1973 was a year of high strangeness. For my part, I was only too happy to add my weight to the current of novelty coursing though the alternative scene of the moment. Entering the final year of university, I set about preparing for graduation exams by doing as little work as possible. Instead, the flexi-time conferred by a degree course in geography at Oxford University proved of great benefit as I got to know better the bunch of people with whom I was to set up a commune the following year. We went to Trentishoe festival, a hush-hush, word of mouth, for-the-hardcore-counter-culture-only affair perched on the edge of the north Devon cliffs. We visited several extant communes, helping out and observing closely, preparing our own dos-and-don'ts list for future communal success.
Yet amongst all the weird things and anything goes-ness of 1973, nothing could prepare us for the album cover to 'Love, Devotion, Surrender'. It was just too much. This piece of vinyl was primarily a collaboration between those two most iconic of guitarists, Devadip Carlos Santana and Mahavishnu John McLaughlin. Buy a copy now on CD and the cover displays a mere snippet of the original assault on the visual field. There are the two musicians, all dapper in pure white attire, displaying an expression of what seemed to me a mixture of contriteness, humility, and barely-concealed smugness. Looking like two characters straight out of a washing powder ad, Santana and Mclaughlin grated painfully. Counter culture 1973-style was gritty, a meeting with the dark gods: frayed jeans, raggedy chins for the boys, the all-pervading reek of bonfire smoke and marijuana. Whiter than white, holier than thou, purer than the Virgin Mary's vagina: Carlos and John had clearly lost the plot, for now at least. Their shiny spirituality displayed a rude denial of authentic darkness and dustiness, the integration of which into the spiritual life had been hard-won through the shedding of much blood and many tears.
Worst of all were the photos of our consecrated heroes being embraced by their guru, a happy-to-be-associated Sri Chinmoy. I never got Sri Chinmoy. I attended a meeting of his devotees one evening during my own search for a way forward. I only recall a film that seemed mainly concerned with the benefits of athletics, along with the rare prowess of the great guru on the racing track. It just didn't make any sense at all. My days of institutionalised sporting torture courtesy of the education system were behind me. I wanted Enlightenment, not an Olympic gold. I walked out and never gave it a further thought.
Thirty nine years on, I finally felt ready to lend a serious ear to 'Love, Devotion, Surrender' without a whole complex of black-versus-white dualistic stuff kicking in. Three weeks ago my copy arrived. I opened the packet, checking out Carlos and John in white on the front. I sat back, relaxed, and listened to one of the most astounding albums ever.......
If there is one great teaching from the electric McLaughlin, it is this: cosmic bliss, divine ecstasy, does not need to equate with quietism. The House of the Lord can be a noisy place. Many people don't get McLaughlin, just as I didn't get Sri Chinmoy. A Frank Zappa comment is representative: while admirable for his fast playing style, McLaughlin on guitar just isn't tuneful or melodic. Cutting across keys, he's not nice to listen to. In my view, this appraisal misses the point. When in the mood, I can feel that every high decibel note from John McLaughlin screams Hindu-tinged jazz-rock bliss and ecstasy, in a way no other guitarist manages. The self-inflicted wall in our heads between nirvana and maya comes crashing down; McLaughlin is the real cosmic deal.
To me, the high point of 'Love, Devotion, Surrender' is probably the piece entitled 'The Life Divine'. Precisely forty-nine seconds into the soft intro of organ and drums a guitar (McLaughlin's, I think) soars in, moving in orgasmo-cosmic cascades of sound, honouring the continual miracle of divine creation. This is soon followed by the searing yet hauntingly melodic power of Santana's playing, quite possibly the crowning glory of a long and distinguished career. And 'The Life Divine' goes down as possibly the finest composition by the electric McLaughlin - along with the entire Mahavishnu Orchestra album 'Visions of the Emerald Beyond'. We are temporarily plugged into the source of all creation. This, at least, is how it can sound to me.
This is not the way that devotion is imagined in the Church of England. But it might just be the closest we are likely to get to aural nirvana.
