully absorbed it) rounding out the piece. Next comes the biting "A House Is Not A Motel" (which could be the illegitimate offspring of an unlikely tryst between Keith Richards and Roger McGuinn), shot through with a kind of restrained languor that dissolves into a highly psych-laden finale, riding on two quivering guitars and a perfectly judged drumming that has absolutely no desire to "pile on" over the music (thank god): faced with such natural exuberance, it's hard to believe the accounts of tortured sessions, with five musicians worn thin by assorted addictions.

"Andmoreagain" is the forceful return of the aforementioned languor, but also of tons of sweet, unabashed melancholy, enamoured with the long-distance dialogue between an acoustic arpeggio and the discreet tremor of the strings, carried on the shoulders of a melody we'd call old-fashioned if – thanks to its disarming simplicity – it didn't still sound so present and alive today. "The Daily Planet" has the skipping gait and the infectious irreverence of the best Who, with a few vague hints – though I wouldn't want to be branded a heretic! – of the joyful Barrett-esque provocations of the early Pink Floyd. Then comes "Old Man", a wander through bucolic folk visions that bring to mind Canterbury-scene suggestions or the very earliest Genesis. In short, a true kaleidoscope of tastes and fragrances, and the miracle is that – for now, at least – it all holds together in perfect balance, poised between visceral feeling, saccharine madness and the dark undertow of fairy tales.

"The Red Telephone", for good measure, is ineffably Syd Barrett-like, with a melodic breath that fills the chest and makes the heart feel truly alive: the usual extraordinary restraint in the arrangements and a few well-judged touches (the harpsichord, the little backing vocals, the splendid violin drones, the lopsided visionary quality of the finale) make it the album's masterpiece. "Maybe The People Would Be…" brings its own share of energy to the cause, with the irresistible recklessness of Latin moods magnificently wedded to an ever more exorcised psych vision. These guys from another era really could play: listen to the guitar solo that seems to come crashing into "Live And Let Live" like the memory of a Rolling Stones-esque nightmare, diabolical charm included, with echoes of garage grit in the background. "The Good Humor Man…" is another slice of velvet tailor-made for the Belle & Sebastian crowd, while "Bummer In The Summer" helps itself to country and R&B elements, with the interplay between acoustic guitars and strings once again enchanting and winning.

It closes with "You Set The Scene", which starts off skipping along on a froth of vitality (which by now I love without reservation), before suddenly – with a sweet, breathtaking peremptoriness – swerving into yet another heartbreaking melody, with a miraculous orchestral passage drifting through the scene, as rarefied as the impassable threshold of a hazy dream: keeping things in proportion, it could be their own "A Day In The Life".

So, if lately you've been chasing, with passion and mixed satisfaction, the bittersweet moments and menacing calm of Belle & Sebastian, Badly Drawn Boy and Sodastream, you shouldn't overlook this late-Sixties gem, which, like the finest gemstones, blithely couldn't care less about the passing of time, and shines with its own radiant light in whatever corner History has relegated it to. Changing us – at least a little – forever.

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01/11/2006