TOP 40 DEBUT: January 19, 1980
PEAK POSITION: #35 (February 2, 1980)
There is now no practical distinction between Santana, the band, and Santana, the man. That wasn’t always the case; the San Francisco unit that dazzled Woodstock audiences in 1969 and recorded three seminal Latin-rock albums in a row was very much a group affair, blending Hispanic heritage with freewheeling virtuosity in a potent stew. But by 1972, everyone responsible for those records began to part ways with Santana, the band (as well as the man, obviously). Replacements were hired. Those replacements left, too. By the time of 1979’s Marathon, Carlos Santana had recorded eleven albums in eleven years with more than thirty different people. That’s enough turnover to make the entire “band” concept meaningless. That’s also how you go from “Black Magic Woman/Gypsy Queen” to a song as faceless as “You Know That I Love You” in less than a decade.
Mexican-American guitarist Carlos Santana formed the Santana Blues Band in 1966, assisted by original guitarist Tom Fraser. (In a sign of things to come, Fraser only lasted a year and would never record with the group.) Carlos was the son of a mariachi musician who started out on violin before switching to guitar, where he soon fell under the spell of blues legends B.B. King and Otis Rush. Finding the common ground between traditions from the deep South and Latin America made Santana—now with the shortened name—stand out in a crowded field of acts emerging from San Francisco in the late Sixties. With renowned promoter Bill Graham as their manager, the quintet signed to Columbia Records in 1969 and quickly became a sensation.
Thanks to Graham’s connections, Santana landed an afternoon slot on the second day of the Woodstock festival; their incendiary 45-minute performance, with an unknown Carlos spewing fiery solos over a bed of congas and timbales, turned them into the ’69 version of a “viral sensation.” Two weeks later, Santana appeared in stores. Assisted by the surprise hit “Evil Ways” (#9 in March 1970), the half-instrumental record peaked at #4 on the Billboard 200 and sold over a million copies, a major milestone for the time. The follow-up, Abraxas, went to #1. Both albums are now, justifiably, hailed as classics, major milestones that helped define and popularize “Latin rock” during the genre’s infancy. Meanwhile, Marathon, decried as a sellout immediately upon arrival, has aged about as badly as you’d expect.
I defy anyone to listen to “You Know That I Love You” cold, with no prior knowledge or context, and correctly guess the artist on their first three tries. Hell, I know this is Santana and I still can’t believe it’s the same “band” that made “Oye Como Va.” Of course, it’s really not; post-1974, no one from the classic lineup remained, save Carlos and bass player David Brown—and Brown had already left once, in ’71. Following 1976’s Amigos, the bassist departed a second time. Within three years, everyone else who played on that album would be gone, too. (Carlos Santana went through band members like Larry King went through wives.)
Initially, there were artistic reasons behind all the turnover. Starting with 1972’s Caravanserai, Carlos decided to dive headfirst into jazz fusion, bringing in additional players to help realize his vision. He also recorded side projects with John McLaughlin and Alice Coltrane, studied under guru Sri Chinmoy, changed his name to “Devadip Carlos Santana,” and abandoned the Latin-rock sound that had made him famous. The original lineup bailed. So did most of the original audience.
With sales plummeting, Santana began transitioning back to a more commercial sound, beginning with the aforementioned Amigos. 1977’s Moonflower, an effective double-album blend of the Latin and jazz strands, became the band’s biggest seller since the original lineup, which Carlos should’ve taken as a hint. Of course, he didn’t.
1978’s Inner Secrets found the group veering dangerously close to full-blown arena rock, and by the release of the following year’s Marathon, Santana were practically indistinguishable from any number of third-tier AOR bands fighting for airtime on FM radio. “You Know That I Love You,” the album’s lone single, is beyond depressing: a bargain-bin Journey knockoff that’s easily the worst Top 40 entry of Carlos’ entire career (or at least his career prior to meeting Chad Kroeger). Journey, of course, started when ex-Santana members Gregg Rolie and Neal Schon quit the group in ’73, back when Carlos decided he was tired of guitar rock. So not only is the song a craven commercial grab, it’s also a craven commercial grab with an extra layer of hypocrisy on top. (Journey will be appearing many, many times on this site. Way more than Santana.)
Carlos co-wrote “You Know That I Love You” with guitarist Chris Solberg (only a year into his Santana tenure) and two recent additions to the group: keyboardist Alan Pasqua and vocalist Alex Ligertwood. Both newcomers came from jazz backgrounds: Pasqua had previously played alongside legendary drummer Tony Williams and fusion guitarist Allan Holdsworth, while Ligertwood sang on multiple albums for the eclectic jazz-rock outfit Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express. Honestly, I have no idea how guys with such interesting resumes concocted a song so crushingly bland. But Pasqua and Solberg also worked on Eddie Money’s early albums. Maybe the blandness rubbed off.
Ligertwood replaced previous Santana vocalist Greg Walker, who’d spent three years bringing a nice R&B energy to the band’s increasingly safer material. Walker was the kind of singer who could put a fresh spin on something as time-worn as the Zombies’ “She’s Not There.” (Santana’s surprisingly solid cover hit #27 in 1977. It’s a 7.) Scottish-born Ligertwood was the kind of singer to make you ask, “Is that the guy from Survivor?” (Yes, I’m aware this song predates Survivor’s big hits. But people still remember Survivor. No one remembers this.) His voice fits the rest of the production, I suppose: competent, generic, and nearly devoid of personality.
“You Know That I Love You” bears no trace of the percussive, propulsive energy that characterized those early Santana records. It barely has any energy at all. This is freeze-dried rock, containing all the trappings of rock with the actual life removed. Everything that made Santana distinctive—the Latin flavor, the percussion elements, even Carlos’ patented liquid-mercury guitar tone—has been vigorously, inexplicably scrubbed away. All we’re left with is AOR-by-the-numbers, the exact type of “corporate rock” that gives a bad name to the host of much better bands (Foreigner and Boston and yes, even Journey) unfairly tarred with that same brush.
Carlos and the rest clearly had one eye on the charts when composing “You Know That I Love You.” That straight-ahead shuffle recalls both Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice” and Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” The opening swipes from Journey’s “Lights.” The rest… keeps on swiping from Journey. (I would love to psychoanalyze the reasons why Carlos was so obsessed with his former bandmates in 1979.) But rather than follow the example of the above songs and writing a strong melody and solid hook, four professional musicians instead composed the following lyrics: “Yesterday I was alone and blue/ My heart was heavy and then came you/ Oh I can see that you were meant for me/ Now I have found you, I'll never let you go.” I’m not pulling your leg. These are the real, honest-to-God lyrics from a song that got real, honest-to-God airplay in early 1980. (Later, Ligertwood actually sings “You know that I’m caring/ Sharing.” In the damn chorus.)
Proving the public occasionally exhibits good taste, “You Know That I Love You” crapped out at #35, spending just a scant three weeks within the Top 40. Its parent album became the worst-selling record of Santana’s career to that point. (He would have much worse sellers to come. We’re decades away from Supernatural, kids.) Carlos responded to this downturn in fortunes with a rare—and definitely misguided—display of solidarity. For the first time since Abraxas, not a single band member would exit between albums. In a short eighteen months, we’re gonna get to experience this whole cast of characters all over again.
GRADE: 2/10
BONUS BITS: How do you know when a single has been completely erased from the public consciousness? When the only “Bonus Bit” is the 7” single edit. So… enjoy?