The air was thick and golden, not unlike the fading light filtering through the stained glass of a forgotten church hall. That is the initial, indelible sensory memory this piece of music evokes. It’s a sound built for a specific moment: the quiet realization that the clamour of youth has given way to a more measured, yet still profoundly romantic, view of the world. “The Word Is Love,” released by Cliff Richard in 1973, is not a stadium anthem. It is a soft, deeply textured declaration, born from a crucial period of transition in the career of an artist who, by this point, had already navigated two decades of shifting public tastes and musical revolutions.
To understand this track, one must first place it within its original context. “The Word Is Love” is a key song from the soundtrack album for the film Take Me High, which also served as Richard’s final feature film performance. Released on the EMI/Columbia label, the track landed at a moment when Richard was consciously moving away from the rock-and-roll icon status of his early years and the wholesome, chart-topping pop of the 1960s. The 1970s saw him exploring a softer, more reflective, and often spiritually-inflected pop-rock sound, which would culminate in his later, enormously successful “comeback” era.
This track, written by Tony Cole, was helmed by producer and arranger David Mackay. Mackay’s influence is evident in the arrangement’s spaciousness and the judicious use of acoustic instruments to create a sound that is both lush and uncluttered. It sits comfortably in the soft-rock vein of the early 1970s, prioritizing melody and texture over rhythmic intensity. It is a distinctly British take on a West Coast sound—less sun-drenched, perhaps, and more thoughtful.
The track opens with a deceptively simple foundation. A gentle, rolling bass line, reportedly played by Alan Tarney, provides a deep, warm anchor. The rhythm section overall is restrained; the drums function more as a subtle pulse than a driving force. The core melodic harmony is carried by the keyboards—Dave Macrae is credited here—which often lean toward a Rhodes-like electric piano timbre, adding a layer of sophisticated warmth. This is not the bright, cutting sound of pure pop, but something with a darker, more resonant character.
Above this foundational layer, the guitar work is an exercise in taste and texture. Credits for the track include Kevin Peek and Terry Britten, two names associated with finely-crafted studio musicianship. Their playing avoids histrionics. Instead of a blazing solo, we get perfectly placed arpeggios, gentle fills, and layered acoustic strumming that weave in and out of Richard’s vocals. The guitar serves the song, never dominating it, lending a folk-rock sensibility to what is, at its heart, a sophisticated pop ballad. The textures are rich, almost premium audio quality, suggesting a meticulous studio recording process designed to capture every nuance of the layered instrumentation.
Richard’s vocal performance here is masterful in its maturity. His phrasing is relaxed, yet entirely earnest. He holds back the power he possessed in the 1950s and 60s, using his voice as a vehicle for the lyric’s message of simple, enduring hope. It’s an interpretation that speaks to the song’s core theme: the quiet strength found in love, framed less as an urgent passion and more as a sustained state of being.
One can imagine a listener in 1973, perhaps one who had been with Richard since the Move It days, hearing this on their home audio system. They might be surprised by its quiet confidence. It lacks the youthful swagger of his earliest work, replacing it with a seasoned musicality that reflected the changing landscape of adult contemporary radio. This period, before the smash success of I’m Nearly Famous (1976), was one where Richard was quietly solidifying his longevity, demonstrating a willingness to adapt his sound while retaining his core integrity.
The song builds subtly, relying on dynamic restraint rather than sudden bombast. About halfway through, the arrangement swells—a quiet, sustained lift achieved through the layered keyboards and perhaps a touch of string synthesis, though the primary colour remains the organic interplay of the rhythm section. It’s a cinematic swell, perfect for the film context, but entirely potent as a standalone listening experience. The track’s overall dynamic range is modest, creating an intimacy that draws the listener closer. This attention to detail in sound engineering is what elevates it above mere period filler.
“The Word Is Love” is a track that, when I listen to it today, feels deeply personal—a micro-story generator. I recall driving late one night, years ago, through a quiet suburban town, the streetlights reflecting off damp asphalt. This song came on a local radio station, and for the four minutes it played, the mundane journey transformed into a scene of gentle cinematic drama. The song’s measured tempo and heartfelt delivery seemed to align perfectly with the feeling of quiet, late-night contemplation. It offered a moment of unexpected grace.
“The quiet realization that the clamour of youth has given way to a more measured, yet still profoundly romantic, view of the world.”
It is a musical moment that contrasts beautifully with the glamour and high energy of much of Richard’s ’80s output. Here, there is a certain grit in the mix, a groundedness that prevents the song from floating away into pure schmaltz. The song carries a genuine weight, a sense of lived experience conveyed through the delicate balance of the melody and the soft-rock arrangement. The complexity lies not in technical virtuosity but in emotional honesty.
This careful crafting reflects a commitment to musical excellence, distinguishing it from purely commercial pop. It’s the kind of song that rewards repeated listening, revealing new instrumental textures and lyrical nuances with each spin. It is a foundational track for a study of Richard’s early 1970s pivot, a subtle but significant piece in the puzzle of his unmatched six-decade career. It proves that longevity in pop is often earned not just by chasing trends, but by recording deeply felt, quality material, regardless of its immediate chart impact.
🎧 Listening Recommendations
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Bread – “Make It With You” (1970): Shares the same warm, acoustic-driven soft-rock sensibility and gentle vocal delivery.
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Gilbert O’Sullivan – “Alone Again (Naturally)” (1972): A similar introspective, piano-centric arrangement with a deep commitment to lyrical storytelling.
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Elton John – “Tiny Dancer” (1971): Possesses the expansive, cinematic quality and tasteful keyboard/guitar layering characteristic of the early ’70s singer-songwriter boom.
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Jim Croce – “Time in a Bottle” (1972): Features a delicate, folk-tinged acoustic guitar arrangement and a focus on intimate, reflective sentiment.
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Carole King – “It’s Too Late” (1971): Represents the gold standard for mature, melodically rich 1970s pop with a focus on restrained musicianship.