Words Of Love

Richard Furnstein: "Words Of Love" is a cover of an innocuous yet revolutionary Buddy Holly song (surely the most innocuous yet revolutionary artist in music history). As a holdover from their time vibrating on sticky stages in bratwurst halls in Hamburg, it provides a handy key to the harmonic foundations of the group. Indeed, there's a gentle simple charm to how perfectly restrained the voices of Lennon/McCartney/Harrison are on the track as they simultaneously push their droning vocal lines (heeeeeeeeeeeear, truuuuuuuuuuuuuue). It's a light touch on the back and a drink of punch from a paper cup at the sock hop, so it's a genuine delight to imagine them delivering these angelic chords to methamphetamine-enhanced white power horndogs in a foreign land. You spilled some on your trousers, mate.

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.

Every Little Thing

Robert Bunter: This song (from 1964’s Beatles For Sale LP) sits solidly among the late early period (or the early middle period). The acoustic textures, chiming 12-string guitars and harmonic maturity point the way ahead to Help! and Rubber Soul, but the simplistic boy-girl lyrics seem to be a relic of an earlier time. This is one of those songs where I can’t quite tell who was the primary songwriter, and I’m not going to cheat by looking it up. John and Paul blend their voices in practiced unison on the verses, although Lennon seems to dominate. In the chorus it’s the opposite, with Paul’s high harmony in the foreground. The absence of barbed lyrical wordplay and edgy expressions of hurt and anger lead me to believe it was Paul. What do you think Richard? Am I right?

Richard Furnstein: You are deep in the groove in this one, old friend. It was written by Paul but sung by John. This bit of rock and roll masquerade fits nicely next to Ringo's "Honey Don't" on Beatles For Sale; the Carl Perkins song used to be sung by John back in the rock and roll toilet days. I hear "Every Little Thing" as the last Beatles tribute to the American girl group sound that dominated the first two albums. That's why I think Lennon is the perfect lead on this track; he absolutely captured the angst and fury of the girl groups in their early repertoire. "Every Little Thing" is definitely one of those minor but pleasant transition numbers for the group. Imagine "Every Little Thing," "You Like Me Too Much," "It's Only Love," and "Tell Me What You See" comprising an extended play in early 1965. These songs find the band stretching out ever so slightly. They just lack the inspiration and pharmaceuticals to blast off to the next level.

Throw a Lennon wheezing harmonica over the instrumental breaks and I'd be in heaven!

Robert Bunter: I will imagine it. [pause] Wow! What a terrific EP! The prospect of hypothetical should-have-been Beatle records from this period is intoxicating. Of course, they did what they did and it stands perfectly as it is, but if they’d taken just a few different steps, we might have had even more and better discs to cherish. How about this scenario: John explores his nascent interest in downhearted Dylan-influenced folk rock on a solo LP. Meanwhile, the boring ‘50s rock and roll crap on Beatles For Sale gets shunted off to an EP, to accompany the early ’65 just-starting-to-spread-their-wings EP you described above. So where does that leave Beatles For Sale? I’ll tell you where: with another dozen bracing, innovative rockers like “I Feel Fine” (released alongside Beatles For Sale as a standalone single backed with “She’s A Woman.”) Here are the titles: “Without Love,” “Think About It,” “Take A Number,” “You’ll Always Know,” “After Someone,” “Call To Her,” “Until Another Time,” “Suit Yourself,” “Your Love Is Still Here,” “Look Out My Door,” “Every Letter” and an uninspired 12-bar-blues instrumental called “Squeaky.” Beatles For Sale? I’M BUYING.

Richard Furnstein: What a pants-shifter of a dream, my dear pal. Your album of mid-period mediocrity would have surely been a huge hit with the power pop universe of grown men in ill fitting dungarees singing vague songs about teenagers in love. Imagine if Matthew Sweet or the jugband cretins in Brinsley Schwarz grabbed hold of another cache of indifferent 1964 Beatles songs. It's easy to think about the "what if" scenarios in the Beatles For Sale/Help! era as the exhausted band was trying to find the next big thing while legions of Americans with shaggy haircuts and Rickenbackers were approaching their throne. Beatles For Sale is a little unsettling because the band isn't quite sure how to set themselves apart, both in terms of songwriting and the sonic touches. The mopey-Lennon-does-Dylan direction has promise but little box office appeal. Beatles For Sale was definitely rushed for Christmas delivery, so even the production innovations and mood swings from A Hard Day's Night are largely absent. "Every Little Thing" has more of a spark than most of the songs on this set, but it suffers from a drag on the verses, dopey lyrics, and stale 12 string touches. I'd love to hear a version of this with a bit more of the With The Beatles amphetamine flexing. Criminy, throw a Lennon wheezing harmonica over the instrumental breaks and I'd be in heaven!

Robert Bunter: Yeah, but these are all just so many pennywhistles and monkeydreams. Let’s keep our feet on the ground in the real world and deal squarely with the plain facts: Beatles For Sale served up a relatively lean meal and left listeners wishing for more. It’s a nice album to discover tucked in the back of the cupboard after you’ve gorged yourself sick on the more immediately appealing platters, but when push comes to shove you’re left sitting there with an empty bowl and some crumbs stuck on your face.

Richard Furnstein: Welcome to my lifestyle, mon frere.

Rock And Roll Music

Robert Bunter: This song is operating on many confusing meta-levels. It’s like a mirror gazing into a mirror or a beatnik contemplating a box of Morton’s salt (“Like, the girl in the raincoat is holding a small box of Morton’s salt which is illustrated with the same girl holding the same box of salt! Dig that, man! Real gone!”) You’ve got Chuck Berry, who was simultaneously inventing rock music and commenting on it. Then you’ve got the Beatles in the process of reinventing it, doing a cover version of the self-referential Chuck Berry song. Is it an affectionate tribute to an inspirational oldie of the past? An ironic comment on the stifling conventions of ‘50s rock – conventions that the Beatles were in the process of upending? Was this a crucial return to roots or a moldy bit of filler from the Cavern setlist to pad out “Beatles For Sale?” Does John actually say “It’s got a black beat” at 2:13? Is that how you’re supposed to pronounce the word “mambo?”

Richard Furnstein: The song's protagonist claims to be a lover of rock and roll music. However, like many connoisseurs, his palate has become too specific to truly understand the simple pleasures of his obsession. He's haunted during his pursuit for the perfect beat. His nagging qualifiers are removing him from the primal joys experienced by the revelers described in this song. The song takes us on a colorful journey through modern jazz clubs, a rough and tumble American road house, jubilant parties filled with moonshine and slow-eyed women, and an exotic tango/mambo/congo land full of bananas and rum. Our hero has a great time on his voyage, yet approaches each of these scenarios with a dismissive and detached tone ("I must admit they had a rockin' band"). He returns once again to his plain hamburger with extra ketchup (rock and roll music), eating the fried patty while staring out of a greasy diner window.  

Robert Bunter: Yes. Yes. And then we have the late ’64, “Beatles For Sale”-era Beatles. They’ve just conquered the world with their radical redesign of rock and roll music’s original architecture, yet they are at pains to make sure all their new young fans know how they feel about Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Carl Perkins, Little Richard and Larry Williams. The kids are standing there in their stupid rooms staring at the front cover sleeve photo of four gloomy mop tops in raincoats and thinking, “Well, it’s really nice that you guys liked Buddy Holly enough to cover ‘Words Of Love,’ but wouldn’t that space on the album have been better filled by another ‘I Don’t Want To Spoil The Party’ or ‘No Reply’?” and meanwhile the Beatles are over here like: “Listen to the track. You must mind the roots that the blooms may blossom. Mind the roots.” And the kid’s like: “What?”

You must mind the
roots that the blooms may blossom. Mind the roots.

Richard Furnstein: You are truly an apologist if you think Beatles For Sale was a loving tribute to the roots of rock 'n roll. The cover depicts four weary men staring through an autumnal haze at the fickle consumer. It's almost a day after shot of those charming face-pullers from the sleeve of A Hard Day's Night. "Sorry, we're a little knackered today from being chased by girls and singing an exciting blend of sexually-charged original compositions. Would you like to hear a poorly recorded Carl Perkins song? No? Sorry."

The album's contents suggested a combination of emerging post-fame insecurities (especially for the overly sensitive John Lennon) and creative exhaustion. "Rock and Roll Music" is one of the few exciting moments on this album, especially coming after the misery triumvirate of "No Reply," "I'm A Loser," and "Baby's In Black." Lennon's voice shines like the best moments on With The Beatles; the reverb effect which weighs down the contemporary cover "Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby" is a much better fit here. Staid, conservatory trained George Martin busts loose with a rollicking caveman piano overdub. The rhythm sections is sleepwalking through this standard, but its fun to hear Ringo play it high and loose with the cymbals while Paul takes his beast for a walk. No problem!  

Robert Bunter: Yeah, they were tired but managed to rally nicely on "Rock And Roll Music" and many other moments of Beatles For Sale, truth be told. It has a reputation for taking a dip in the quality control department, but that's part of the charm. This was a "typical" Beatles album, another product from the factory (hence the title). It's like when you're reading MAD Magazine and one of the little cartoons shows somebody reading a copy of MAD Magazine, it's always a perfectly generic copy, with nothing on the cover but the logo and a plain, unadorned portrait of Alfred E. Neuman. When I saw that, I wanted to own that issue. It's the same with Beatles For Sale. Rubber and Revolver and Pepper and White and Abbey and Let It (as I call them) are each so singular and unprecedented that they defy contemplation as mere albums in the discography of a talented beat group - they were epochal touchstones, culture-bearers, departure points for the sprouts of a new generation. But while everyone else is admiring the lofty peaks of those towering accomplishments, it is the unique pleasure of the discerning fan to wander in a journey of discovery amidst lowly, earthbound records like Beatles For Sale.

Richard Furnstein: Gosh, I feel guilty for every thinking that Beatles For Sale was an inferior Beatles product--marked by relatively poor production and an underwhelming tracklist. It's a vital piece of the whole. Nostalgia drives Beatles For Sale, both in the rock and roll sounds of their early years in Liverpool and Hamburg and in the yearning for the simplicity of life before their sudden fame. Did they not bleed during its creation? Yes, look at that Dixie cup sitting in the vocal booth. That's where John spit out blood between takes of "No Reply." Did they not sweat during its creation? Surely you can see the sweat crystals on George's leather guitar strap and the damp posterior grooves on Ringo's throne. And what of the fans? Did we not scream and woo and wonder at its (admittedly) lesser majesty? Of course we did. Get the hell over here, sweet love. Let your hair flow down and dance with me to this wild rock and roll music. They're playing our song again.

Honey Don't

Richard Furnstein: Sub-Monkees filler from the greatest rock band in forever history. It's a truly uninspired offering from an exhausted band. Ringo manages the simple country 'n western just fine. George is encouraged to "rock on one time" two separate times, but he sleepwalks through both cookie cutter solos. John is determined not to let the pace get out of hand as he anchors the song with his lead footed acoustic.  I know what you are saying, "Get in there, Paul. Save this mess." Paul checked out man. He's probably delivering his walking bassline while reading The Daily Mail or wondering if he can make it to the playhouse to see Jane Asher's evening performance. The song finally ends. The band nod to one another and nervously eyes the control room. George Martin pushes the intercom button and speaks in a measured professional tone: "Well, boys. It's a song and it's right around three minutes. Let's call it a day." Then they drove away in their brand new Aston Martins while smoking phenomenal drugs. It's just another Monday in the world of The Beatles.

Robert Bunter: The powerful Beatles unleash another crucial track, casting a loving eye to yesteryear and the Carl Perkins rockabilly roots they all shared. From the striking re-invention of the classic blues turnaround in the opening seconds, the Fabulous Four revisit the primal excitement of manly, self-assured rock and twang. John's powerful acoustic anchors the ship, while George's jazz-inflected major sixth flourishes and irresistible boogie-woogie set the sails of joy wide and high. Unlikely captain Ringo stands at the ship's weathered wooden wheel, a tight smile of grim approval on his face which breaks into a full-spectrum grin when the salty breeze blows in (from the west, as in country-and-western) on the guitar solo. Meanwhile, Paul's admirable restraint suits the occasion just perfectly. In his mind he was getting ready to write half of Rubber Soul and experiment with tape loops and William S. Burroughs cut-ups, but for the moment, Ringo's in the spotlight. Hang back and play the old classic riffs with conviction while Ritchie's calm hand guides the tiller. The seas are smooth and we're making great progress. What's the destination? SERGEANT PEPPER'S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND, the greatest record ever made! All aboard, humans! The cooler is below-decks, help yourself to a goddamn beer. We're singing country music.

All aboard, humans! The cooler is below-decks, help yourself to a goddamn beer. We're singing country music.

Richard Furnstein: Imagine it in your mind: It's Autumn, 1964. A group of young geniuses check in as usual to Abbey Road's state-of-the-art studio in London. They were at the epicenter of creative change in an already turbulent decade. It's time to master their next holiday offering. The boys sit in calm wonder as they listen to the fruits of their recent sessions. Everyone is excited about John's clutch of songs about love and misery, sure. But a feeling of dread takes over once they listen to their final takes. They had all forgotten about that late night session where Ringo fumbled through a Carl Perkins number. To be fair, the song itself was crap to being with. The band's performance took that underwhelming Perkins number and added a layer of white calcium deposit on the limp pile of dog feces that is "Honey Don't." The band quickly debated inserting the infinitely superior "Leave My Kitten Alone" onto the track listing, but it was determined that they needed a Ringo song on the album. "It's not that bad, is it lads?" Ringo offered to his exhausted band mates. "It's terrible, Richie. We need to become a better band or we're going to have to break up," Paul replied. And then George said: "Hey, maybe we can add some weird instruments or something and re-energize?" John didn't say anything. He was working on A Spaniard In The Works and didn't really care to listen to "Honey Don't" ever again.

Robert Bunter: The times they were a-changing. The love revolution which the Beatles had ignited was progressing nicely. Strange new sickly-sweet smoke smells were starting to drift up to the streets from the shuttered basements of advanced bohemia. The children of the greatest generation were beginning to question the grey assumptions of Establishment rules, but slowly. The flower people are still just germinated seeds for the moment, waiting underground for the sunshine of Revolver to bring them springing forth from the brown, earthy loam of Rubber Soul. Beatles For Sale, meanwhile, was the spring rain. Gentle, melancholy showers that keep you inside for the afternoon but lay the groundwork for the morrow's budding sprouts. "Honey Don't" is the music that was playing on the AM radio during that gentle rainy afternoon, while you sat inside and listened and smiled gently to yourself about something that you haven't quite been able to put your finger on yet. Put the teakettle on the boil and consider purchasing a brightly-coloured, flowing cloak. Something tells me we're in for a hell of a summer.

Baby's In Black

Richard Furnstein: A lumbering mess of a song. John Lennon dips his brush into the "color as emotional metaphor" palette once again, and the audience knows he is struggling to convey human emotions. To be fair, he was an emotional beast that probably found relief in the simple old rock color cliches (black is death, blue is sadness, red is sex or danger). His psychedelic period would find him approximating colors to help shade his disintegrating mind (tangerine trees, marmalade skies, et al). In "Baby's In Black," John stays as close as he can to the primary colors and emotions and still can't manage a coherent storyline. It's a love song to a grieving girl, but Lennon eschews empathy for the widow (?) and instead moans about wanting to hold her hand or some mess. C'mon, John. You can do better than this. We all know that you are tired and you guys are closing in on being a second-rate Monkees on Beatles For Sale, but you can turn this around. Here, smoke this. It might help.

Robert Bunter: I think you’re giving this early gem short shrift. You’re hearing a “lumbering mess,” I’m hearing the first evidence of a new emotional maturity from a guy who I like to call John Lennon. Dealing with the subject of death, even in such an oblique way, is pretty bold for a 1964 pop song. This was the third sad song in a row on Beatles For Sale; you can imagine the kids’ reaction! They ran to Gloanburg’s Shilling and Pence on the first day it came out, waiting for more yeah-yeah’s from the four floptops. Suddenly, they are confronted with the four shellshocked, gloomy faces on the cover. Look at Ringo there! He’s staring at you like, “Hey, what the hell do you want from me?!” Then they give it a spin and right off the bat we get what I like to call “the three really sad songs that open up Beatles For Sale.” Sure, the mood will lighten up with “Rock And Roll Music,” but we will never regain our original innocence. By the time those first three songs had finished, we had all learned a thing or two about darkness … a thing or two about life.

Richard Furnstein: I have no problem with heaviness or emotional maturity, Robert. I just want some more depth. "Baby's In Black" is just the scent of death in a room, but you can't find the source. Is there a mouse rotting in the walls? Is the Chinese restaurant dumpster festering in the summer heat? Where is that smell coming from? Lennon smells it, but can't pinpoint who dealt it. Harrison's lead guitar suggests the confusion (his attempts at tension are the true highlight of this recording, check the warped misgivings at 1:37). Paul's game and keep the proceedings chipper as usual. Ringo is locked into an uncomfortable rhythm and sounds relieved when the song finally runs out of petrol after two minutes. Sure, we learn something about life, it usually has to end in death.

John stays as close as he can to the primary colors and emotions and still can't manage a coherent storyline.

Robert Bunter: You want more depth. Well, that’s just fine. Why don’t you listen to terrifying Plastic Ono Band outtakes and stare at the butcher cover in a candlelit basement? It’s just as well that Lennon and the lads didn’t see fit to confront “the source of the scent of death” on this spirited, Everly Brothers-influenced waltz from 1964. Do you know what I think? I think you’re just looking for something to criticize. You’ve got a point about Harrison’s guitar solo, though. It sounds like one of those shifting psychedelic liquid blob movies that they used to show on the screen behind bands at pop concerts and be-ins. He takes his very indecisiveness and makes it into a crucial musical element, all bloopy and out-of-focus.

Richard Furnstein: No, you're right. I'm just looking for something to criticize. This song is so weird and uneven because it has to be. John's getting his fangs out and he will later go straight into the tomb for "Come Together" and "Cold Turkey." The entire band is stretching here. It's not necessarily pretty, but if I want pretty I'll put on my mono pressing of The Family Way soundtrack.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, or Thrillington! Hahahahahahahaha!

I Don't Want To Spoil The Party

Robert Bunter: Well, here we are. We've arrived at what I like to call "the standout track on Beatles For Sale." For my money, this is the crux of any argument that someone might try to make that Beatles For Sale doesn't sort of suck (other pillars of this argument are "No Reply," "Baby's In Black," "I'm A Loser," "Rock And Roll Music," "I'll Follow The Sun," "Mr. Moonlight," "Eight Days A Week," "What You're Doing," "Words Of Love," and "Every Little Thing"). How many ways can I say "I really love this band?"

John is taking another stroll down lonely street here, but instead of screaming himself hoarse with revenge fantasies or cries of anguish, he tries the old passive-aggressive routine. Who among us has not done this? "Oh, you guys just keep on having fun. Really. Don't mind me. I'm just miserable because the woman my heart needs won't give me a play. Go on. I'm just going to go for a walk." This approach is clearly the result of immature adolescent solipsism. What's obviously going to happen is, the narrator will go on his self-pitying drunken mope and the rest of the gang is going to keep right on smoking cigarettes and listening to their new Bob Dylan albums and making out with each other on shabby brown sofas in cheap wine-soaked basements. Later that night, she'll show up and pair off with Gibbs or maybe Loose Lon. That's what it was really like in late 1964/early 1965, and, as usual, the Beatles have captured the mood of a generation.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon debuts the Dylan-inspired plunk and strum that will later define his "Help!" material. However, his words are still miles away from his latest inspiration. Sure, we've all been there, and Lennon himself is no stranger to self pity. The song revises the jealous wanderings of the same album's "No Reply" or perhaps serves as a prequel to that song's revelations of love behind window shades. He wanders off from the party, somehow winds up on her block, and hides in the bushes until his stupid heart is finally broken. "How was your night, John?" "Total shit, but I wrote two pretty neat songs this morning..."

Keep on walking and stay strong, John Lennon. Your day of vindication dawns anew, just around the next bend.

Robert Bunter: But it's not all sadness for our country-twangled narrator. The bruised optimism of the middle eight ("Though tonight she's made me sad") gives every indication that it won't be long before the emotionally wounded hero is back on top. And when the syncopated drum thumps show up ("I still love her"), you just know this ol' cowboy might still have a few moves in him. Keep on walking and stay strong, John Lennon. Your day of vindication dawns anew, just around the next bend.

Richard Furnstein: There's plenty of fish in the emotional stabbing sea, John. Buck up. Look at the sunny side. Oh, hey, your young friend George Harrison is stopping by to deliver a concise country and western guitar solo. Doesn't that make you smile?

Robert Bunter: Pop quiz: who's singing harmony with John on the verses? You have two seconds. BZZZZzzzt. Time's up. It's John himself, using a revolutionary new recording technique called "overdubbing." McCartney could have just as easily handled the part (he pops in beautifully on the bridge), but the use of one man's weary voice overlapped twice effectively conveys the sense of self-absorbed immaturity that animates this early masterpiece.

Richard Furnstein: Masterpiece!? I know that night that Loose Lon showed up at the Naus party with Christie was a tough one for you, Bunter. I totally get how you relate to this one. Get it under control, though. This song is serviceable on the Beatles' most serviceable album. Still, five stars!

I'm A Loser

Robert Bunter: My brain is bursting with excitement at the chance to talk about this perfect song. It seems shabby to even attempt to subject such a magnificent specimen to the disrespectful charade of verbal analysis, like trying to catch a beautiful butterfly so you can kill it and mount it on a piece of soiled brown corkboard.

Here goes: It's late 1964 - early 1965, and we're rapidly approaching the point where the Beatles become perfect: they're in complete command of their craft and performing like geniuses, so what do they do? They frown, don scarves and overcoats, and take the opportunity to expose their deepest vulnerabilities, allowing the rest of us mortals to feel like we're just like them. But we're not, because they just proved it with this supreme work of art. You couldn't do this, and neither could I. The reason? You're not God Lennon, as I call him.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon takes off the costume from the Beatlemaniacal days and heads to the honky tonk saloon. The fit was getting a bit tight on his old Beatles suit (both figuratively and literally), so the visit to the country and western styles of Beatles For Sale was a necessary adjustment. Where Beatles For Sale or a solid song like "I'm A Loser" fails, it is in the Beatles' inability to completely give in to the stylistic change. "Loser" mainly feels like a redirection due to John's C&W acoustic shuffle (later taken to extremes by American-philes the Rolling Stones), George's prickly guitar work, and the face-in-whiskey subject matter. Beatles For Sale ultimately goes further into the saloon ("Baby's In Black," "Honey Don't," and "I Don't Want To Spoil The Party"). The fit is never entirely comfortable for our boys, especially in the harmonies and Ringo's bam-thwok.

Robert Bunter: Yes! Oh, man. Please continue that line of analysis further, my friend!

Richard Furnstein: That's all I got! But really, this little gem is mainly a first draft of Help!", one of John's first huge songwriting triumphs. However, we shouldn't completely ignore the triumphs of this song just because he quickly perfected the model of the upbeat acoustic guitar misery-fest. "I'm A Loser" is a missive from the bottom of a night of drinking. It's tough to tell who John is singing to in this one; I mainly hear it as John singing to his own reflection. "You're a loser, pal. Sure, she brought out this misery in you but she had little choice. You are a loser at heart." It's hard not to feel for the sad clown in this one. The other Beatles keep this from going too far into the islands of misery. There is more pop and enthusiasm than you would expect from the naked lyric. In particular, Paul finds a nice little groove pocket in the sadness and his howls on the chorus are more naked glee than wailing. Don't get too sad, John, your superbuddies are hear to help(!) you out of this funk.

Robert Bunter: No doubt. Ringo's tambourine takes the chorus from brilliant to superhuman, Paul does just the right thing, George plays a solo so primitive it makes Buckminster Fuller look like Keanu Reaves, and dear John just breaks my heart with his candor and great harmonica playing.

Richard Furnstein: Oh yeah, that harmonica! That's like a trip to the filthy men's room for a snort of diphenhydramine and a splash of cold water to the face. Snap out of it, man!

I'll Follow The Sun

Robert Bunter: Although Paul wrote this sad folk-y song back in the fifties, it didn't see the light of day until Beatles For Sale in late '64. I would say it was heavily influenced by Dylan's "Don't Think Twice (It's Alright)," but it preceded it. Young Paul is reluctantly preparing to say goodbye to a young lady who just didn't appreciate him enough. She's still asleep, lightly snoring in her soiled briefs and looking shoddy in the pale grey morning light oozing into the window of the grim English "flat." Young, strong Paul is seated at the foot of the bed in his clean undershorts, gently smoking a French Gauloises as he ponders his future maneuvers. Sorry, bird. It's not in my nature to commit myself to you. Tomorrow may rain, so I'm going to just gather up my trousers and try to sneak out the door before you wake up and notice I've gone. I'm off to meet my mates, three fellows who you might know them as the Beatles, or the greatest men who ever lived, as I call them. Please lose my phone number. By the way, I'm sorry that I got you pregnant, Dot Rhone.

Richard Furnstein: Absolutely beautiful Chad and Jeremy-esque song. Paul tells us that (and more) under a cool two minutes. In that scant amount of time, we learn about a dying love, tough relationship decisions (they are still in love or at least "friends"), anticipation of regrets and sadness ("someday you'll know I was the one"), and a guitar solo that evokes an autumnal sun along calm waters. All in the span of four television commercials. I just watched four commercials and they provide nearly as much character development or emotional drama. I only saw that disturbing gout commercial, a preview of tonight's episode of TMZ, an ad for frozen pizza bagels, and that insurance commercial with the doll faced redhead that raises my premiums. Titillating stuff, but I'll take the Beatles any day of the week, thank you.

Robert Bunter: Paul comes up with a clever chord progression here. When you hear the first chord of the verse ("One day"), you assume you're hearing the tonic. Then the next chord comes, and you're like, huh? What relationship could this possibly have to the one that came before? It's a whole step down, plus it's a seventh. What is this, jazz? Then you get to the next chord and realize, Hey! That first chord wasn't the tonic at all, it was the dominant, and we're in a different key than I thought. That's kind of like what it was like for Dot Rhone when she finally woke up on that lonely, lightly soiled morning.

Richard Furnstein: What a beautiful story and song. I'm going to play "I'll Follow The Sun" on repeat with the television on mute. I'm hoping to catch that Progressive commercial again.

No Reply

Robert Bunter: The soft musical texture that opens this vintage Lennon psychodrama is a total fake-out ... soon enough, the inevitable edgy passion will assert itself with a screamed "I saw the light" (is this the light in the lady's window, or does he mean the futility of the entire relationship has been illuminated?), and before you know it, here's the heavy "If I were you" bridge, with four-to-the-bar handclaps, assertive strumming and a subtle, insistent piano.

Richard Furnstein: I feel awful for the guy, I really do. It's a tragic tale, and Lennon sells it. The part that kills me about "No Reply" is that you hear his anguished lyrics, but it doesn't immediately register that he prefaces the song with "this happened once before." It's bad enough that John is being played as a fool, but it isn't the first time. I guess he willingly forgives the lies, but it's tough to feel too much sympathy for this repeat offender.

The very picture that you paint of the Lennon solo effort is so undeniably exhilirating that I may need a (Derek) tailor to let out my pants.

Robert Bunter: John's mopey first three songs on Beatles For Sale ("No Reply," "I'm A Loser," "Baby's In Black") set a very high bar that the album never really approaches again until "I Don't Want To Spoil The Party" on side two. Time for a fantasy: 1965 Lennon solo album. Paul, George and Ringo play backup (not unlike Grateful Dead sex symbol Bob Weir's travesty of a "solo" album Ace), just three buddies helping their old friend John in the studio, but chubby late-64, early-65 Lennon is calling the shots.  Record sleeve photo is a closeup Robert Freeman portrait of our hero in that great floppy black hat he used to wear back then, with vintage Spaniard In The Works outtake line drawings in the borders like Sergio Aragones' Mad Magazine marginalia. First three songs mimic Beatles For Sale, then we're in for some parallel universe gems.

Richard Furnstein: Wait, so you are saying that Paul would provide nothing to this solo album, and it will be completely driven by John's mopey madness? Ha, that's pretty much already the case with Beatles For Sale. Paul screamed his way through a handful of rock 'n roll b-sides and called it a day while John was trudging through the aforementioned emotional battlefields. Still, the very picture that you paint of the Lennon solo effort is so undeniably exhilirating that I may need a (Derek) tailor to let out my pants. Can we call it "Do It Yourself," after the short story in Lennon's A Spaniard In The Works? Please say yes.

Robert Bunter: Yes, of course. Yes.

Richard Furnstein: Perfect, I already made a fantasy 1965 solo Lennon album with that title. See, I even made a pretty cool cover for it! It looks like Law And Order by Lindsey Buckingham!

Robert Bunter: Eh, I guess. I liked my idea better.

Eight Days A Week

Richard Furnstein: This song kicks off side two of the awkward pre-pubescent Beatles For Sale. The song fades in, which is not a huge technical innovation, but it may be the best part of the song. John and Paul are clearly a little embarrassed by this one (they never quite get around to rocking). The underwhelming instrumental track is somewhat covered up by the cranked vocals. This song is essentially "A Hard Day's Night" ugly younger brother. A song asking for a shitty movie to be written around its title. Luckily, the Beatles had better things to do than to follow up on that idea, like piss off the queen from the Philippines or smoke weed with Elvis. Priorities!

Robert Bunter: Yeah. Not much to get excited about on this track. Unless you happen to like a band I like to call The Beatles. All the usual tricks are in evidence - stops and starts, studio trickery, handclaps, I'm going to go ahead and say the best thing about this song is the chord sequence on the fade in and fade out. I wish they'd taken that bit and written a different song around it. This song takes up space on compilations like "1962-1966" and "20 Greatest Hits" which would be better occupied by a nice gem like "I'll Follow The Sun" or "Tell Me Why," but what the hey.

Richard Furnstein: Can you picture the dolt that would have "Eight Days A Week" as their favorite Beatles song? Man, that imaginary scenario is making me so angry. I want to throw something. Are you kidding me? "Eight Days A Week"?

Also, "One thing I can say girl, 'Love you all the time.'" is one of the worst lyrics in their catalog.

Mr. Moonlight

Richard Furnstein: Here's my impersonation of an idiot Beatles fan: "Eh, the early stuff is so dumb. They would just go yeah yeah and then pad the records with total crap covers like Mr Moonlight." Hold on a second there, buster. Where's your head at? I'm here to tell you: "Mr Moonlight" is the total tits and possibly the highlight of Beatles For Sale.

The early covers were basically an excuse for John to rip the hell out of his throat. He clearly takes a certain delight in claiming his favorite rock sides for his own. The sweet organ comes in like cold moonlight rising on your bedroom wall. George is the invisible solid here, all muted tube sickness. Plus, "from your beam you made my dream" is a damned perfect lyric. Take back anything you've ever said about this song: have a heart and feel the cha cha cha.

Robert Bunter: Cha Cha Cha? More of a mambo, I’d say. But forget about that: something absolutely wonderful happens on this song. Put it on now and listen to the very beginning. The voice that belts out “MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAH” in the opening seconds sounds unmistakably like wonderful Paul McCartney. But, huh? What’s this? When it gets to “Mooooooonlight,” you realize that it was actually the amazing John Lennon. We are thus able to imagine the superhuman combo Beatle Paul Lennon. Contemplate this beast: all the beguiling romanticism of loveable Paul without the facile sentimentality and shallow showbiz phoniness … all the restless intelligence and soulful honesty of Saint John without the demented hallucinations, painful screaming and sardonic self-regard that makes me have nightmares sometimes. Alas, we can only ponder how differently the pages of history would have been written had such a divine avatar been born unto human woman. And yet: every time the needle drops on the beginning of Mr. Moonlight, the haunting voice of this best-of-all-worlds uber-Beatle calls to us from beyond the curtain of possibility.