lose a great deal of their candlepower the third time around.

Secondly, Live exposes McLaughlin's limitations as a writer. He is less a composer than a deviser of riffs. These are generally quite intricate, and the Orchestra elaborates them with masterful ingenuity, but still, McLaughlin's music does not so much progress and develop as repeat itself. When the possibilities of a riff are exhausted, McLaughlin, often without even the pretense of a transition, simply picks up another, and off they go again. The procedure recalls "Layla," and indeed McLaughlin resembles Eric Clapton in that neither can write as extraordinarily as he can play, and both compose around riffs. (As if to acknowledge this kinship, at one point on Live McLaughlin coyly alludes to "Sunshine of Your Love.") In the past this has not presented a serious difficulty, for the Orchestra has inclined toward relatively brief tracks. But the cuts on Live are very few and very drawn-out, with the result that, particularly during the 21:26 of "Dream," the music tends to be redundant and disjunct. Although frequently dazzling, it doesn't hold the listener over the long run.

But Live offers many short-term joys: the rousing funk of parts of "Sister Andrea," the reflective opening of "Dream," the searing interplay of McLaughlin and Jan Hammer on Moog, the endlessly inventive and sizzling drumming of Billy Cobham. Violinist Jerry Goodman is oddly inconspicuous on Live, but Hammer almost makes up for his diminished presence. Overshadowing them all, of course, is McLaughlin, now spewing forth cascades of notes, now sculpting stately lines, now elegantly musing, always playing with a genius almost unparalleled. (RS 155)

KEN EMERSON