A Luminous Ode to Love’s Transformative Power
When Jefferson Starship released “Miracles” in June 1975 as the lead single from their album Red Octopus, it soared to number 3 on the Billboard Hot 100 by September, a shimmering testament to a band reborn and a love exalted. For those who navigated the mid-’70s—a time of bell-bottoms, heartbreak, and healing—this song was a radiant beacon, spilling from car radios and hi-fi speakers with a glow that felt almost holy. Older listeners today can still hear its lush harmonies, taste the salt air of a San Francisco night, and feel the tender pull of a melody that wrapped around the soul like a lover’s arms, promising something extraordinary in the ordinary.
The story behind “Miracles” is one of passion and renewal, penned by Marty Balin amid the glow of a new romance and a band finding its footing. After Jefferson Airplane’s turbulent psychedelic reign, Balin returned to the fold in ’74, bringing with him a ballad inspired by his girlfriend, Susan Joy Finkelstein, whose presence lit up his world. Written in a burst of devotion, it was recorded at Wally Heider Studios with producer Larry Cox, where Balin’s soulful croon met Grace Slick and Paul Kantner’s backing vocals, layered over David Freiberg’s funky bass and Craig Chaquico’s delicate guitar. At over six minutes in its full form—trimmed to four for the single—it was a risk, but its sensuality (“If only you believe like I believe, baby, we’d get by”) hit like a tidal wave. For those who caught it live at Winterland or on The Midnight Special, it’s a memory of a band reborn, shedding acid-rock chaos for something softer, deeper, truer.
At its heart, “Miracles” is a celebration of love as a miracle—a force that defies logic, heals wounds, and lifts us beyond the mundane. “I had a taste of the real world when I went down on you, girl,” Balin sings with raw intimacy, a line that startled radio censors but spoke to the visceral power of connection. It’s not just romance; it’s faith in the unseen, a belief that two souls can spark something divine. For older ears, it’s a wistful echo of a time when love felt boundless—the late-night confessions, the quiet mornings after, the moments when the world shrank to just two beating hearts. The song’s jazzy sway and orchestral swell carry a promise: miracles aren’t fairy tales; they’re the everyday magic of being truly seen.
To drift back into “Miracles” is to step into 1975’s golden haze—the flicker of a lava lamp, the hum of a turntable spinning late into the night, the brush of a hand that changed everything. It’s the sound of a rooftop party under a starry Bay sky, the sigh of a generation finding solace after years of upheaval. For those who’ve held it close through decades, it’s a soft bruise on the memory—a reminder of when love was a revelation, when music could make you believe in the impossible. Jefferson Starship didn’t just craft a hit; they bottled a feeling, a fleeting eternity that still whispers to anyone who’s ever dared to love with all they’ve got.