Devil In Her Heart

Richard Furnstein: I can't even begin to tell you how much I love this one. George stands on his tippy toes and pretends he is John. It's so sweet and charming that I could puke. Little kid brother does his cool brother proud. This is the George that could have been; a light headed rock machine that makes the most mundane passages sound a bit off (ethnic?) because of his weird shaped mouth. It's a George without creative insecurities or half-baked Eastern philosophies. The Beatles just dress him up with an oversized Gretsch and point him to the microphone. "You sing this one, Georgie! Wait until you get a load of this, Little George is just like a big bad rocker!"

Robert Bunter: What I really like about this one is the vocal harmonies. The blend is thick and syrupy, with melancholy jazz chords flowing like molten brown cocoa butter from the mouths of three hard-rockin' British lads. It must have taken a lot of practice to get those parts right. I would have really enjoyed the chance to sit in on those rehearsal sessions. 

What's that, ma? No, I don't think I'm going to get that haircut we were planning on.

Richard Furnstein: When people ask me why With The Beatles is the greatest Beatles album, I just give the four word answer "Devil In Her Heart." It provides endless excitement, in part because you are bound to forget about this song and its perfect sound and performance. It's up there with "Little Child" and "Chains" as the most forgettable Beatles songs. And, you know what? Shame on you, brain. It's an album track like "Devil In Her Heart" that turns a great album into the best album possible. The performance shows the boys providing plenty of restraint. They may have been wild dogs trained in the depths of Germany's rock and roll toilets, but you wouldn't know if from the gentle push of this song.

Robert Bunter: So much of the early Beatles repertoire was aimed at the screaming nubile ladypersons who made up more than half of their audience in those days, but this is a song for the boys. The lyric is addressed to a male listener, of course, but I'm talking about the overall sound. This is something you could put on the plastic record player in your green 1964 adolescent room after you've just come home from riding your bike through the woods trails behind old man Gruber's vacant lot. Go ahead and take off your baseball cap, wipe the sweat from your brow and let the masculine yet sensitive sounds of this strange new band take your mind away. Maybe it's time to start saving the paper route money for that aqua-colored Harmony plug-in guitar you saw last week in the window at Gloanburg's. What's that, ma? No, I don't think I'm going to get that haircut we were planning on.