Love: Forever Changes and more, staying remarkably and robustly vibrant.

“Got the right century, mate,” as one chum quipped, learning of my jaunt to see the sole remaining relic of the fabled L.A. group, with a heyday of over fifty years ago. So, let’s get this right, it was Johnny Echols’ Love in performance this night, he the punchy guitarist from way back then, actually leaving the band in 1968, after the classic run of the first three recordings. Arthur Lee, the de facto leader and principal focus of the band, then kept the b(r)and going over many iterations, latterly incorporating the band Baby Lemonade, uber fans all, to back him him. In 2002, Echols joined in, if initially for just a few shows, unrealising that Lee’s health was in decline. After Lee’s death, Echols continued to revive this line-up, and, despite several “last tours”, remains evermore touring, promoting and playing the music of those three discs.

Few can be unfamiliar with, at least, Forever Changes, so frequently is it cited in the best ever lists. No less than Robert Plant states it his favourite record, according to wiki, that point possibly bearing out why he too was squeezed into this upstairs room, capacity 250, and left to go about his own business, undisturbed, amongst the cross-generational audience, young hipsters and ageing lone groovers alike. Ahead the headliners, local Brummies Blue Sky Orchestra gave a short set. Described to me, on arrival, as Birmingham’s answer to the Grateful Dead, that ambitious aspiration wasn’t totally off-point, as the two guitarists concocted a fluid twin guitar extravaganza, with a solid and surprisingly funky rhythm section. Two members short, their congas man and their female vocalist busy elsewhere, it was an enjoyable half- hour. The Dead? Well, no, not really, but Phish or Quicksilver Messenger Service wouldn’t fall far short, said as compliment, and ones to watch.

Bang on nine, on strode the main attraction, presenting quite a confusing sight for the audience. Rusty Squeezebox (yes, really, if maybe not that to his parents) is clearly the master of ceremonies, looking as if he could be Lee, circa 1980, reincarnated. He sang most of the songs and played guitar, with Mike Randle, a bleached blond negative of Squeezebox in hairstyle, also on guitar, including a nifty electric 12-string. Bespectacled and brilliantined, Dave Green hit hard behind the drums, in a Nashville cowboy shirt, whilst the impossibly young bassist bobbed energetically at the front. Still only 20, James Nolte has been playing this gig for two years. Echols, initially, almost skulked, stage right, in a woollen hat and a benign air of bemusedness. With little ado, they then all then put down feet and scorched into a two hour set, featuring all the songs you know from Love, Da Capo and Forever Changes, plus a whole lot of deeper cuts, appearing later only on box sets and compendiums.

The knowledgeable audience knew more than I, but A House Is Not A Home, Red Telephone and My Little Red Book all featured early on. 7 And 7 Is was astounding, exploding out onto the dance floor like aural dynamite. Echols showed himself no slouch on guitar, his runs of spiky lead contrasting with those of the other guitarists, the older man having the edge, at least in terms of brash, spunky spirit. Indeed, if nothing else, the preternaturally punkedness of the songs poured forth, superior garage band fare, and some.

Anyone lulled into expecting gentle and orchestrated balladering will have surely, and swiftly, realised the disconnect between the (in my opinion) over-production of the original studio recordings and the reality of the unbridled, unadorned material. Even as they launched into the lighter compositions of the late Bryan MacLean, still here was a verve unprecedented. Andmoreagain, nonetheless, managed to retain every iota of the poignancy inherent in the words, and had most silently mouthing it along.

Alone Again Or came surprisingly early doors, thinking it would have been at least an encore, but there was a real sense of 52 card pick up about the set, as if, genuinely, they were choosing what next to do, randomly and on the hoof. For a song as famous for the trumpet parts as much else, it was a source of worry how they would get around that, the answer coming by twinned (tripled?) guitars in semi-unison and near harmony, which worked well, diminishing nothing, losing nothing. Little talk came from the stage, other than an apology that, given the volume of material they needed, and wanted, to cover, they had to rush on. So much so, that when Squeezebox had a Biden moment, having to sing gibberish against the melody, he explained that it is tough having to know 50 plus songs, to all call up on a whim.

Echols switched to maraccas, and was clearly chilling down, only now beginning to add his commentary to that of his charismatic sidekick. Still the songs kept coming, with Maybe The People Would Be The Times Or Between Clark and Hilldale, You Set The Scene and Always See Your Face especially memorable. Astonishingly, at one stage, on shutting my eyes, it could have been the Buzzcocks playing here, rather than any aspic soaked heritage tribute. (Which would, anyway, be a totally unfair and unfounded conclusion, regardless).

All things had eventually to wind down, with the band returning for a couple of final salvos. Of these, Signed D.C. gave perhaps the most moving moment of the evening, as Echols now, for the first time, took the entirety of the vocal, his voice a cracked and emotional instrument, channeling his old school friend and band mate. A truly wonderful rendition, the room, Plant included, could feel well satisfied, uplifted and satiated, and were, at least for now. The tour continues, all in small to medium venues like this one, and attending can only be commended.

With thanks to Jane B, here is a brief vid from exactly one year ago, showing the full garage glory of the current band:

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