When I Get Home

Cynthia Lennon: September 10, 1939-April 1, 2015

Richard Furnstein: We lost another one, dear friend. Cynthia Lennon is the latest guest speaker at that Great Beatles Convention In The Sky. Look at that all star panel on the stage: the peaceful John Lennon, the gregarious George Harrison, the noble Mal Evans, the solemn Billy Preston, the monkish Brian Epstein, the jubilant Maureen Starkey, and the emotional Derek Taylor. Golly, there are only a few empty chairs up there now.

Cynthia was always a sad figure in the story of the Beatles. She was a hidden and forgotten part of the Beatles; a too-old-for-her-years figure pining for a fractured man child who would never love or accept the responsibilities and normalcy that she represented. Her big moments speak to betrayal and mistreatment: being hidden from the screaming teenagers to encourage their fantasies of bedding John; bearing and raising the ignored Julian Lennon while her husband toured the world and slept with endless women: refusing the romantic advances of Magic Alex; missing that train to Bangor to meet both the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and Mike Love; and--the final indignity--walking in on John and Yoko together in her Kenwood home.

Robert Bunter: John Lennon was a goddamn asshole. I'm sorry but these are the facts. "Give Peace A Chance" notwithstanding, he was basically a selfish pig and nowhere is that stark reality more apparent than in the life of Cynthia Lennon. Practically the first thing she did after they met was to dye her hair blonde to look more like the sticky, creased portrait of Brigitte Bardot that John carried around in the pocket of his black drannies (drainpipe trousers, a stupid pants style favored by young British rockabilly jerkoffs in the '50s). The relationship quickly became physical, and selfish John cared only about his personal dick stimulation - no primitive UK sheepskin for this drunken Scouse greasepail! So inevitably she becomes pregnant and only then does John ask her to get married. Justice of the Peace or some shit and a drugged up Brian Epstein was the best man with some construction work happening outside (captured in one of Cynthia's great drawings). Oh yeah right Cynthia, it looks like your dreamboat has really docked this time. Get the hell out of here. Next thing you know he's famous and you've already said what happened after that. Oh, one more thing - he beat her.

Richard Furnstein: Exhibit Whatever: stink filler "When I Get Home" from the non-soundtrack side of A Hard Day's Night. In this song, a drunk and violent John finally comes home from a tour of rock n' roll clubs and other moist areas of Portugal. You can almost hear him barge into their lovely Kenwood house, drunk as a fire ant and full of fresh drip infection. Just listen to that primal scream in the introduction, it pretty much shouts out to be let into the damned-door-because-I-lost-my-keys-where-are-my-Buddy-Holly-records-where-is-the-Cutty-Sark-ferchrissake-Cyn. Sure, John has a lot of things to tell her when he gets home, but it's either drunken ramblings about Ringo's flatulence or the amphetamine selection in Lisbon. "Julian has a double ear infection? [Fart noise.] C'mere, I'm 'gonna love you til the cows come home.'" What a disgusting scene. It's all there on the record, Your Honor.

Cynthia wasn't a Jungian archetype, an Oedipal mother figure or a conniving shrew. She was a real person who the real John Lennon fell in love with before he became "John Lennon."

Robert Bunter: Ha, this is the second post in a row where you've talked about how smelly John Lennon was. We can only imagine what he smells like now. But let's back up for a moment and take an objective look at "When I Get Home." This is a pure rock and roll monster. Even by the standards of early Beatles stompers, this track is a revelation. I feel as though I'm hearing it for the first time. John, George and Paul use their trademark three-part harmony on the intense "WO-a-WO HAAAAA!!!!" intro while Ringo beats the shit of of his drums even more than usual and Paul plays a thunderous bassline that almost never strays from the primal root note of every chord. Then you've got John's lead vocal: one of the twentieth century's most compelling voices unleashes a brutal assault that is every bit as heavy as what he would later attempt on "Revolution" or "Cold Turkey." The fact that this was a third-to-last-song-on-side-two throwaway track on an LP filled with much more significant achievements is frankly mind-boggling.

Richard Furnstein: The band really conveys the excitement of a homecoming. Sure, it's got some awful bits (John's Italian-man vocal inflections early in the song, the line "no time for trivialities," and the clunky middle eight), but the the fire behind the vocals and Ringo's good nature enthusiasm are easy to love. Question for you, Robert: is this the most sentimental Cynthia-influenced song in the canon? The most apparent Cynthia references are largely negative or dismissive. John is bored out of skull with domestic life in "Good Morning Good Morning." "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away" is more about Brian Epstein's homosexuality than his denial of his marriage in the early years. "Don't Let Me Down" features that cruel line about being in love for the first time with Yoko. I can't place any sweetheart songs about Cynthia. His early songs are mainly about weeping or coming up with revenge fantasies about the women who mistreated him.

Robert Bunter: I think that's kind of the point. Cynthia wasn't a Jungian archetype, an Oedipal mother figure or a conniving shrew. She was a real person who the real John Lennon fell in love with before he became "John Lennon." When John sang to Cynthia it wasn't from the stage of a baseball stadium or an AM radio speaker. The tender whispers of a young couple before turning out the light; the desperate scribbled vulnerability of letters mailed home from some dank provincial beer hall; the simple touch in a solitary moment or the knowing smile across a crowded room - these were the songs John sang to Cynthia Lennon. As John came to mean more and more to the world at large, perhaps he lost touch with this. He turned himself inside out for all the world to see and we stood in stunned admiration at the candid beauty of his exposed soul and thanked him for the gift. But before he was ours, he was hers. The nowhere man sitting in his nowhere land making all his nowhere plans for nobody while his flesh-and-blood wife and son waited patiently for him to come out of the goddamn TV room and say something to them for a change. Let us consider with humble gratitude that Cynthia was able to emerge from her troubled relationship with John and build a long and happy life for herself, and bid her beautiful spirit a fond farewell. We never really knew her, and that is as it should be.

Tell Me Why

Richard Furnstein: I'm here to tell you: this song reflects the true John Lennon. You can keep the patient dreamer of "Imagine." I don't want to hear about the guardian of childhood imagination in "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds." Get the hell out of here with the tender yet mad genius of "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Nowhere Man." Print out the lyrics for "Tell Me Why" and show them to your therapist. She'll tell you that the author is clearly hiding his self loathing behind his misogynistic aggression. He is obsessed with his own overwhelming sense of misery while being unaware of his the impacts of his emotions on other people. Textbook abandonment issues, related to a fractured relationship with a mother. While most adults enter into relationships for an emotional connection and sexual fulfillment, the protagonist of "Tell Me Why" only pursues women in order to shift blame and fears onto another person. It's pathetic, but what a backbeat.  

Robert Bunter: I can imagine that therapy session. “Mr. Bunter, why don’t you tell me about your childhood?” “Well, doc, actually I want to play you this song from A Hard Day’s Night and get your reaction.” “Mr. Bunter, we’re here to talk about you, not … what are you doing with that portable phonograph player? [sputtering] Mr. Bunter, this is highly irregular! [music starts to play, the attractive woman therapist’s hips begin to involuntarily rock and sway to the irresistible Mersey backbeat] Mr. Bunter! I have never … This is a therapy session, not an episode of Top of the Pops! [the song reaches the bridge] Oh, the hell with it! [therapist dances with wild abdomen]” Yeah, that would be quite a session! Whoo-whee! SHAKE IT! OK, but look: the lyrics may well point to John’s inner fears and issues, but when I hear this song, I’m not listening to the lyrics. I’m hearing the supreme confidence of a master pop craftsman at the top of his game. “She Loves You,” “Can’t Buy Me Love” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand” were the three knock-out punches that really shook the world and launched a thousand black-and-white videos of shrieking girls and crowded airports, but in my opinion, some of the second-tier early rockers like “It Won’t Be Long” and “Tell Me Why” are even more galvanizing. This song makes me feel like I could jump over a building and dance on the head of a pin. Whatever inadvertent subtextual psychological revelations may have been lurking under the manhole cover are ultimately irrelevant. This is the song of a conquering champion on top of the world.

Richard Furnstein: You got that right. The Beatles play "Tell Me Why" during the finale of in A Hard Day's Night. It's a big moment. We finally get to see The Beatles perform live after an hour of watching them get chased by teenage girls, outsmart local cops, and babysit Paul's perverted grandfather. Sure, the exposition was hilarious and occasionally touching, but we were waiting for that rock n' roll party moment. The film footage of "Tell Me Why" is highlighted by a energetic upshift of girl screams. We see close-up shots of these poor girls crying as John and Paul jeer "tell me why you cried." I'll tell you why they cried, John and Paul. They cried because The Beatles destroyed their sad, quiet lives. Wondering which of their with horse-faced classmates would get the lead in the useless school play. Petting that short-haired goon Johnny Titus after the church ice cream social. Listening to their dying fathers smoke in the den. They thought they were happy, but The Beatles showed them that they were miserable. She's leaving home. He's leaving home. Everybody is leaving home. We're starting over.  

Robert Bunter: Yes, the sprouts of a new generation. The seeds of all that came after were planted here. Ringo's just bashing away on the goddamn cymbals, shaking his hair back and forth. The bass is playing jazz-inflected walking bass lines that add to the sense of accelerating propulsion. John's fantastic rock and roll voice has never been in better form, yet it has been nestled into a bed of utterly gorgeous close harmony singing from George and Paul. Here's a pop (!) quiz: what's the best part of this song, the intro, the verse, the chorus, the bridge or the ending? I dare you to answer me.  

Richard Furnstein: The answer is clear: ALL OF THE ABOVE. It's one of those hot typhoon Beatles songs where the individual pieces roll along with little regard for dynamics, despite its relatively simple structure. Similar to "It Won't Be Long," it kicks off with a shouting chorus. I'd particularly like to highlight the bridge. It's a simple build, but exactly what the song needs after the repetitive breezy verse. It's hard not to love Paul and George squeaking towards the falsetto on "Is there anything I can do." It's like they are mocking the hysterical cries of the lying girlfriend. The ending has a classic Beatles resolution, quickly descending in half steps before landing on the D major. That's the stuff!
  
Robert Bunter: Ha! You know, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that. This song is just brimming with positive spirit and joie de vive. It’s perfect. It’s not uncommon for fans and critics to regard the Beatles’ accomplishments as somehow superhuman, usually because of later peak points like “A Day In The Life,” “Hey Jude” or “Old Brown Shoe.” But I would submit that they were already operating as gods on “Tell Me Why.” The whole is greater than the sum of the parts: four primitive, unschooled musicians from a hardscrabble port town with simple guitars and tape recorders somehow managed to trap lightning in a bottle. I’ve said it before, but we should all get down on our knees and give thanks that we are lucky enough to live in a world where “Tell Me Why” not only happened, but was captured on tape and is easily repeatable via simple audio reproduction technology. I tend to insist on original mono UK vinyl pressings in order to appreciate the holy scriptures in their fullest glory, but “Tell Me Why” is an exception. Go ahead, listen to a lossy mp3 with earbuds. Try a third-generation low-bias cassette dub on a primitive GloanTone Pocket Walkman. I don’t care if you’re hearing it through the walls from your sister’s room over a transistor radio. The Force will be transmitted just as strongly as it would have if you were right in the middle of the studio when they cut the take. “Tell Me Why” is as good as Beatles music ever gets.

Richard Furnstein: Kudos to you, old friend.  This is goddamned life.

If I Fell

Richard Furnstein: Good old soppy John Lennon has written a love song, or as close as a love song as he could get at this fragile early stage. He's offering up his heart to a young lady but can't stop bringing up his heartache from a recent relationship. The song quickly goes from the tender sentiment of the first verse to complete emotional insecurity and mind games. John's desire to love is trumped only by his desire to get back at his ex-girlfriend. "So I hope that you see that I would love to love you and that she will cry when she learns we are two" is such an incredibly twisted line. This is young love with an eye towards the rear view mirror. Hold me closer, tiny dancer. That girl that broke my heart is watching us...

Robert Bunter: You’re right about the lyrics – John’s still dealing from a deck stacked with anger, jealousy, spite, uncertainty and betrayal, thanks to his childhood traumas. But for me, the most noteworthy elements here are the musical construction and vocal performance. The melody and chord progression are just utterly lovely, the opening bars are an early example of the Beatles’ career-long habit of starting songs with an arresting intro, and the graceful Lennon/McCartney vocal duet is a small miracle of intuition. This melody would be completely beautiful as a solo Lennon vocal. It would also sound great with George chiming in on some gooey three-part chord stacking a la “This Boy.” A straight duet would have been nice, as well. Yet with their typically unerring instinct for perfection, they decided to use a combination of nicely harmonized lines and unison passages. Mark Hertzgaard described this as sounding like “two meadow hawks, gently gliding around each other” or something like that (I have the book in the car but I don’t feel like going down to get it), and I’ve never been able to listen to this song without remembering that beautiful image. He also described the piccolo trumpet on Penny Lane as sounding like a hummingbird who pauses briefly before a flower before hovering away in delightful patterns. What is this, “Wide World of Animals?” Nice imagery, Hertzgaard, and great song, Beatles.

John’s still dealing from a deck stacked with anger, jealousy, spite, uncertainty and betrayal, thanks to his childhood traumas.

Richard Furnstein: Without a doubt, you are right. Hertzgaard is right. The birds are right. You don't think hawks understand love? Spend some time at a bird sanctuary, son. You'll see beauty, joy, trust issues, in-flight doing it, and other emotional improbabilities. It's all here and dressed up in the loveliest arrangement and recording that The Beatles had yet attempted (yep, that includes "This Boy" and "And I Love Her"). Lennon gives it one of his single best melodies and this one goes in the all time Lennon file along with "Instant Karma" and "Strawberry Fields Forever." Absolute perfection.

Robert Bunter: What else is there to say? I remember the first time I heard this track, as a young man listening to a radio on a Saturday evening near a fireplace in Drexel Hill. Even at the age of seven, I recognized the presence of sophisticated adult emotions that I had no business knowing about yet. I was given to know the bewitching enchantment and paralyzing uncertainty of love. I remember jotting down some notes in my primitive child’s handwriting on the inner pages of my well-worn Trapper Keeper. I still have the paper … it says: “Bewitching enchantment … paralyzing uncertainty … consult Hertzgaard for bird similies,” and then underneath that there’s a drawing of a man sitting on a whoopee cushion and it says “BLAAAAAAT!” coming out of the seat. Those wonderful childhood days have passed, but this immortal song will never go away. Listen to it now, friends, and celebrate the beauty. Happy new year, Rich. 

Richard Furnstein: And a ding dong ding dong to you, too. 

A Hard Day's Night

Robert Bunter: Dawning of a new growth. The four cheeky mopheads had just about conquered the world with their heavy beat, charm, bizarre good looks and passionate repetitive lunging motions onstage. Now they’re going to start breaking down more barriers than we’d even been aware of. The opening mystery chord, seemingly impossible to deconstruct (the secret is a hidden piano note), startles the ear. All of a sudden, John’s bizarre wordplay is pressed into service to complain about the adult themes of hard work, financial security and good love at home. Meanwhile, the flat VII chord (on the words “workin’” and “sleepin’”) takes unexpected liberties with pop conventions. Oh, did I mention it’s also a movie? In black and white when it didn’t have to be? Because it was more artistic that way? Everybody heard this and said to themselves, “Well, I guess we’re going to have to get used to being pleasantly startled by these talented lads from the seaport town of Liverpool, England. Hmmmmm.”

Richard Furnstein: The first chord shakes your teeth and blurs your vision. It's like Hiroshima filtered through a Rickenbacker 12-string. The boys don't hang in suspension long, there are bongos to be played and grimy streets to jog down. The Beatles are in black and white to heighten the contrast of these British Supermen from years of greyscale mediocrity. Ringo trips over Howdy Doody's limp body. George gives a friendly shove to Joe Dimaggio. Be careful with that stiff corpse Ed Sullivan, gentlemen. He's looking out for you. It's all so exciting: The Beatles are here! The world is going to be in color soon! No more atomic dread! We're all going to get laid!'

Robert Bunter: They were so unexpectedly and unapproachably cool, yet they chose as their subject the mundane concerns of workaday, 9-to-5 clock punchers. Just as they did with “She Loves You” and countless other triumphs, The Beatles encourage everyone to join the party. Not for them the sullen, exclusionary sneer of The Rolling Stones, Frank Zappa or (vastly overrated) Velvet Underground. They’re spreading the message to everyone with ears to hear, which equals more money. The more money they made, the better they got. It was a constant, self-stoking cycle of beautiful reinforcement which improved the entire planet. A Hard Day’s Night, you say? Brother, things just keep getting easier and easier! Whoo-wee! SHAKE IT!!

Richard Furnstein: The world is all money and sex from this point forward. "Why on Earth should I moan/'cuz when I get you alone." It's all tip toeing around the honeybush with loosened ties and askew hairdos. Palms of the hand paddle the plaintive rawhide on the bongo in a suggestive manner and the cowbell provides all the innovation and rejuvenation you need in the bridge. It's a veritable barnyard in here, darling. Let's go away for awhile.

Nice bongos. Cultural revolution. Musical innovations.

Robert Bunter: So, I guess that’s all there is to say about this early smash. Great stuff that we can all relate to. Nice bongos. Cultural revolution. Musical innovations. Just another day at the salt mines for four excellent humans who wore moptops instead of hard hats. Now it’s Friday. Cash the check, make dinner reservations and don’t worry about making the bed. It would be pointless to bother with that tonight.

Richard Furnstein: Why wouldn't you bother making the bed... Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I get it.

You Can't Do That

Richard Furnstein: Hmmmm, maybe "You Can't Do That" isn't the best example of the influence of girl groups on songwriting of the early Beatles (especially Lennon). The song is decidedly "anti-girl," perhaps one of the most misogynistic lyrics in Lennon's resume. "I've got something to say that might cause you pain"/"I'm gonna let you down and leave you flat." These lyrics sing nicely (classic early Lennon monosyllabic meter) but suggest actual physical violence if the girl in the lyric continues to actually flirt with other men or any other actions that feed into Lennon's irrational jealous mind ("I can't help my feelings, I go out of my mind").

The title of the song says it all: "You Can't Do That." Not, "I Wish You Wouldn't Do That" or "That Really Hurts Me." Lennon lays down the law, and the judge, the jury, and the executioner seem to be incapable of making rational decisions. Run for your life, indeed.

Robert Bunter: John tries to talk tough over some boilerplate blues changes. The only thing that saves this blustery drag is the amazing vocals and a better-than-usual Harrison solo. Hey, listen to that cowbell! This is the quintessential early Lennon persona – immature, confused, angry, lashing out at the world and especially his meek and mild wife Cynthia. John just got back home from a carousing world tour with lipstick stains on his collarless jacket after countless backstage conquests. He notices out of the corner of his eye that Cynthia smiled at the gardener and proceeds to deliver himself of this screaming, hypocritical tirade. Hey, John, I know you’re angry but I’m going to go ahead and say that you’re completely wrong here.

Richard Furnstein: It's a blistering blend of influences. Like you said, George's honky tonk skronk stands out among the blues. Ringo's cowbell is there strictly to distract; while the cowbell usually helps push a meandering rhythm section into line, this serves more to cover up the venom in Lennon's words. Paul and George play the ladies in he shadows to great effect, echoing John's raw vocal.

The chorus is the true head-scratcher. "Everybody's green, because I'm the one who won your love." Gosh, that's almost sweet. John is admitting that the girl under his thumb is a hot commodity, something to drive other men to jealousy. Shucks turn to shivers when he follows it up with "But if they see you talking that way, they'd laugh in my face." John's admission of the female superiority quickly descends to relationship paranoia and social isolation. And the whole thing is delivered with a chipper, loose feel. Truly disturbing.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. It’s easy to read too much into it, I guess. John was just cranking out another rocker for side two of the soundtrack album. He wasn’t baring his soul, necessarily. I’m going to rate this as competent. It would be great for anyone else, but in the Beatles’ catalog, it’s a snoozer. I’d rather listen to “Dig A Pony,” “Flying,” “This Boy” or “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl,” thank you very much. “You Can’t Do That” is fine if I’m listening to Hard Day’s Night the whole way through or writing a blog entry, but otherwise I’m skipping it.

Richard Furnstein: "I'm going to rate this as competent." If only the same could be said for your analysis of this crucial juncture in the Beatles catalog. You've got artists expanding their worldview and putting themes of insecurity, jealousy, and revenge in an exciting pop format and you are bored? I feel sorry for your brain and your brain's ears.

Robert Bunter: That’s fine, Richard. Leave me alone today.

Richard Furnstein: Cool, I'll just be by myself listening to this great song and Harry Nilsson's incredible arrangement/Beatles tribute.

I'm Happy Just To Dance With You

Richard Furnstein: Chick chop! The rhythm's in the guitars, the Beatles insist. Ringo agrees and plods all over this song. It's girl group by numbers for John Lennon, who dumps the awkward and confusing lyrics on the youngest, worst toothed Beatle. "Before this dance is through, I think I'll love you to" kicks off the song and we're already baffled. Then the salacious Lennon claims that he wants to skip the formalities of love ("hand holding" and "hugging and kissing") and get straight to the dancing. Maybe Lennon is using "dancing" as a metaphor for "crippling co-dependent deviant sexual relationship built on Oedipal humiliation and primal separation anxiety."

Robert Bunter: I hate to say it, but I think this song is really at the bottom of the Beatles barrel. It is an absolutely wonderful barrel and I love every note these young men ever waxed, but "I'm Happy Just To Dance With You" collects several of the worst tendencies of the early moptop years. They had very quickly established a song formula of "startling new innovations." In this case, the novelty embellishments (unconventional minor key introduction and unique chord progression, vague mambo rhythm) come off rather limp and uninspired. Let me hasten to add the usual caveats: they were hugely overworked at this point, being chased around the world by throngs of hooting lunatics, jet-lagged, constantly under pressure from record companies, filming a movie and redefining their generation. So can you blame them for letting loose a few stinkers? I can't. It's fine. Who are we to complain? And yet: this one really suffers from appearing right after the geniuinely revolutionary "If I Fell" and the haunting "And I Love Her."  

Richard Furnstein: I mainly agree with you, although I can find some pleasure in the dramatic chorus and the ghostly backup vocals (some strong Lennon moments back there in the reverb chamber). I mainly find myself loving this song because it's a Harrison vocal on a Lennon/McCartney original; allowing A Hard Day's Night to be the only Beatles album completely composed by Lennon/McCartney. It's a heck of an accomplishment for a band that was running on fumes after the first year of Beatlemania. Yet, as you point out, they were writing their strongest material yet and advancing emotions without dipping too far into schmaltzy waters. "Happy To Dance" is one of the missteps on the album. But, one of the Beatles low points ended up being a huge hit for the Lubbock Babes in the late 1980s. That's the music biz for ya!

I'll Cry Instead

Richard Furnstein: In a perfect union of lyrical theme and music, "I'll Cry Instead" starts with a confused and aimless musical introduction. The focus is on the country and western leanings of Lennon's latest tale of crying over a cruel woman, filtered through Elvis Presley's limited musical language. Paul's bass is the only real foundation in this song, as steady as Bill Black's thick rooting. The guitars and Ringo's drums meander all over the bass line. John is in girl trouble again and his buddies are searching for answers.

Robert Bunter: Personally, I put this one in the top tier of early Lennon angry weepers. The man is just doing what he does best: crying in his beer and angrily pondering the vicissitudes of a rigged game that has once again played him for a loser - a game called love. He's down, but not out. His words are glum, but his tone is menacing. A few more "pints" of lager and this old teddy boy's more than likely to throw his mug at the barroom mirror, laugh maniacally, goose the barmaid, march around imitating Hitler and punch Stu Sutcliffe in the head, unwittingly sowing the seeds of the cerebral hemorrhage which will send the tragic artist to an early grave. This post may be controversial, but I'm just reporting the facts.

Richard Furnstein: No, you are completely right. Lennon admits that he's mad and that he's "got a chip on his shoulder that's bigger than his feet." He only sees two paths ahead of him, make the girl feel sad for her actions or cry out the pain. As always, Lennon talks tough but retreats to the role of the lonely weeper. The proclamation that he'll be back and that the maidens of the world should be locked up is wishful thinking. Lennon will only return to form once he is sufficiently drunk or has entered into another dysfunctional relationship with a controlling woman who fills the role of his dead mother. Best of luck to you, John!

Robert Bunter: Lennon's characteristically inventive bridge plays the usual clever games with key changes and harmonic modulations. It's the kind of thing George tried to do on "You Like Me Too Much," but George came up short. John manages to take us on some weird detours but always remains solidly behind the steering wheel of the bus, taking us where he needs us to go. George's bridge sounds like he's just along for the ride, which is probably the way it was for George as a child, when his father was an actual bus driver in Liverpool. It's no wonder George looked up to John as a surrogate father figure, against which he later had to rebel in order to assert his own agency and independence: John's early bridges reminded him of his father's confident motoring style, while baby George was still trying to reach the pedals and operate a clutch. Hey, I'm sorry - these are the facts.

Richard Furnstein: A great comparison, Robert. I'm always mystified by the bridge (and the structure of the song in general). The way I hear it, "I'll Cry Instead" employs the structure of A-B-A-B-C-A-B-C-A-B. Huh, I guess that's not exotic at all, it just sounds more complicated than that because of the short duration of each of the song's movements and the baffling backing track. You goofs!

Robert Bunter: Sure, it’s baffling. Are the music’s unconventional harmonic motion and structural architecture a conscious attempt to mirror the lyric’s despondence and uncertainty? A tempting analysis, but probably (!) over-thinking it. It’s more likely that John was just cranking out another album filler track for what he called “the meat market” in between crazy screaming stadium gigs and besieged limo rides from luxury hotels to private planes. It’s just a wonderful accident that Lennon’s meat market crank-outs happened to be brilliant pop distillations which provided an unintentional window into their author’s fascinatingly damaged inner life. Who do you think we’re talking about here, Herman and the Hermits? This is The Beatles, and they packed more brilliant inspiration into throwaway tracks on the second side of their soundtrack albums than lesser artists could muster for their triple-lp concept albums, like the Smashing Pumpkins’ dopey Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness or whatever the hell that drippy waste of time was supposed to be called.

Things We Said Today

Richard Furnstein: Ch-ch-ch-ch-chug. Pop quiz: how many absolute perfect melodies have been created by humans in our four thousand years in existence? Two hundred? Forty? Like seven? However you break it down, "Things We Said Today" is hanging out at the top of the list. Paul's
wistful pledge of a new love is so unbelievably exciting and beautiful. The sadness of the verse melody is suspended in a cloud of minor chords; you hardly even notice that Paul's lyric is optimistic. Indeed, Paul loads up on "love" at the all you can eat songwriter buffet (check out "love to hear you say that love is love" in the tremendously awkward bridge). Save some loves for grumpy George, silly!

Robert Bunter: Well I'm just going to have to disagree with your assertion that "Things We Said Today" numbers among the "absolute perfect melodies" of men. Sure it's great, but do you remember a little tune called "Power Cut"? What about "Yesterday," "You Never Give Me Your Money," "You Won't See Me," and "She's Leaving Home"? I'm not going to argue that all of the greatest human melodies (without exception) were written by Paul McCartney - but I'm putting "Things We Said Today" near the upper middle of the list. Sure, it's ahead of "Goodbye" and "I'll Follow The Sun," but it's a ways away from "Blackbird," "Junk," and "Take It Away."
That being said, it is undoubtedly a true pleasure to hear Paul's urgent yet thoughtful meditation on the delights and vagaries of young bohemian love.


Richard Furnstein: More on the lyric: we're not entirely clear how we should interpret the "things we said today." Paul is anticipating a split (either distance or an actual divide with his new love) at the same time he is envisioning a time when he is "deep in love, not a lot too say" with his new lady. He is clearly placing a lot of value on these words; it's a tremendous moment and Paul's head is still cloudy with the new exciting prospects. The listener gets a whiff of the potential love twice in the song: in the introduction and the (hasty) fade-out. The aggressive strum of the acoustic guitar takes the place of the young lover's hearts. The rhythm tumbles throughout the song, pushing melodies into one another. It's so beautifully perfect that you have to accept Paul's minor lyrical fumblings. The boy has a lot on his mind and he has no idea how to tell you what he's been through.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. This song captures the essence of young love, when you're intoxicated with the heady emotions of incipient adulthood, yet still an unformed boy. Maturity is still just a concept; powerful new feelings define a compelling world of grown-up agency and freedom, but then as soon as you smell her hair, all control is forfeited in a swirl of boyish confusion. She holds all the cards, yet who even knows the rules of the game? What's the move? What's the object? Is anybody asking for promises? That is what it was like for all of us. Paul's haunting melodic construction (I would call it perhaps the most perfect melody ever created by humans) revels in the contradictions.

Richard Furnstein: I like to walk up to dudes wearing Beatles t-shirts or bomber jackets and say "Things We Said Today" to them. If I get a thumbs up, I know the guy is a true Beatlemaniac and he has a lifetime pass to the brotherhood. If he says "Pardon?" or "Get bent" I'm putting him on poseur notice. This song is for the true hearts.

And I Love Her

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney is in love. Let him tell you about it. He doesn't pull any punches, love is the only noun and verb that can reflect Paul's feelings. Ringo's claves provide the steady heartbeat of this song; a call and response between two hearts with the cold resonance of a symphony of crickets.

Robert Bunter: Oh man, that's deep. McCartney is singing a melody of joyful devotion, but the downcast, melancholy chord changes and moody gut-string guitars sing a different tune. He knows that his wonderful relationship with Jane Asher (or whoever he was sparking when he wrote this one) is supposed to bring happiness and set his mind at ease, but deep down he is aware that life is fleeting and love is even more so. He's saying one thing and meaning another. In literature, that's called irony.

Richard Furnstein: It's a transient love; one born of young, misguided feelings. A potent brew, but he realizes that it could pass at any moment. "If you saw my love you'd love her to, I love her." He has no choice. This is a puppy love anthem. However, it is important to realize that puppies are easily distracted and can start chasing a paper cup down the street and lose their owners. "A love like ours could never die as long as I have you near me." Watch your love, love.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. It's like listening to a guy tell you about how happy he is while he's in the process of engraving a suicide note onto a piece of paper that he made from bits of his own torn-off skin and marinated in his tears.

Richard Furnstein: Yeah. "And I love her." It's like an afterthought. Oh, by the way, I'm in love. 

Robert Bunter: It's clever, the way they ended the song on that unexpected major chord (perhaps the only Picardy third in the Fabs' catalogue?), which just sets the listener up so perfectly for "Tell Me Why," which is coming up next on the wonderful A Hard Day's Night album.

Richard Furnstein: So we agree: it's one of Paul's prettiest numbers but also thematically and sonically baffling. Whoa, this was packaged with "If I Fell" for a single? Be still my beating heart!

Can't Buy Me Love

Richard Furnstein: I really really want to be jaded about this song. It's a pretty mindless McCartney story song (part of his "Diamond Rings Collection"), features standard bashing from all four members, and provided the title to a regrettable Patrick Dempsey film with loose moral and social messages. Having said that, it's really hard to dislike this one. Paul shouts in that perfect way; Little Richard without all the threats of casual buggery and confounding slang. Ringo makes it personal against his cymbals. John and George stay out of the gee-darn way; this song isn't about them and their six string egos. Let Paul steer the boat for a bit.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. I think you have to put yourself back in 1964 to really analyze this one. With ears that have been spoiled by the intervening years of sonic delight the Beatles dished out like so much ice cream, "Can't Buy Me Love" definitely sounds a little impoverished. Dopey 12-bar blues changes, poorly-doubled guitar solo, sub-par lyrics. I'm sure the kids who bought this thing back in those primitive early years received it as a sonic revolution, but I want to go back in a time machine and yell in their face: "You have no idea what's coming down the pike, stupid punk kid. If you think this song is great, you're wrong. IT STINKS." But, really, it doesn't. I would be wrong in that scenario.

Richard Furnstein: While the lyrics are pretty incidental to this song, it does suggest a greater conflict with the Beatles during A Hard Day's Night. The band were clearly financial secure, the only limitations on this pod of incrediwhales were time and trust. "Can't Buy Me Love" strives for an emotional security. It's a tough lesson for a band of manchildren, who often secured their sexual needs in Hamburg with low cost, physically fearsome prostitutes. The Beatles' rapid ascent to fame certainly raised serious questions about emotional trust. Keep in mind, this is a band whose natural leaders were still coping with the deaths of their mothers. Paul hides all of this with some throwaway lyrics like "my friend" and "diamond rings," but the message of emotional dislocation is clear.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, what a shame the Beatles can't find true love because the women around them are too materialistic. I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with the fact that they drank to excess, paid off their castaway girlfriends to hide out-of-wedlock children, cheated on their wives and sexually assaulted terrified 15-year-old groupies in the dank concrete hallways of innumerable baseball stadiums and sports arenas.


Richard Furnstein: That's wild, but it's also wild that they didn't fade this one out. It features one of the more indecisive endings in the early Beatles catalog.

Robert Bunter: Also: nice use of acoustic guitar from the wonderful, creative early Beatles on this delightful track.

Anytime At All

Robert Bunter: On the surface, this sounds like the kind of lightweight, by-the-numbers moptop pop that John would dismiss so blithely in years to come. Granted, there's no sitar break, mellotron loops, primal screaming or string section. Still, this song plays to all the strengths of the early Beatles. Out-of-the-ordinary chord progressions, pounding Mersey beat, throat ripping vocals, an unorthodox piano/12-string solo near the end, and lyrics addressed directly to the listener.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon's back at the work site. Sure, there's a sense that this song was more obligation than inspiration, but there are still some neat parts to geek out over. The verse is particularly pretty; Lennon overlays the verse lines as close as he can without having to overdub the end of the previous bar. This prefaces a somewhat similar crammed approach on "All You Need Is Love." Single piano bass notes fill out the verses, providing a nice contrast to George's Rickenbacker twinkles. Ringo keeps the jumbled nature of this song on track, and it all starts with his commanding snare hit at the top of the song.

Robert Bunter: John was turning his heart into a mass-produced product, available for purchase by teenage girls across the globe. In the process, he became emotionally unavailable to his wife and son. After giving himself so completely to the world, there was nothing left for the people around him. The needle on the John tank was on "E." Julian asks Cynthia, "Where's daddy?" And the answer was, "Nowhere, man."

I'll Be Back

Richard Furnstein: C'mon, John. Learn your lesson already. There's a difference between wanting someone in your life and needing them in your life. Just let it go this time, this girl's already broken your heart. Then you peeped at her through her bedroom window, cried and moaned, and wrote this song thirty other times. However, I do appreciate that you broke out your old Everly Brothers records for this one. Oh, and you brought along a beautiful bridge as well? Come right in, Mr. Lennon, all is forgiven. Tell me about this indecisive woman who broke your heart that is also your soulmate that you need to be whole. I'm all ears.

Robert Bunter: When I hear this song, I start to think about how cleverly it wavers between major and minor tonalities, heightening the emotional drama of the lyric. Then I think about the beautiful arrangement: gentle guitars, soft drums and the sweet vocal harmonies of two guys I like to call John Winston Lennon and James Paul McCartney. Next, I start to perspire and my left side starts to feel numb. After that, I think back to my childhood. Finally, I am spent. I slump backward into my chair and try to recover my composure before someone comes into the room and finds me gazing blankly at the fine print on the back of the Hard Day's Night sleeve with twitchy eyelids and a heart full of longing.

Richard Furnstein: More on that bridge: it rules and you need to listen to the waltz version on the Anthology. John and Paul quickly realize that the 3/4 version doesn't jive with the bridge. John abandons ship with some grumbly English gibberish. Then BAM POW the perfect editing leads you straight to a killer four on the floor early version with prominent George 12-string flourishes. Hooray, the Beatles! You did it again!

I Should Have Known Better

Robert Bunter: Here's a question - why did this track appear on the ridiculous Allen Klein brainstorm Hey Jude (aka The Beatles Again) LP? Was it left off the US pressings of "A Hard Day's Night?" Let me go check; I'm not sure because even in the '60s as a young American boy I only purchased the original UK Parlophone mono from hard-to-find import shops. Hold on a sec.

Richard Furnstein: Cool, while you are off searching your Beatles/Wings/All Starr Band shelf to find out what is what, I'll talk about the actual music. BANG CLANG goes Ringo on the cymbals, the Beatles are off to work on a groovy chain gang. George is all suspense on the sweet Rickenbacker and Paul sits back and rattles his hair and big old doe eyes.

John wants to tell us about his new and exciting love, a love that "can only happen to (him)." Good for you, John. However, I question your knowledge of this "love" thing. "If this is love you gotta give me more"? Dude, you don't even know? I guess you are going to ask the girl? You are definitely going to blow the moment, you weirdo.

Robert Bunter: I'm back ... it WAS on the red US pressings. Why did this wind up on that abominable odds and sods masterpiece? Oh, you want to hear about the music? Boilerplate Lennon mush with dumb chords, formulaic lyrics, a one-note melody and overbearing"mouth organ" (!) high in the mix. It's pretty good; one thing I'll say here is that it's amazing John was able to double-track his voice so accurately. It sounds like just one guy.

Richard Furnstein: The vocals on Wire's "I Should Have Know Better" are definitely one guy. And that guy is muscular agitated bass player Graham Lewis. I guess he was the George of Wire, he seemed to be the angriest guy in the band. Terrible drum sound on that song, by the way. Ringo should have tuned them up for those guys. It could have happened, they were both in England!