Plenty of 1960s bands were ruined by drugs, but few were ruined as conclusively as Los Angeles's Love. Their careers and lives swiftly unravelled into the sort of darkness hinted at on their three remarkable albums - their eponymous debut, Da Capo (1966) and the masterful Forever Changes (1967).
Members became addicts, went to prison and died. After decades of relentlessly peculiar behaviour and rumours of mental illness, Love's leader Arthur Lee was imprisoned in 1996 for firing a gun during a dispute with a neighbour.
Recently released, Lee has taken his lead from another victim of Californian excess, Brian Wilson, assembling a young band - he is the only original member of Love onstage - and performing a set of fan-pleasing classic material. Nothing performed tonight is less than 35 years old.
Clearly concerned that people have forgotten who he is during his six years behind bars, Lee has helpfully turned up dressed as an eccentric rock legend. He appears to be wearing the entire stock of an alternative clothing store at once: black sunglasses, flared trousers, cowboy boots, a Stetson, a bandana, a paisley waistcoat, two scarves, a medallion and a sequined belt buckle in the shape of a heart. As is the wont of 1960s legends, he flashes peace signs and talks about John Lennon.
Lee may look the part, but initially at least he seems strangely disconnected from the proceedings. His voice wanders during songs. He yawns, and introduces Forever Changes' beautiful ballad Andmoreagain with a disaffected shrug: "You can sing along with this if you want, but that's your business." Meanwhile, his band are struggling. Stripped of its orchestration, Alone Again Or sounds anaemic. The audience's cheers seem rooted in self-indulgent nostalgia. They are applauding their memories of songs rather than the actual performances.
Halfway through, however, everything suddenly gels. Lee comes to life during a sparkling version of Maybe the People Would Be the Times or Between Clark and Hilldale. The band, who clearly draw their power from their mercurial leader, follow suit. Lee's eerie rumination on mental illness, The Red Telephone, is chilling and malevolent. They stride confidently through Forever Changes' glorious, complex finale, You Set the Scene and the frantic Seven and Seven Is. By the time they encore with She Comes in Colours, Lee is sporting a beatific smile. Despite their dreadful history, he and his songs appear to have survived more or less intact.
