Love is one of those bands that I should have been into decades earlier. This release from 1966 fits squarely with the other garage rock psychedelia that I was snapping up in the early ’80s – a weird juxtaposition of cutting edge garage, touches of psychedelia, and opening with, of all things, a Burt Bacharach/Hal David proto-punk tune that I knew from a Standells cover, “My Little Red Book.” Despite the endless accolades given to Love these days, and deservedly so, this wasn’t a big seller, and used copies didn’t flood the bins, but I do remember seeing it now and again and just not knowing what it was.
There’s a lot about the promotion and later analysis of Love that can be ascribed to race. Here was an African-American led band that was melding a form of rhythm and blues with the brand new Byrds folk-rock style. Failing to stay in his lane, Arthur Lee was creating something new. Now, that’s recognized, but there’s little evidence that he was given much credence at the time, and a lot of the narrative of his later years focused on how he had fallen into drug addiction and possible mental issues – not in any way uncommon among musicians, but something that seemed to color any mention of Arthur Lee, whereas someone like Eric Clapton, an addict for decades, was getting called a genius and his trespasses were (and are) being forgiven.
So honestly, if I had heard of Love, they never really registered. I think the first time I really connected with them was when their version of “My Little Red Book” appeared in the closing credits of the 2000 movie “High Fidelity,” one of my all-time favorites. It caught my ear because I was always a fan of The Standells’ version – which, it turns out, was released several months after the Love version. (The original bass player for Love actually went on to play for The Standells, a year later.)
At that time, though, I wasn’t really collecting oldies, and definitely wasn’t collecting vinyl. So I filed Love in the back of my brain and moved on.
Then in 2006 Susanna Hoffs and Matthew Sweet released their “Under The Covers” album featuring “Alone Again Or.” In addition to being a vexing title, the captivating song had a very familiar sound to it and when I learned it was originally by Lee’s bandmate Bryan MacLean, I knew I must have heard it in the past. It didn’t tear up the charts, barely breaking the Top 100 (with a 1970 reissue), but the chances were good the oldies stations I listened to would spin it from time to time. So, I recognized the song when Hoffs sang it. And then I was intrigued. I even remember looking up Love, and starting to learn about the “troubled genius” trope writers were applying to dismiss Arthur Lee, who died that same year of leukemia. But still, I didn’t do more about it.
Forward to the mid teens of this here century: new town, new vinyl addiction, new friend Shawn who loves Love so much that he named his record business for their incredible third album, “Forever Changes.” So now, my obligation to check out Love is personal. I started out with this one, their debut, on a beautiful Sundazed rerelease. It’s a pretty straightforward 1966 Byrdsian rocker, completely in my wheelhouse, but there are some hints of what is to come.
Note: with this addition to my collection, the number of versions of “Hey Joe” I own stands at seven.