Robert Bunter: Well of course you're absolutely right, but the apparent simplicity and restraint actually conceal some characteristically inventive moves. The insistent eighth-note handclaps underlying almost the entire two minutes of the track's duration evoke the then-unheard texture of a scratched-up CD-R attempting to be read by your player, which strangely seem to line up with the beat regardless of the source material. The effect evokes the original version, which featured a similarly disorienting rhythmic figure caused by the primitive slapback echo on the acoustic guitar interacting with the understated mambo of Jerry Allison's horny tom-toms. The vocal harmonies (which the Beatles reproduced in full) eschew the luxurious stacked intervals of doo-wop in favor of low-register perfect fifths that give the impression of a chant or incantation. The overall mood is one of mature, adult serenity - more like a porcelain mug of espresso or a snifter of Grand Marnier than a paper cup of punch in my opinion. I hope I haven't been too confrontational here.
Richard Furnstein: Not at all, my dear old friend. I appreciate your frankness and am genuinely excited to talk about this song. It reminds me of so many late nights at Ramada Inns, discussing the hidden delights on Beatles For Sales with other attendees of the local Beatlefest. "Did you know that Ringo played a packing case on 'Words Of Love'?" "Of course I do! Is that like a wooden packing crate or just a common wooden box?" "Should we call my cousin? He lives outside of London and I'm sure he'd know. It's already 9:30 in the morning there!" Moments like this were like boldly opening a properly folded road atlas on the bonnet at the car park. A cuppa on the dash to fuel our adventures and a rucksack of crisps and sausage rolls in the boot. It almost didn't matter where our journeys would take us. We were just happy to engage in the sacred conversations of Beatle fandom, to solve the puzzles left for us by these faraway beings, to find a way to feel closer to our memories as the world around us became more certain. "There's A Place," indeed. And I feel a familiar tingle as we head there once again.
Robert Bunter: It's true, we had a lot of fun at BeatleFest. I get hungry just thinking about those sausage rolls. On the other hand, I get nauseated when I think about other humble British street foods like pie mash, jellied eels, smack barm pey wet, and Lancashire cockles. You have to eat some of those things really fast right out of the deep fryer or else in about five minutes you're going to have a greasy, inedible mess and you'll get fingerprints all over the picture sleeve of the Beatles For Sale (No. 2) EP that you just bought from Stan Panenka from his special under the counter box where he keeps the real goods.
Richard Furnstein: "Words Of Love" is a showcase for unique harmonies of the Beatles' singers. I've always thought Buddy Holly meant something unique to each of the boys. George always seemed inspired by the slashing open chords and leaned on some of the early rock simplicity in his pre-Rubber Soul offerings and frequently reverted to these tricks throughout his solo career. John loved that Buddy wore glasses and named his band as a nod to The Crickets. Paul tapped into the optimism of the lovelorn that defined so much of Buddy Holly's work. And lest we forget, Paul purchased the Buddy Holly song publishing catalog in the seventies. This resulted in the Denny Laine album Holly Days (produced by McCartney and a nice revenue stream for Paul after the ink was dry on the contract. Later, McCartney's business move inspired his friend Michael Jackson to buy out the Northern Songs catalog from Yoko Ono and McCartney, resulting in a lifetime of Beatles tunes used in unfortunate advertisements and a decrease in funds for the skinflint McCartney.
Robert Bunter: Maybe we're being too kind though. We can see the inclusion of "Words Of Love" on Beatles For Sale as a thoughtful homage to a primal formative influence, but it's no less true to label this track "exhibit A" in the case for this album as a slapdash, relatively uninspired cash-in. Robert Freeman's iconic cover portrait tells the story all too candidly. It's late '64, the boys are hungover and bone-tired after three straight years of nonstop running and screaming. The EMI honchos are howling for fresh product to feed the masses and nevermind if it's a greasy inedible pile of Devonshire craw urchins a few too many minutes out of the deep fryer. Trudge into the studio and crank out a few old chestnuts from the bar band days to pad out the tracklist, boys. I know we've covered this ground before, but in a better world they would have been given time and space to develop an LP's worth of the inspired acoustic folk rock that started side one off so promisingly ("No Reply," "I'm A Loser," "Baby's In Black"). Instead it's a bunch of goddamn shit like "Words Of Love."
Richard Furnstein: Crikey, you're right. This song is nothing more than a smear of HP Brown Sauce and some greasy scotch egg crumbles leaking through on the cafe grade paper plates. I want my five pence back, Doris. No hungry.
