It was reported on the evening of August 3, 2006, that Love frontman Arthur Lee had died that afternoon, after battling leukemia. One of the most infuriating men in rock and roll history -- the definitive Lee biography has yet to be written, but I have no doubt that it will reveal that even his closest friends regularly wanted to kick him in the nuts -- Arthur Lee was also an artist of uncommon grace and delicacy. That one man could write both the stomping proto-punk of "Seven and Seven Is," one of the most unhinged records of the 1960s, and the dreamy "She Comes In Colors" on the same album is indicative of the duality at his core, and it was a huge part of what first drew me to Love as a high school senior when I picked up Rhino's mid-80s best-of almost entirely on a whim, having never heard the band before. (By the time I graduated, I was among those who thought Forever Changes was one of the greatest albums of all time.) Willfully self-destructive and possessing a legendarily violent mean streak, Lee could also be utterly charming; at one of his last concerts in Boston, in 2003, he was funny, self-deprecating and obviously grateful for the attention, but he was also every bit the cocky, no-bullshit frontman.

The glorious "Wonder People (I Do Wonder)" was written and recorded during the sessions for Lee's masterpiece, the epic Forever Changes, but left out of the final running order, supposedly because Lee thought this uncharacteristically optimistic, peppy song didn't fit with the bleakness at the album's core. (There's also the fact that the mod-a-go-go horn part is very reminiscent of the one that powers "Maybe the People Would Be the Times Or Between Clark and Hilldale," itself the one vaguely hopeful song on the record.) For all the depression and paranoia on display throughout Forever Changes, "Wonder People (I Do Wonder)" is as summery as a Lovin' Spoonful or Harpers Bizarre single, and proof that for all of his well-documented faults, Arthur Lee did have a sweet side. Our thoughts go to his wife Diane and his friends.

-Stewart Mason

Their affection for Joy Division was far too obvious, and their lyrics were perhaps embarassingly earnest, but what the hell does that matter to a seventeen-year-old? This was another record mail-ordered for cheap (in the mid-late 80s there were piles of this 12" in Midwestern record shops for $1.99) that wormed it's way into my teenage heart ca. 1983. All of the rules suggest that this record should suck at this late date, but, paradoxically, the qualities referred to above have given the item a warmth that has allowed it to age rather well; I ripped it the other day for iPod purposes and was surprised to find that all four of the songs still worked to varying degrees, at least for me.

Information about Sport of Kings (the band) is kind of hard to come by (meaning I found no good leads during the 45 seconds I spent researching them online), but they were almost certainly from Chicago, and I'm thinking that they eventually hooked up with the Wax Trax Records dance mo-sheen, releasing at least one more 12" that I can still see in my mind's eye. I believe it was called "Parade."

By the way, speaking of UK-sounding US bands, does anyone have a song from an old Trouser Press flexi called "Not Even For a Minute?" I'm thinking the band's name started with the letter "L."