Dizzy Miss Lizzy

Richard Furnstein: "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" is the end of the line, the final stop on The Beatles' Hamburg express. It was a road littered with backstage weisswursts and quaalude smoothies; four boys trying to match the raw buzz of their beloved rock and roll singles. The Help! album was the last hurrah of a floppy haired rock band--before the sound of sitars filled the room and love and money complicated lives instead of simply fulfilling teenage fantasies. "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" is the sound of young men who were still satisfied with the sound of drums bouncing off of unpainted walls, smoky guitar parts, and shredding your throat because it is the last song. The retreat to the studio and from their former selves really began with Rubber Soul and its sophisticated arrangements. Sgt. Pepper's would be the full realization of the artificial world of tape and echo. Sure, they'd try to revisit the primordial wail on Let It Be, but the love was gone. Why would they retreat to the limited palette of early rock and roll when they have climbed the highest mountain of Pepperland. So long, dear friends.

 Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s pretty raw. A basic 12-bar blues with a repetitive guitar riff, ape-man cymbal assault, screeching vocal through a slapback delay. You’re right that the Beatles didn’t manage to recapture the youthful magic on the Get Back/Let It Be sessions, but it wasn’t all that much later that Lennon managed to re-invent this song in a much more successful way at the “Live Peace In Toronto 1969” concert event. Hairy-scary beardo junkie John in the pure white suit and bloodshot eyes, screeching “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” with Klaus Voorman and Clapton on guitar while Yoko writhed around in a bag. Whoo-whee! SHAKE IT! That was a spectacle intense enough to make those long-ago Hamburg weisswursts look like demure cocktail wieners. The point is, this song has always been terrifying. It sticks out like a sore, infected thumb on “Help!” among the gentle acousticism, McCartney pop, Harrison flops and George Martin piano riffs.

Richard Furnstein: Well, sure, the Toronto version is a horrorshow. Lennon was entering his thirties in half vampire/half Howard Hughes mode, trying to capture some of the vital life essence of his younger years. It's easy to interpret his smacked out Toronto performance of "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" as more than a "Rock and Roll Revival," it was a desperate attempt to ground himself as his childhood friendships and the juvenile comforts of The Beatles years were rapidly dissolving. He would later calmy assert "I just believe in me/Yoko and me," but that performance of "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" suggests that all he could count on was fear and isolation. Look at that man screaming into the void ahead of him. The stage fright filtered through a blitz of drugs and destroyed ego. Lennon's cagey behavior in the footage of that concert suggest a broken man who, while adored by the world, couldn't face a crowd of simple Canadians without being held up by his famous friends and his eccentric wife. It's Lennon doing "his new thing," but it's essentially his old thing (just sloppier). He would later package the set (along with a stirring version of "Don't Worry Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow)" as Live Peace, but the evidence suggests anything but peace. It's a portrait of a thirty year old man at war with himself. Give peace a chance, John.

That was a spectacle intense enough to make those long-ago Hamburg weisswursts look like demure cocktail wieners.

Robert Bunter: The Beatles sure did love Larry Williams. They covered three of his songs, perhaps more than any other artist: “Bad Boy,” “Slow Down” and “Lizzy.” Without the Beatles’ kudos and admiration (not to mention all the generous royalty cheques!), he would have perhaps died in penniless obscurity. As it stands, I’m not sure how he died, or anything else about his life, really. I keep getting him mixed up with Andre Williams, who recorded “Bacon Fat.” The important thing is that the Beatles loved him. They probably rushed to the record shop eagerly to greet each new release, pushing each other out of the way in the queue, waving fistfuls of cash at the hapless clerks. “’Ere then, give us the new Larry Williams, mate!” Then they would rush home to their dank flat and listen to them excitedly. Larry Williams may have died (I am unsure), but his memory will always live on, in vivid recollections like that one.

You Like Me Too Much

Richard Furnstein: Beatles history is full of moments when George Harrison was treated as a second class Beatles citizen. His darkness, youth, and support role meant he often had to take a backseat to the raging egos of John and Paul and the finely pressed shirts of George Martin. It's a revelation to listen to George's 1969 demo of "All Things Must Pass" and realize that it didn't make it onto an album. It was mostly an issue of quality and quantity, but I would argue that the alpha males in The Beatles probably discounted much of George's songwriting efforts after a series of early period stinkers. "You Like Me Too Much" is one of the worst offenders: George delivers a bland melody over an aimless backing track. Young George was offering tales of high school love while John and Paul were off at college, writing songs about hash and one night stands. It's a shame. You can almost imagine Ringo heard this song and thought, "Man, even I'd be bummed out to bring this song to these guys."

It's a train wreck from the saloon meanderings of the song's introduction.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and the hindsight knowledge that he'd go on to much greater things ("Old Brown Shoe"), this is a shambles. The chord changes at the end of the bridge are just insanely bad. John and Paul had the Bacharach-like gift of moving their songs to striking, unusual harmonic modulations, then cleverly bringing the listener back home with a few adept, economical strokes. George gets himself into the same sort of quagmire, but instead of landing gracefully on his feet, he stumbles through the chords that accompany the words "...if you leave me."


Richard Furnstein: It's a train wreck from the saloon meanderings of the song's introduction, but the resolution of the bridge is almost criminal. You can almost hear the fear in George's voice as he reaches that point. I imagine he's giving Paul and Ringo a helpful nod as they suffer their way through their little buddy's worst song. Sure, George would write perhaps the best turnaround in Beatles history in "Here Comes The Sun," but it's going to be hard for him to live that one down.


Robert Bunter: These lyrics are just unforgivably clumsy and lazy. "You like me too much and I like you" makes zero sense. I am literally sitting here trying to understand what this song is about, and I can't do it. He's giving the kiss-off to an over-affectionate girlfriend. He sounds alternately angry ("you haven't got the nerve") and self-deprecating ("which is all that I deserve"). Is he trying to get rid of her or convince her come back? And it's not one of those things where it's all about the ambiguousness of young love. Harrison stinks.

 Richard Furnstein: That's why they called him the Dank Horse!

Act Naturally

Richard Furnstein: They are going to put who in the movies? Well, you, of course. The you in question is Richard Starkey, or, as his IMDB page indicates, "Ringo Starr." Ringo received big points for his acting turn in A Hard Day's Night (kicking cans, wearing a low slung hat, and generally appearing less stoned than the other Beatles) and turned this appearance into a healthy little side gig. He's appeared in movies that you never want to see like Candy, Caveman, and Magical Mystery Tour, usually playing the sad eyed weirdo with a thick accent. Don't quit your day job, Richard! Or, at least wait until after you release Goodnight Vienna to quit your day job.

Robert Bunter: It’s true! Ringo, who spent his childhood dreaming of coming to America to be a cowboy, had a country and western heart. He sings this Buck Owens shuffler with genuine gusto, and of course the whole thing is a wonderful tribute to his innate aw-shucks image as the hapless goofball who stumbled onto the world stage with only one real talent: the ability to be himself. His wonderful, charming self. It’s no wonder Ringo made by far the biggest splash when the group stepped off that 1964 Pan Am jet and into the world’s collective heart. It wasn’t just the funny name or the non-threatening androgynous little boy charm that girls could have a crush on without stirring unconscious fears about the bruising realities of adult physical relations (a role that would be subsequently played by the Monkees' appalling Cockney subhuman Tinkertoy automaton Davy Jones). He was the one who was easiest to relate to. He probably looked at the other three with the same sense of awe as the rest of us, but there he is onstage with them! They’re “mates.” “Maybe there is hope for me,” is what everybody said to themselves as they watched this homely lad pound the Ludwigs and smile like a five-year-old with a new wagon.


Richard Furnstein: You are one hundred percent correct and I'm shocked that it's taken us a year and change to truly discuss what makes Ringo inherently great. Sure, he held his sticks wrong and he famously couldn't nail the beat on "Back In The U.S.S.R.," but Ringo is the glue-stuff of life. I wouldn't cross the street in socks to sniff Pete Best and he was certainly a capable drummer. The Beatles needed a lucky charm, and found this stumbling sweetheart of a man to complete their gang. When Ringo sings "they're gonna put me in the movies," he's not talking about movie executives or a Hollywood agent. He's referencing his unique journey, riding on the crest of genius towards stardom. Ringo is but a man, but chemical compounds in The Beatles would become unstable with anything but Ringo. "What would you do if I sang out of tune?" We'd love you with all of our hearts, dear buddy. Thank you for being you.

“Maybe there is hope for me,” is what everybody said to themselves as they watched this homely lad pound the Ludwigs and smile like a five-year-old with a new wagon.

Robert Bunter: Ringo must have been such a fun guy to hang out with. I love to speculate about how funny he must have been during the first-time-smoking-reefer with Dylan experience, or between takes on the set of "Help!" I can imagine him saying a bunch of hilarious stuff, and John, Paul and George becoming breathless with uncontrollable laughter, the way you laugh at a seemingly dimwitted friend who is always saying unintentionally hilarious things and you almost wonder if he even knows why he is so funny but really of course he completely knows, it's all just part of his wonderful personality that he's willing to play the fool. And then later, the party's over, everybody's gone home, you wake up and realize that he washed the dishes and played with your kid for an hour before school. How did he even get up that early? Good old uncle Ritchie, just hanging around the kitchen and whipping up a batch of his delicious beans and toast, exactly the way Julian likes it, while you're upstairs sleeping off the acid hangover and writing the bridge to "I Am The Walrus" in your unconscious mind. You ought to be ashamed of yourself and your selfish behavior, John Lennon.

The Night Before

Richard Furnstein: It's cleanup time. Paul stumbles out of bed. The sheets are on the floor. He rolls an underfed fag and opens the shades. Is it noon already? Cripes, it's noon. What happened last night? He can't be sure. He smoked a lot of hashish with Donovan and was whisked away to an after hours Paki club. His collar smells like hashish, perfume, and regret. How did John and Paul write all of those amazing songs? A lot of living, a lot of loving, and a little rhyming. "The Night Before" is all half-truths and misremembered conversations. There was never a girl behind the song. Just an idea of a girl. Just twelve different girls from that very night before, their faces meld into one. Paul channels his imagined feelings with this imaginary woman, focusing almost solely on his own character flaws. It's Paul writing as John, all insecurity and aggression and misdirected anger towards women ("when I think of the things we did, it makes me want to cry"). Paul would later weep for real in his excellent relationship post mortems on Rubber Soul. "The Night Before" is the template; the sincerity of later gems like "You Won't See Me" and "I'm Looking Through You" is underdeveloped. The screaming and rush of emotion in this rocker carry the weight a long time.

Robert Bunter: Whooo, Rich! Go get 'em, boy! You just set the bar really high. How am I going to top that brilliant analysis? Alright: I'm going to put on my thinking cap here. Let's start with the music. It starts out warm and funky, all deep bass tones and what sounds like a combination of Rickenbacker strum and soulful electric piano. You could imagine some present-day crate digger DJ/producer mashing those elements up with a sparse, stripped-down snare beat, but he would need the master tapes in order to remove Ringo's blissful idiot bashing in the background. It's called "The Mersey Sound" and it sold millions of copies, Madlib. Go back to your turntables and vintage synth patches, Danger Mouse. You can't handle this dope joint. OK, that's just the first eleven seconds. Now you've got Paul's voice, passionate yet cool and restrained, like President Obama discussing fiscal policy with Jack Bohner (as I call him) on the golf course. Then, John and George appear in the background with their perfectly complementary harmonies, adding both musical and emotional depth; they're not casting judgement on the confused regret of the Paul-figure, but they're not pulling any punches, either. They know what happened at the club, they were there, too. It's the same emotional tone they adopted with "Ah, look at all the lonely people" on Rigby, as I call it. In fact, I'd like to posit that John-George backup vocals actually constitute ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE BEATLES with "his" own distinct personality and role. Okay, that's just the first verse. I'm going to start hyperventilating if I approach the bridge, the solo or Paul's amazing interpolations ("Yesssssssss" and "Yeah!") too quickly. Can you step in here, for a second? I need another cup of coffee.

Paul channels his imagined feelings with this imaginary woman, focusing almost solely on his own character flaws. It's Paul writing as John, all insecurity and aggression and misdirected anger towards women.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, tag me in. Here's the deal. This song starts like so much unfocused post-Hard Day's Beatles. Lennon's Hohner Pianet is the type of frosting they would throw on turd cupcakes from this era (think about the unnecessary gourd striking of "Tell Me What You See" or the saloon flourishes that fail to buoy "You Like Me Too Much"). However, the novel sound of John's choppy keyboards on "The Night Before" propel the rhythm and underline Paul's rough case of rockin' pneumonia. The bridge finds the boys employing an old trick: a percussive gear shift that heightens the urgency of the verse. And you know what? It works perfectly here. "Last night is the night I will remember you by." Shit, man. She's about to walk out of his life and Paul is ready to pause and rewind to the precious memories of the previous night. Chicks aren't just a well worn Maxell XL-II, man. You can't just rewind time. It doesn't work that way, Paul.

Robert Bunter: I'll tell you another thing you can't do - you can't deny that this song is brilliantly constructed. The chord progression sounds assertive and confident, until you get to that amazing chord (on "find" in "Now today I find") which just explodes with melancholy regret. When it repeats on the next line ("You have changed your MIND"), the impact is doubled. Then we're back to the aggressive Ray Charles sound on the tag ("Treat my like you did / The night before"). The second verse consolidates the triumphs of the first. The bridge twists the knife. The next verse is all about setting us up for the solo. Listen to Paul's voice at 1:30, when he says "Yesssssss" with an air of grim certainty. The unspoken rest of the statement is: "Yesssssssss ... I'm a full-grown man and I've just destroyed your heart with my great song. Now listen to my friend George because he's about to erupt forth with a series of distinctly separated musical thoughts, on doubled guitars. We're The Beatles and we're highly advanced. Yep."

Richard Furnstein: It was that easy for them. Paul wrote a great song in the morning, brought it to the studio. John would whine about not wanting to play guitar, so Mal Evans would dial up his rep at Hofner ("Send up a pianet this afternoon. Mr. Lennon is hungry for new sounds.") Time to start working out the arrangement. Killer from the start. Ringo gets in late (car trouble). It's cut in an afternoon or two days TOPS. The next day, they are in a field in awesome turtlenecks and drab wartime clothing, miming this song for the camera. In the evening, it's back to the clubs. More lies, loose women, and broken hearts. Hell, they had more albums to write and they needed constant inspiration. We were all hungry for new sounds.

Robert Bunter: Hungry for new sounds, new experiences, new frontiers of expanded consciousness. But not so hungry that they forget their craft, which was writing concise, beat-heavy pop songs for LP's. Maybe there's a kid in a record shop (Gloanburg's?) in 1965, looking at the Help! album. If I could rewind time, I'd go back there and hover behind him, just out of sight behind the next rack, and I'd say, "Go ahead. Buy it because it's the greatest record the Beatles have yet recorded. Better than "With The Beatles," better than "The Beatles Vs. The Four Seasons" on Vee-Jay, better than "The Early Beatles" on Capitol, better than "Something New," better than "Hard Day's Night" on Parlophone. It's better than all the other records they've put out. Go on. Purchase this thing and take it home. You probably should buy two and keep one shrink-wrapped mint. Trust me, kid." And then I would disappear and fast forward back to the present day, as I sit here facing my computer screen and looking at a shrink-wrapped mint first-press of "Help!" on the wall of my den. Do you know the identity of that little kid from the past?

Richard Furnstein: Christ, you won't stop bragging about that shrink-wrapped Help! Big deal, you didn't take the wrapper off. It's still a stereo version of the inferior Capitol issue of the album. I'm sorry that I don't have a pristine copy with all those instrumental fillers that clogged up the turdbucket American release.

I've Just Seen A Face

Robert Bunter: I've got to tell you, I'm coming up short on this one. I just can't build up a good head of steam for this C&W-flavored Rubber Soul gem. Sure, it's nice, but it's not on the level of a "You Won't See Me" or "I'm Looking Through You." It's totally charming and loveable, like any Paul McCartney song, but it just doesn't have the sauce that makes me want to wax bombastic about every little detail.

Richard Furnstein: That statement just proves that you are completely unqualified to seriously discuss the greatest band of all time. I know you grew up with the bastardized Capitol LPs, so I can almost forgive the Rubber Soul mistake. I had to make do with the inferior Capitol pressing of Rubber Soul until my local record importer was able to secure the beautiful EMI vinyl. Oh the follies of youth!

Still, move over, Simon, get lost, Garfunkel. There's a new man in town and I like to call him Paul The Magnificent. He'll be doing both of your jobs for now on. He's also going to make Little Richard, Brian Wilson, and Phil and Don Everly redundant. What's that you say? Is he some kind of super robot creation that can match and better these musical legends? Good question, but NO. He's just a man with a sweet cherry voice that manufactures melodies like it was a natural biological function. I know you are sad now, but you'll be pleasantly surprised when you hear his genius music.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, get lost, everyone else. The world has finally been blessed with a singer-songwriter of considerable gifts. Oh man. Look, I'll take McCartney over Little Richard or Don Everly any day, but you're proving my point. "I've Just Seen A Face" is totally groovy, but it's a throwaway. Paul could write songs like that in his sleep. Now, I'll take Paul's sleep-composed throwaways any day, but while McCartney was snoozing his way through "I've Just Seen A Face," an emotionally-damaged, half-deaf Californian had just written "In The Back Of My Mind," "Please Let Me Wonder" and "Kiss Me Baby." What's my point here? I don't know. I'll still take McCartney over Brian Wilson any day, but I'm not going to pretend like "I've Just Seen A Face" is better than "Guess I'm Dumb."

Richard Furnstein: Hey, I don't want to get into any sensitive areas here. I know your affection for surf rock. I will say that "Seen A Face" (as I like to call it) is one of the top tracks on my Get Your Bass On tapes. I take popular songs that lack bass guitar and add my unique low end skills all over the basic tracks. It's mainly as oddities for the bass boy tape trader community. "A Face" is probably the only "full band" Beatles song that lacks a bass track, which is surprising because a little bit of McCartney Rickenbacker honey would go a long way on this staple. I'm working up my Get Your Bass On track for "When Doves Cry" right now. It's right raunchy.

He's just a man with a sweet cherry voice that manufactures melodies like it was a natural biological function.

Robert Bunter: No bass? Hmmm. I never noticed that. I should be ashamed of myself. I assume it was to contribute to the "singalong around the bonfire while wearing a baja" atmosphere, which is also fostered by the little extraneous vocal noises that happen at the beginning of the solo (at 1:02). I would be intrigued to listen to the results of your bass tapes. What a thought! "I've Just Seen A Face" with full production. It probably sounds like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nomAH31GWd0

Richard Furnstein: Sort of, but it's a Roland TB-303, so its more of a Cameo feel. You should hear the cosmic funk I spew all over "Love Her Madly."

Yesterday

Richard Furnstein: Here it comes, I'm sure we can go deep over this one.

Robert Bunter: Think again: a nice Paul ballad with some sweet strings. Done. Will I receive a check or is that just direct deposit?

Richard Furnstein: An unnecessarily hasty assessment, to be sure. "Yesterday" is the emotional turning point in The Beatles' career. I'll argue that it's Paul's first truly great moment (on album FIVE!) because it so drastically upped the standard for Paul's next year of revelatory songwriting (think "I'm Looking Through You" and "Eleanor Rigby"), as well as allowed John to think past his "moon/June" explorations of pain. And the world is yours once you get that man thinking in stark terms about his emotional damage. Exhibit A: Plastic Ono Band. "I'm not half the man I used to be." John could bleat all over "Cold Turkey" and shave off his hair and curl into the fetal position, but Paul nails the terrifying loss of stability and happiness in that one casual line of single syllable words. His life has dramatically changed in one day; a loss so unthinkable that he questions his position in life and the universe. And all this is delivered in an absolutely perfect melody.

Robert Bunter: There are a lot of people (James Paul McCartney, as I call him, is one) who will tell you that "Yesterday" is the best song the Beatles ever recorded, and they're correct. You're right, it's a stunning exploration of the pain of loss. Superficially it's about a failed romance, but you can tell he's really talking about the loss of his mother. Paul often told the story of how the melody came to him in a dream, fully-formed (no lyrics, though). He went around for a month or two playing the tune to everyone who would listen, asking if they recognized it, since certainly he couldn't have written it in his sleep. But you know he was just being coy; I think he knew all along that it was his. Supposedly, everyone was annoyed at having to hear the thing over and over again. Do you know how much I would have enjoyed the chance to listen to Paul sing this song to me, one-on-one, in a personal situation? The answer is, I would have enjoyed it a great deal. Anybody who got to hang out with the Beatles on a personal level back then and got annoyed with them about anything was a goddamn fool. I'll take the chance! Of course, Paul did sing this song to us, that time when we went to the concert together. I want you to know that that was a special night which I will never forget. Anyway: so the song came to Paul in a dream. You know what other song came to Paul in a dream? I'll tell you: "Let It Be." Or at least it was a dream that inspired it. A dream about his mother. We should all thank goodness that we have been blessed with these supreme products of beautiful McCartney's dream life. I'd just as soon not be subjected to Lennon's hideous nightmares, George's clumsy sex fantasies or Ringo's pedestrian dreams about common subjects like riding the bus or a plate of Heinz beans.


Richard Furnstein: That was a special night, indeed. I remember getting a big tray of nachos (hold the salsa, extra 'peños, por favor) and chowing down during the opener (a tape of Paul McCartney remixes including a mind expanding version of "Temporary Secretary"). Then Paul and Da Boyz came out and leveled the place. "All My Loving," third song. Tears. There were crucial moments sneaking around every corner, and then Paul came out with his reverse strung Martin acoustic and we knew we were in for a treat. "Blackbird"? Yes, of course. "I'm Looking Through You"? Hoho, why not? But, it was "Yesterday," yes, "Yesterday," that leveled me. Where Paul McCartney, that little speck of genius three football fields away, crawled into my brain and gave me a case of the shivers. I've heard this song, what, thirty thousand times in my years? Yet, it absolutely leveled me. Paul knows that there is a shadow hanging over all of us. It's a song that simultaneously makes you want to leave this mortal coil behind at the same time that it makes you want to celebrate the beautify of life, genius, and melody.

Robert Bunter: Woah! Back off, man. No, just kidding. What a show! It was like, even the nacho salesman seemed to sense that it was a special night for all of us. I think "Yesterday" stuck in John's craw a little bit. He used it as a needle to sting McCartney in "How Do You Sleep?", and if I remember right, he had some dismissive remarks about it in the infamous 1970 Rolling Stone interview. I think he just reacted that way because he knew that Paul had been given a gift from the gods of song and he wished he'd gotten it, instead. Is there a comparable Lennon song in the Beatles catalog? A career-defining, undisputed beloved masterpiece? I'd argue that there isn't. What are you thinking, "Strawberry," "Day In The Life"? I don't know. They were important, but not as universal; they had more to do with John Lennon than the human race. I'm drawing a blank here - what do you think?

"We don't want any of that Montovani rubbish."

Richard Furnstein: Well, to be fair, Allen Klein suggested the "only thing you've done was 'Yesterday'" dig. And you know what? Fine. What was John going to say, "the only thing you've done is play the best bass guitar in world history and write piles of amazing songs and helped make my amazing songs better"? No way, because if he said that there would have been a reunion album in 1972 and Paul would have been berating George to come up with better riffs for "Wild Life" or "Mary Had A Little Lamb." That didn't happen, luckily. John knew that "Yesterday" was Paul's ace in the hole; his non-snarky, slogan-free anthem for the world. All John wanted was to connect to the human race. He got there in his quieter moments ("Oh My Love" and "Because") but tended to miss when he went for the big anthems and gimmicks. "Yesterday" is a beautiful song with a perfect arrangement (keep in mind it is the prototype for sensi-dribble like Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)") that still stops grown men in their tracks.

Robert Bunter: We're really pushing deeply into this song and coming up with some fascinating insights. This blog is amazing, I just wish that I was someone else so I could read it and nod my head emphatically. You're totally right about Lennon's attempts to connect with the human race. What else should we say about this one? We need to give some love to Sir George Martin. His decision to use a string quartet was brilliant. Supposedly the boys resisted at first ("We don't want any of that Montovani rubbish"), but it just perfectly captures the lyric's mood of nostalgia. Close attention to Paul's solo guitar demos shows that the unbelievably tense, brittle chord which first shows up at the 25-second mark (after "Suddenly" and before "I'm not half the man I used to be") was not in the original harmony as Paul wrote it. We're told that Paul assisted with the string arrangement, but who knows if that one particularly inspired chord was him or Martin? I think it might have been Martin. "Paul, why don't we just have the strings do this [plays heartrending chord on piano]?" "Yes, George, that'll do. That'll do fine," says Paul, with tears pouring down his face. Then you look over at the control room and Ringo and George and John are crying. Then the camera pans to the ceiling, and there is a lap dissolve into the future, where two groan men with nacho crumbs on their face are weeping and singing along in the upper deck seats of a crowded sports arena, while a much older McCartney sings the same immortal melody. Then, in a faded-in superimposed image, you see the ghosts of John Lennon and George Harrison and Harry Nilsson sort of benignly smiling down from slightly above, nodding in otherworldly approval. The camera pans and you notice that a heavily-disguised Ringo was seated behind us the whole time (checking out his old buddy's current set), watching with a sort of grandfatherly contentment and thinking to himself, "Yes, that'll do, Paulie. That'll do just fine."

I Need You

Robert Bunter: I'd make a serious case for this one as the best of the early George tracks. My man Harrison didn't really develop his own voice until about Revolver, so the yardstick by which I measure the early stuff is, how close does this come to the glory of a Lennon-McCartney song? "I Need You" goes a long way in that direction. It's got a beautiful mood (two lovers having a deep relationship discussion in the mellow sunset glow at the end of a melancholy Sunday in London) that is sustained nicely throughout the song. Of course, it wouldn't be an early Harrisong without some really clumsy lyrics. "[You] said you had a thing or two to tell me / How was I to know you would upset me?" anyone? He uses two words that don't rhyme ("tell" and "upset"), but he figures it's okay because he just repeats the word "me" in both lines. And do you know what? It is okay. It's completely fine. I'm not going to sit here and pick nits when I could just bask in the wonderfulness that is George Harrison's 1965 track I Need You. Richard?

Richard Furnstein: Harrison the prize fighter heads back in the ring with "I Need You." He's still in the welterweight division, but is no longer suffering humiliating losses such as "I'm Happy Just To Dance With You" and "You Know What To Do." This track from Help! suggests that Harison is slowly working his way up the ranks; delights such as "If I Needed Someone" and "Love You To" are right around the corner. "I Need You" is still a bit unformed and ugly (the uneven volume pedal touches that disrupted the contemporary recording "Yes It Is" and the cowbell and moan bridge that attempts to cover up George's inability to significantly vary the melodic range), but fits well along with the awkward pre-Rubber Soul efforts from John and Paul.

Meanwhile, John, high on marijuana, gives it the old pump-and-
strum on his Guild Jumbo and moans nicely on the background harmonies.

Robert Bunter: Let's take a glance at the musical arrangement. Ringo keeps it simple and steady, with a little added percussion on the bridge (cowbell? claves?) for emphasis. Paul is admirably restrained on the bass, sticking to the roots and fifths. In years to come, George would complain about Paul's busy basslines on tracks like Something, but of course we know that he was just being bitchy because McCartney didn't want him playing stupid call-and-response guitar lines after every stanza of Hey Jude, which would have been really obnoxious and I have to say Paul was right in that case. But here, Paul gives him nothing to complain about. "I'll just keep it simple, OK, George? In fact, I can hardly be bothered to contribute to this thing at all, because I treat you as a second-rate talent and belittle your contributions. It's nice that you have written a song called I Need You based on that stupid D-chord thing where you wiggle your pinky around on the E-string which sounds like something I might have tossed off in 1963. You'll have to excuse me, I need to go get ready to record "Yesterday," "I'm Down," and "I've Just Seen A Face" in one single session. Yes, George, I'm telling the truth." That really did happen. Meanwhile, John, high on marijuana, gives it the old pump-and-strum on his Guild Jumbo and moans nicely on the background harmonies. And in the center of the stage is George Harrison, singing earnestly and doing that volume-swell trick with the guitar knob. Sure, it's not as revolutionary as Lennon inventing feedback or McCartney bringing in a string quartet, but what do you expect from the least talented of the three main Beatles?

Richard Furnstein: Self righteous moaning? Musically tedious drones? Uneven teeth? Curry stained fingertips?

Just kidding, Dark Horse 4EVA. R.I.P., George. We will never forget you.

You've Got To Hide Your Love Away

Robert Bunter: Well, this song was heartbreaking enough when we assumed it was just the pinnacle of the early Lennon pain anthems. But when you start to ponder the possibility that it was in fact a stirring tribute to the psychic torment of closeted gay Beatles manager Brian Epstein (who loved John deeply), it went to the next level. I guess it's impossible to know John's true intentions, but the fact that the surviving Beatles chose this track to soundtrack the touching Epstein video montage in the Anthology series seems to offer at least tentative validation of this theory.

There are many tales of John treating Brian with stinging, offhand cruelty; they shared a deep and complex relationship. But, as ever, beneath Lennon's macho bluster, there beat the heart of a sensitive soul who was capable of an achingly melancholy portrait like this. He knew his friend was hurting, so he sang this song as a special message.

Richard Furnstein: Yeah, it sure was a sensitive soul that changed the lyrics of "Baby You're A Rich Man" to "Baby, you're a rich fag jew" or suggested that Brian's autobiography be titled "A Cellarful of Boys" instead of "A Cellarful of Noise." A sensitive man with a deep soul that picked on developmentally disabled and limbless children on stage. Don't let the "Imagine" repackaging of Lennon fool you, he was full of anger at himself and the world. His ego was constantly either readily crushed or ready to devour and destroy innocents in his path. Still, this song is a goddamned beaut. He finally matches the lyrical weight and simple melodic flow of hero-of-the-period Bob Dylan.

Lennon did admit that he let Epstein "toss him off" in a Barcelona getaway. So maybe that trumps all the tough guy posturing and old guard rock and roll machismo. And this song really does excel through Lennon's gentle touch and soft eyes. It's a look that he turned to more frequently after Help! (the last album that dipped into the legendary rock and roll toilets of Hamburg) and Lennon's soft  persona would come to trump his early rock fury. Even George Harrison gets in on the progressive love action, making eyes at a thick eyebrowed man in the film clip for "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away."

Robert Bunter: As author Nicholas Schaffner pointed out (in his immortal "The Beatles Forever," McGraw-Hill, 1977), Lennon is in Dylan mode here, but right when you'd expect the harmonica to come in, it turns out it's flutes (the first instance of outside musicians brought into a Beatles session, if you don't count George Martin and Andy White).

Richard Furnstein: And I don't. I don't count them. George Martin was a legit Beatle; total inner circle. Don't get me started on Andy White and his pointless thump-for-hire. We should never mention him again.

Robert Bunter: The Beatles really reach out and touch our hearts with this one. They were the greatest band ever. Let Me Tell You About The Beatles would like to dedicate this post to the memory of Brian Epstein and Nicholas Schaffner, in hopeful anticipation of a day when people don't have to hide their love away anymore.

Richard Furnstein: A real tear. Keep resting in peace, Brian!

Help!

Robert Bunter: The pattern of candid self-examination that Lennon hinted at with Beatles For Sale confessionals like "I’m A Loser" becomes unmistakable here. Me, me, me. I’m feeling down, I need help, I’m insecure. The façade of the wisecracking, witty mopflop has cracked, exposing the terrified little boy that was always behind it to the unflinching glare of upbeat pop music. Pretty soon the frightened boy would be re-hidden behind a new façade, that of a smugly-enlightened psychedelic prophet preaching about a love revolution with dilated pupils behind granny glasses, only to re-emerge after he was betrayed by another flawed substitute father figure, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, or Sexy Sadie as I call him.

Is that an enlightening analysis? No. That’s what everybody already knows about this song. What can I add here? “Help” me out, Rich!


Richard Furnstein: Well, Lennon says it clearly before the first chorus. He's "opened up the doors" to a world of emotional discovery/pity. He's delivering the template for The Plastic Ono Band in a cool 2:20 of awkwardly upbeat pop music. George sympathizes with his situation by providing lots of descending glory. John's indecision and confusion is simulated by the delayed backing vocals on the verse. It's a jumble of swirling thoughts that highlight the issues of insecurity and hollowness. John kicks out the demons in the chorus, focusing his pleas for help. The naked voice in the chorus and the stripped down third verse carry the emotional weight of this song.  George and Paul's harmonies only serve to mask Lennon's fears and insecurity. The song would be too much of a suicide note without their deceptive sweetness.

Robert Bunter: I know! And another thing: how scary is it at the end, with that extra “Help me!” thrown into the coda at 2:10, right before the pretty “Oooooooh?” Pretty harrowing, that is. I wonder what this song would have sounded like if John’s original wish to record it with a slow tempo had not been jettisoned in favor of the uptempo arrangement they felt was necessary for a hit single … perhaps we’ll never know. But we can fantasize about it, and also record our own interpretations with rudimentary home equipment and standard-issue Mac DAW software. Did I send you that .wav file yet?


Richard Furnstein: Sure did! It makes Sleep sounds like Keanu Reeves!


Robert Bunter: Mission accomplished!

Ticket To Ride

Richard Furnstein: Fat Elvis period John starts to shake his blues on this track. While he is certainly plenty bummed out, confusion is his primary emotion here. The girl in his life may be leaving him but he's not completely sure. Hell, she's not even sure. He thinks he's gonna be sad; that old feeling creeps in again. Despite the impending sense of doom, John's voice has a different tone from his previous lady anguish numbers. He's noticeably more laid back now; his baby doesn't care, so why should he. The bales of weed probably helped him reach this plateau, and the impact of (non-upper) drugs is rarely more evident in John's vocals. He's not going to cry over this one, he's not even sure if he likes her. Pass the gravity bong and what's on the telly, love?

Robert Bunter: It's great to have the chance to listen to these wonderful tracks with you. This song is so heavy, Richard! Listen: the lurching, stop-start beat sounds like a bulldozer with triangular wheels climbing up the stairs of a Roman amphitheatre. A hard-hat bedecked Lennon is seated in the operator's deck of this rugged contraption, looking young and strong as he pulls the drive levers back and forth with an impassive air. The rest of the crew (Paul, George, Ringo and the studio engineers) look on with grim approval as he rumbles ahead, leaving the twisted wreckage of crumbled ampitheatre steps behind him.

Richard Furnstein: Musically, the song is notable for it's gorgeous chime, hanging like lovely byrds over pristine fields of snow. Ringo opens up his drumming on this one, pointing to future triumphs in "Rain" and the deconstructed percussion of the Sgt Pepper's era. If you ever have the distinct pleasure of listening to this song with me, get ready for me to point out the perfection of John's "awww" before he dips into the chorus. His vulnerability that he shows in that one syllable makes up for his audible indifference on the rest of the track.
 
Robert Bunter: The monolithic tension is only broken in two places. The beat starts to normalize a bit on the bridge ("I don't know why she's riding so high"), only to lurch back into first gear at 1:26. Then, the ridiculous double-time "My baby don't care" coda. It sounds like John just leaped off the bulldozer and started wildly dancing up the remaining steps in a merry, spastic gospel frenzy while the other Beatles shake tambourines and clap and hoot.

Richard Furnstein: I have to once again mention the lovely Karen Carpenter, who turns this weed rocker into a funereal weeper. Sorry for all the sadness and suffering, Karen, but take it elsewhere. We're having a Beatles gospel party in here.

Another Girl

Robert Bunter: Paul takes his rockabilly influences and melds them with his own innate gifts to craft this early masterpiece. What's remarkable about this song is how weak it sounds compared to the rest of the Help! album. You could make a strong argument that this is the worst song on the whole record, which is kind of like saying joy is the least delightful form of happiness.

Richard Furnstein: George is particularly inventive with his incredibly awkward spazz leads on this one. The bridge is nothing more than an obligation; Paul doesn't seem particularly keen on throwing it in the song and it fails to present the joker card of many early Beatles bridges. Maybe cowbell would have helped? Also, Ringo's cymbal work gives me a damned headache.

Robert Bunter: Let's look at the lyrics for a minute. Paul is spending a lot of time addressing one girl, telling her about how much better some other girl is. "I don't wanna say that I've been unhappy with you / But as from today well I've seen somebody that's new" - aside from being grammatically incomprehensible, Paul forces the listener (me, Robert Bunter) to wonder - why is he taking such great pains to explain all this to the first, inferior girl? Why doesn't he just break up with girl number one in favor of the other, who "through thick and thin...will always be my friend?" We are left to wonder, and to weep at the beauty of this immortal track from the second-worst album the Beatles ever released.

Richard Furnstein: Paul plays a gigantess blonde as a bass guitar in the movie clip; it's as if this song just exists for that fetish exploration. Somebody should have probably told George that the song was over. NEXT!

You're Going To Lose That Girl

Robert Bunter: Can you imagine how threatening this song was to the adolescent boys who heard it in 1965? Picture it: a pimply lad with an already-out-of-date moptop (Fabs were flirting with shoulder-length by now) stares at the Help! album sleeve and sees the four grown men who
are already the sole romantic focus of every girl he knows. Maybe he's just finally now made a tentative connection with a young Mormon girl with pretty eyes who smiled at him during lunch at the telemarketing place ... and now he's got to listen to these wealthy globe-trotting sex symbols' mocking voices droozling out of his inferior hi-fi speakers: "I'll make a point of taking her away from you!" How is that supposed to make me feel? Why don't you just stick with your wife, John, and leave Christine Walker alone? I wish I'd never bought this album.

Richard Furnstein: Really good call and response on this one. John is up front declaring his intention of stealing every girl in the world and George and Paul are all like "watch what you do." Yeah.

Robert Bunter: Afterthought - nice bongos throughout; even better when they're faded up in the mix during the guitar solo.

Richard Furnstein: I think Ringo is just banging them harder. Bare hands on leather, man. Oh, and this song has perhaps the most perfect ending of any Beatles song. Also, the stereo mix is absolute crud, John's choppy guitar is way too present and the drums are five miles away.

It's Only Love

Richard Furnstein: John drops off his soppy laundry at that studio. The kind of song that he would give Paul a pink belly over, but I guess Lennon gets a pass. This one pretty much coasts on the vocal, melody, and beautiful arrangement, but really very little else here.

Robert Bunter: It's no wonder he felt this way, trapped in a loveless marriage with the hapless Cynthia. His soul was just waiting for an abrasive conceptual artist to come along and awaken his wandering spirit. Thank you, John, for this immortal melody.

Richard Furnstein: He rolls his r's on this one like a Latin lover. Beats do World Music! Also the use of "it's so hard" probably got some guffaws from Mal Evans. Top track. Shoulda made the red/blue comps that your aunt had. It probably did.