Love Forever Changes Collector’s Edition(Rhino 2 CDs, 2008)
Did we truly need another reissue of Love’s Forever Changes? Rhino Records—liberator of castoff sounds consigned to the music dustbins of time—thought so, obviously recognizing that Love fanatics (such as me) will lap up anything related to the best rock album of all time (if you disagree with such a hyperbolic assessment, you haven’t heard album—enough). Hence Forever Changes, the 2-CD “Collector’s Edition.” Or Forever Changes Redux Ad Nauseum. Honestly, this latest retelling of the classic 1967 Love story adds very little, despite the wealth of material presented across the two CDs (43 tracks in all). Love’s 11-song masterpiece was perfect to begin with. The new edition doesn’t change that. And it’s no more essential than the 2001 reissue of the album (it features same remastered album, the same added outtake and demo, the same inclusion of a 1968 single and B-side, the same session highlights—all quite good). But this iteration has a whole second CD to fill, netting the listener a few more session highlights and remixes (all unremarkable) and, in the absence of newly uncovered “lost” songs, an alternate, rawer mix of the entire album (as if the original mix was flawed or inferior ?). But, lest I forget, this is a collector’s album—it’s for fanatics (and suckers for extras and et ceteras, which is why I forked over the dough for its $25 price tag).
I love Forever Changes. It’s one of the few records that I keep going back to. And, yes, it really is as good as everyone says (everyone being us dorky record collectors and music “critics”). It’s also aged a lot better than most of what emerged from the psychedelic era (of which I’m a big fan): Instead of getting eight miles high like the rest of their dope-smoking, acid-dropping cohorts, Love, chiefly mastermind vocalist/guitarist Arthur Lee and guitarist/vocalist Bryan MacLean (who wrote and sang two of the album’s classic songs, “Alone Again Or” and “Old Man”), peered through the hazy, phony optimism of peace and love, and saw a world—their world—in turmoil. They wrote of longing, melancholy, death and decay (serious bad vibrations, man!), casting long shadows with their evocative, mournful tenors over a sweeping soundscape of beautifully conceived and masterfully realized psychedelic folk. It was (and still is) a gorgeous, heart-breaking work, a major creative feat more coherent than Sgt. Pepper’s, more poignant than Pet Sounds. It was also a commercial flop, ultimately spelling doom for the band.
A year ago when my own life was in upheaval, I turned to my old vinyl copy of Forever Changes. I placed it on the turntable, dropped the needle and turned up the volume, before settling back on the couch in my empty room. As the opening notes of “Alone Again Or” emerged from the crackles and pops of my well-worn LP, I set my mind adrift and let the ghosts of Love sweep me into their current. For 42 minutes I surfed atop the undulating swells and found some much-needed solace. I doubt the Collector’s Edition will have the same effect.
I love Forever Changes. It’s one of the few records that I keep going back to. And, yes, it really is as good as everyone says (everyone being us dorky record collectors and music “critics”). It’s also aged a lot better than most of what emerged from the psychedelic era (of which I’m a big fan): Instead of getting eight miles high like the rest of their dope-smoking, acid-dropping cohorts, Love, chiefly mastermind vocalist/guitarist Arthur Lee and guitarist/vocalist Bryan MacLean (who wrote and sang two of the album’s classic songs, “Alone Again Or” and “Old Man”), peered through the hazy, phony optimism of peace and love, and saw a world—their world—in turmoil. They wrote of longing, melancholy, death and decay (serious bad vibrations, man!), casting long shadows with their evocative, mournful tenors over a sweeping soundscape of beautifully conceived and masterfully realized psychedelic folk. It was (and still is) a gorgeous, heart-breaking work, a major creative feat more coherent than Sgt. Pepper’s, more poignant than Pet Sounds. It was also a commercial flop, ultimately spelling doom for the band.
A year ago when my own life was in upheaval, I turned to my old vinyl copy of Forever Changes. I placed it on the turntable, dropped the needle and turned up the volume, before settling back on the couch in my empty room. As the opening notes of “Alone Again Or” emerged from the crackles and pops of my well-worn LP, I set my mind adrift and let the ghosts of Love sweep me into their current. For 42 minutes I surfed atop the undulating swells and found some much-needed solace. I doubt the Collector’s Edition will have the same effect.
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