I like — maybe love — Odessa. The Bee Gees’ acclaimed 1969 double album could be a “lost” classic — if it had ever really been lost. It was the tail end of psychedelia clinging for life, and the album that temporarily split up the Brothers Gibb. It has been reissued and enjoys its modest fanbase: some casual, some rabid.

Or at least that’s how I imagine it to be. I heard it was worth a listen, read a few reviews, let my imagination run free and typed “Odessa” and “rapidshare” into my search bar.

Prior to their hugely popular run at R&B/Disco-pop stardom, the Gibbs were some punks from Australia who figured they could do what The Beatles did. And by '68, they had some hits to prove it. But 1969’s Odessa awarded no hits and temporarily split the brothers (each around 19 years old at the time). It had lengthy pop songs with tasteful (tasteless?) orchestration, chamber pop vagueries of battles at sea and a couple square-dance numbers … not exactly Ed Sullivan. It was a fatty double album, with instrumental “symphonies,” and a working title of Masterpeace. It didn’t make bank or break charts. Adding to that, the first pressing was lined with crimson felt, causing allergic reactions for record factory workers, resulting in its circulation as an abridged, felt-less cardboard admission of failure.

So, of course, it’s got the lore, ravings and history of a “lost classic,” a modest “masterpiece,” a “cult” gem.

But maybe the music was never that good.

I listened to Odessa casually at first, critically second and now obsessively. I learned two of the songs on piano. I read as many reviews, histories and fanboy musings I could find on it. I was persistent with it. I was patient. I downloaded lousy mp3s before hunting down the original, complete with felt lining. I loved it. I listened to it going to bed, trying to sleep, waking up, working out and drinking.

This summer it was the only album that never left my CD changer and always sat on top of the turntable. Sometimes I propped up the sleeve so I could stare at it. I told myself how great the album could be, letting the album’s storied (probably false and out-of-proportion) history and expectation soak in without actually playing it.

And listens started to occasionally yield a few skips. A few aimless minutes of passive listening. The acceptance that sometimes the hooks don’t hook like they should, this section could have been shorter, impossible things. Maybe I just don’t like “Marley Purt Drive.” Maybe Robin Gibb’s voice really does suck. Maybe I’m bored.

A Saturday's late night cleaning as drunk strangers stumbled out of our bi-level “house” (hah) yielded some unexpected results for Odessa. With lights going out, Odessa spinning and couches freeing up, the TV ended up on a muted Encore presentation of “Jonas Brothers: The Concert Experience,” a film I hadn’t seen.

It looked incredible. The Jonas Brothers changed their outfits at light speed, running out to an HD sea of cell phone screens. Every bead of sweat and string of hair shone. They were rock stars. They had violins. Apparently, the movie was also shot in 3-D.

Tipsy and curious, I muted Odessa mid-song to hear the Brothers Jonas. They didn’t sound like they looked. They didn’t sound like Odessa either, but I wanted them to. Their performance, gawdy, awkward, expensive, huge … it was the Odessa I had always imagined, and I was bummed to realize the album didn’t sound the way I felt it should.

Joe Jonas’s cut-off, lime green v-neck shirt. The way he shook his lower head when he riffed. Clean, maybe a little annoying … just like Robin Gibb. At one point, Kevin, Nick and Joe were lifted on tiny circle platforms 20 feet above the screaming, crying crowd. Their bodyguard rapped.