Although some of the album had been written earlier, the Love era really began in April 1985, with the recording of the Cult's fourth single, 'She Sells Sanctuary'. By then, the group, centring around Ian Astbury (vocals), Billy Duffy (guitar) and Jamie Stewart (bass), had already come under fire for acknowledging the impact of vintage rock on their music.

"Ian was getting right into Hendrix, Janis Joplin, the Doors," recalls Duffy, the level-headed Mancunian who'd first tasted success with Theatre Of Hate. "He started dressing in all this flamboyant psychedelic kit - which wasn't such a great leap forward from dressing like a Red Indian. We got really slagged off for it. If it wasn't for the Alarm I think I would have killed myself. They were the only band getting worse press than us."

But despite brickbats from some critics, 'She Sells Sanctuary' soared to No. 15 in the national chart in May, gifting the band with their first bona fide hit. And no wonder - it was a fantastic rock record, kicking off with that now-infamous heavily-phased, descending riff, and powering along like a psychedelic cavalry charge.

But behind the scenes, a serious problem was threatening the Cult's stability. The group's drummer, Nigel Preston, was suffering from manic depression and becoming increasingly unreliable.

Matters eventually came to head when he was unable to mime the drums properly on a live European TV show. It was decided he would have to go.

"It should have fallen to the management to tell him," remembers Jamie Stewart. "But somehow Billy got the job. It wasn't a particularly pleasant experience."

For the 'Sanctuary' video, Big Country's Mark Brzezicki was drafted in at short notice.

The success of 'She Sells Sanctuary' gave the band more confidence about their excursions into psychedelic rock. By July, when they booked into Jacob's Studios, Farnham, to record their second album, it was clear the onus would be on slower, heavier songs.

With Billy Duffy and producer Steve Brown working hard on the guitars to construct a shimmering, psychedelic swirl of noise, the album swiftly developed into a richly textured affair. Yet something dark and menacing itched under the surface: Love was always going to be more Altamont than Woodstock.

Among the first songs to emerge from the sessions were the straight-ahead rock numbers - 'Rain', 'Nirvana' and 'Sanctuary' - which were structurally simple and moodily-paced. Elsewhere, though, the atmosphere was bright and upbeat ('Revolution'), while at times the band seemed reluctant to wholly break away from their roots ('Hollow Man' and 'Big Neon Glitter'). Indeed, 'Black Angel' was as unforgiving and bleak as anything they'd recorded beforeä

Yet parts of the album also sign-posted the band's next phase.

"The last songs we wrote were 'Love' and 'Phoenix'," says Duffy. "What happened was simple - I'd started playing these rock riffs, Brzezicki had joined in on drums, and it was like, fuck, this sound good!"

These two tracks ended up as full-on acid rock jams, with Duffy's spiralling, free-form blues guitar echoing the psychedelic mastery of Hendrix and Cream. To make room for their inclusion, it was decided to leave off two other tracks, 'Sunrise' and 'Judith', and use them as future B-sides.

Ian also felt liberated by the cyclonic aural backdrop of the studio-written material.

"Tracks like 'Phoenix' and 'Love' are pure energy," he told 'Sounds'. "Actually performing them is fantastic - you almost go outside yourself."

It was patently clear the band had located a style which felt natural and comfortable. Jamie still regards it as a crucial moment in the group's development.

"We regained our focus with those two songs," he explains. "There was a lot of pendulum swinging in our career, coming in and out of sync. But with those tracks we seemed to get it together."

Issued in October 1985, Love got an uneven reception, with as many critics praising its dark eloquence as deriding it for its rampant rock revivalism. For those who thought the Clash's 'Hate And War' had shut the lid on hippiedom, the very title of Love was anathema. People still weren't getting it: like Paul Weller and his Who influences in the late '70s, the Cult were far too young to be revivalists. They were simply rock novices, reshaping the genre for a generation who'd never directly experienced its cathartic and euphoric effects.

Love was no sluggish, AOR beast - it was Free infused with the passion of the Sex Pistols. And it was also possibly the first psychedelic album conceived without the aid of acid.

"Nobody involved with the band could get the idea it's cool to take drugs," said Duffy. "If you like us and respect us, that should be enough for you to work it out for yourself."

While the skittish complexity of the Smiths enthralled the muisc press, Love was taking the Cult to a wider audience. In Britain, Italy, Germany and America, the album flew out in skip-loads, quickly notching up sales of 200,000. In the autumn, 'Rain' and 'Revolution' were lifted as singles, and the band, with a new drummer, Les Warner (ex-Johnny Thunders and Julian Lennon), headed off on sell-out tours of Europe and the States.

The rock'n'roll trip was slowly gathering pace. In Texas, the band "took a lot of Ecstasy and generally had a good time" (the drug was still legal there at the time). In L.A., Ian immersed himself ever deeper in the tragic lore of West Coast stars like Jim Morrison and Joplin. In New York, the band hung out in the dance clubs with the city's glitterati.

With flared corduroys and beads as their unofficial uniform, the Cult rolled on through Australia and Canada, before winding up back in the U.K. for an appearance with Simple Minds at the Milton Keynes Bowl. It proved to be a euphoric homecoming, revealing a new-found assurance and swagger.

In just over a year, the Cult had gone from playing town halls to stadia. They'd sold hundreds of thousands of albums. They had even made small-but-significant in-roads into the lucrative U.S. rock market. Their heavy, psychedelic Goth-rock had developed a groove that was bringing them to a whole new audience. In terms of internal accord and creative frisson, Love was undoubtedly the apex of the band's early career.

It was only when they came to record their next album in the summer of 1986 that the problems started. Peace - as it was called - threw the band in a quandary about their future direction. Eventually, the recordings were abandoned, at great cost. But that's the next installmentä

Pat Gilbert, Record Collector magazine - London, 1996