ARTHUR
LEE: 40 YEARS OF UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
Arthur Lee dead at 61. It's really not
fair that the man responsible for forming Love, the band that recorded
what may have been the best rock 'n' roll album from the '60s, Forever
Changes, should have to punch the clock so soon—and just when
his life seemed to be getting better, at last. And just as he was finding
out how much people really loved his music.
Lee had spent too much of his final decade in jail, thanks to California's bullheaded "three felony strikes and you're out" law. But when he was finally released from prison, Lee hit the deck running. He eventually hooked up with L.A. combo Baby Lemonade as a de facto version of Love and fronted several tours of the U.S. and Europe to rave reviews. Anyone who'd missed Love in its glory days now, like Lee, had a second chance.
I saw a completely different version of Love play San Francisco's Old Waldorf in 1978, but the only thing that sticks in my mind about that show is Lee being interviewed on hippie radio station KSAN the afternoon before the gig and repeating: "Bryan MacLean, man, Bryan MacLean! Bryan MacLean!" The golden-voiced and golden-haired (now sporting a full beard) yin to Lee's yang, was on board that night, and I wish I could remember what they played, since it was the only time I would ever hear MacLean, who died in 2000, play live.
The next time I caught Love live, in he summer of 2002, Arthur Lee and Baby Lemonade were testing the waters for a full-scale, in-person mounting of Forever Changes, by playing highlights of the great album with a standard-format rock band at Bimbo's 365 Club in San Francisco. It was similar to what Brian Wilson and the guys from the Wondermints were about to do for Pet Sounds and, eventually, Smile. For any of these projects to catch fire it was essential to find a hot young band with reverence for the original arrangements. No egregious updating would be tolerated.
In May of 2003 Love played before a packed Fillmore Auditorium for the first time in 35 years. It was a flat-out triumph. A Scandinavian string and horn section was hired to flesh out those stirring original arrangements. And when they burst into that wondrous mariachi-style trumpet break from "Alone Again Or" and the marvelous volleys between brass and strings in the album's finale, "You Set The Scene," I'll bet there wasn't a dry eye in the house. My vision was blurred at the time, so I have no way of knowing. It was the only occasion in the past 17 years that I violated my earplugs-are-mandatory dictum. Fully aware this wasn't going to happen again, I didn't want to miss a drop. Like a man under deep hypnosis, I wandered up next to the stage and stood there swaying like a big tree trunk.
Nine years earlier I'd jumped at the chance to interview Lee for a British magazine. I had no idea contact would be made only a couple of days later ... at 4:30 in the morning! I staggered out of bed, my heart racing, with thoughts of a death in the family surging through my brain. It was Arthur Lee saying he'd just left a recording studio, had no idea what time it was and "Sorry, man." With no questions prepared, I came up with a few pedestrian enquiries before we agreed to talk again sometime next week. When the phone rang again at 4:00 am seven days later, I knew who it was. And I had a list of questions ready. Here are just a few of them.
When I first heard Forever Changes in 1968 I was astonished, especially on beautiful ballads like "Andmoreagain," at the similarity of your voice to that of Johnny Mathis. Has anyone ever asked you about that?
Yeah, there was no such thing as rap when Sam Cooke was alive. It was all about having a beautiful voice: Johnny Mathis and Jackie Wilson and Paul McCartney. Long before the Beatles inspired me, Tchaikovsky inspired me, Beethoven inspired me.
How do the '60s appear to you now, 30 years down the road?
If you become like a bowl of alphabetical soup, and you stir it up, stir it around, you have all these names like Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. A musical bowl of soup, right? Drop out, man, and get a cup of tea. Jimi use to say, "There's a time to stay and a time to go."
Where did you first play live?
When I was 16 years old I played R&B six nights a week at this place called the Montebello Bowl. We were called the American Four. Then I came to Hollywood and saw a group with Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder called the Rising Sons. I kinda liked them and I kinda liked the Byrds. I'd been writing music since high school and their songs were similar to my music. Their road manager, Bryan MacLean, and I got together. He came by to audition for the Grass Roots, my band at the time.
You changed the name of your band from the Grass Roots to Love. Why did you do that?
I didn't want to fight City Hall (and the other band with the same name). That's how I picked the name Love, while I was driving up the Santa Monica freeway. That's back when I used to walk around Hollywood with one moccasin on and one moccasin off, just to be recognized, you know. "Hey, who was that guy with one shoe off?" And I was wearing tons of beads. I've still got that same feeling about people I meet. You know, the only part of your body you can't see is your face. But that's OK because I see my face in everybody I meet.
Lee had spent too much of his final decade in jail, thanks to California's bullheaded "three felony strikes and you're out" law. But when he was finally released from prison, Lee hit the deck running. He eventually hooked up with L.A. combo Baby Lemonade as a de facto version of Love and fronted several tours of the U.S. and Europe to rave reviews. Anyone who'd missed Love in its glory days now, like Lee, had a second chance.
I saw a completely different version of Love play San Francisco's Old Waldorf in 1978, but the only thing that sticks in my mind about that show is Lee being interviewed on hippie radio station KSAN the afternoon before the gig and repeating: "Bryan MacLean, man, Bryan MacLean! Bryan MacLean!" The golden-voiced and golden-haired (now sporting a full beard) yin to Lee's yang, was on board that night, and I wish I could remember what they played, since it was the only time I would ever hear MacLean, who died in 2000, play live.
The next time I caught Love live, in he summer of 2002, Arthur Lee and Baby Lemonade were testing the waters for a full-scale, in-person mounting of Forever Changes, by playing highlights of the great album with a standard-format rock band at Bimbo's 365 Club in San Francisco. It was similar to what Brian Wilson and the guys from the Wondermints were about to do for Pet Sounds and, eventually, Smile. For any of these projects to catch fire it was essential to find a hot young band with reverence for the original arrangements. No egregious updating would be tolerated.
In May of 2003 Love played before a packed Fillmore Auditorium for the first time in 35 years. It was a flat-out triumph. A Scandinavian string and horn section was hired to flesh out those stirring original arrangements. And when they burst into that wondrous mariachi-style trumpet break from "Alone Again Or" and the marvelous volleys between brass and strings in the album's finale, "You Set The Scene," I'll bet there wasn't a dry eye in the house. My vision was blurred at the time, so I have no way of knowing. It was the only occasion in the past 17 years that I violated my earplugs-are-mandatory dictum. Fully aware this wasn't going to happen again, I didn't want to miss a drop. Like a man under deep hypnosis, I wandered up next to the stage and stood there swaying like a big tree trunk.
Nine years earlier I'd jumped at the chance to interview Lee for a British magazine. I had no idea contact would be made only a couple of days later ... at 4:30 in the morning! I staggered out of bed, my heart racing, with thoughts of a death in the family surging through my brain. It was Arthur Lee saying he'd just left a recording studio, had no idea what time it was and "Sorry, man." With no questions prepared, I came up with a few pedestrian enquiries before we agreed to talk again sometime next week. When the phone rang again at 4:00 am seven days later, I knew who it was. And I had a list of questions ready. Here are just a few of them.
When I first heard Forever Changes in 1968 I was astonished, especially on beautiful ballads like "Andmoreagain," at the similarity of your voice to that of Johnny Mathis. Has anyone ever asked you about that?
Yeah, there was no such thing as rap when Sam Cooke was alive. It was all about having a beautiful voice: Johnny Mathis and Jackie Wilson and Paul McCartney. Long before the Beatles inspired me, Tchaikovsky inspired me, Beethoven inspired me.
How do the '60s appear to you now, 30 years down the road?
If you become like a bowl of alphabetical soup, and you stir it up, stir it around, you have all these names like Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. A musical bowl of soup, right? Drop out, man, and get a cup of tea. Jimi use to say, "There's a time to stay and a time to go."
Where did you first play live?
When I was 16 years old I played R&B six nights a week at this place called the Montebello Bowl. We were called the American Four. Then I came to Hollywood and saw a group with Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder called the Rising Sons. I kinda liked them and I kinda liked the Byrds. I'd been writing music since high school and their songs were similar to my music. Their road manager, Bryan MacLean, and I got together. He came by to audition for the Grass Roots, my band at the time.
You changed the name of your band from the Grass Roots to Love. Why did you do that?
I didn't want to fight City Hall (and the other band with the same name). That's how I picked the name Love, while I was driving up the Santa Monica freeway. That's back when I used to walk around Hollywood with one moccasin on and one moccasin off, just to be recognized, you know. "Hey, who was that guy with one shoe off?" And I was wearing tons of beads. I've still got that same feeling about people I meet. You know, the only part of your body you can't see is your face. But that's OK because I see my face in everybody I meet.
