Maggie Mae

Robert Bunter: OK, a quick primer for the casual reader who may not be steeped in Beatles lore. After the White Album they were starting to fight. Paul dragged everybody into the studio with the idea to heal the cracks and get back to roots by rehearsing for a live concert of new material. The rehearsals would be recorded and filmed for a new album and documentary movie. The problem was, like telling Monkees jokes the day after Davy Jones passed on, it was “too soon.” The others still resented Paul’s bossiness, John was in a stupor from his first heroin habit and relationship with Yoko, and George, grouchy on the best of days, was certainly in no mood to be corralled into another Paul-dominated multi-media project after the ridiculous Magical Mystery Tour film. Even the clownish Ringo was in a sour mood, his droopy facial features and downcast eyes becoming even more sad-dog-looking than usual. To make matters worse, they were used to recording their wonderful music during hilarious late-night sessions at the comfortably warm Abbey Road studios (equipped with the infamous bottomless teapot and constantly re-stocked beans, “crisps” and digestive biscuits). For this project, however, in order to accommodate the film crew, they had to set up their stuff on a cold, gray soundstage at early hours of the morning. Do you want to take it from here, Rich?

Richard Furnstein: Hold on, I'm scanning your primary education summary on the Get Back project to see where we are. Control F "cold, gray soundstage"? Right, perfect. What started as a promising concept for the new Beatles project--intimate audio/visual explorations of The Beatles writing and rehearsing new material in preparation for a grand return to the stage--was quickly downgraded to a warty documentation of uninspired sessions. The grand finale would become an impromptu rooftop performance of the album's more palatable numbers. The "return to their roots" angle of the project is even less inspiring when you consider that the stark White Album pretty much achieved that goal. Throw in the worst batch of songs since the troubled Help! project along with an awful Phil Spector hack-job in the post production and you have a posthumous document of excuses from the decomposing Beatles.

Robert Bunter: Okay, are you with us, reader? So, part of the conceit was that the Beatles would be recorded and filmed performing not only their new original material but a batch of the old ‘50s rock and roll chestnuts with which they’d often warm up. What could be more inspiring? As they work together in harmony to craft their latest brilliant LP, the unobtrusive cameras manage to peel back the curtain of history and allow the raptly-attentive fans to glimpse their heroes playfully re-exploring the primal/crucial rock and roll that ignited the spark of their brilliant career in the first place. “Let’s record a great song, then, eh?,” says George. “Aye, Georgie,” says John in an exaggeratedly-deep fake voice which cracks up the assorted engineers and staff members. “Soonds good, but first why don’t we warm up with a Buddy Holly number, then?” replies Paul, and the next thing you know they are re-defining the electrifying changes of “Maybe Baby” so masterfully that grown men start to weep. Once that’s out of the way, they’re warmed up and ready to record their new stuff and it’s going to sound even better than it would have beforehand. They all smile warmly at each other and the sour mood of the White Album sessions and tense Apple Corps business meetings rises off the group like sock-steam from a dirty, sweaty sock that you leave outside in the morning next to your tent and the new day’s sunshine and warmth just lift the filth away, leaving behind a warm, dry, clean sock. The rejuvenated foursome is finally ready to continue into the dazzling future of their potential ‘70s career, and later we will all look back at Paul’s great idea to film a movie of the band rehearsing old ‘50s songs along with their new material as the turning point, a masterstroke. That’s how it was supposed to go.

Sad millionaires conjuring drunken spirits as a pathetic tribute to their forgotten hometown.

Richard Furnstein: How did it actually go? The aborted Get Back album was full of obscure chatter, underdeveloped songs like "Teddy Boy," "The Rocker," and a particularly putrid version of "Save The Last Dance For Me." The Let It Be album was a slicker compromise that didn't make anybody happy. It's easy to get excited about the endless pile of unreleased recordings from these tedious sessions. Beatlemaniacs always run into the Get Back sessions trap. Imagine being 17 years old and coming across Beatles bootlegs at the monthly Keystone Record Collectors show and finding a disc full of Bob Dylan covers by The Greatest Band On The Planet. Then imagine sitting in your sad bedroom listening to these awful versions played by rapidly aging and disinterested musicians. No refunds, the man said at the record fair. He's a smart businessman, and his business is breaking young men's hearts.

Robert Bunter: Man. That really hits home. So, we finally arrive at “Maggie Mae.” It’s not the Rod Stewart song about the relationship between a young rock star and an aging, fading beer queen (I’d like to add parenthetically that it drives me crazy in that song when he sings about how he might go back to school, or maybe “steal my daddy’s cue / and make a living out of playin’ pool.” He’s in the process of giving the boot to a poor woman who was kind enough to “take him in for the night” and this over-privileged fancy boy is just torturing her with the many wonderful life options that are still open to him. Please consult Lester Bangs’ first book for more on this subject). It’s a funky old ditty about a Liverpool prostitute, a drunken barroom sing-along. One gets the impression that the Beatles all knew this song from the old days, maybe a bit of an in-joke from the Reeperbahn or something. So, they break into an off-key little version and forget half the words and sing the harmonies wrong and then the whole thing putters off into nothing to end side one of Let It Be. Why did they even give it space on the tracklisting? It’s really more like the same sort of filler material as the “I Dig A Pygmy by Charles Hawtrey and the Deaf Aids” segment which opens the record.

Richard Furnstein: Throwaways like "Maggie Mae" and "Dig It" were clearly added to connect the Let It Be album with its original "work in progress" concept. They serve an ever greater purpose in the final track list, offering a safe place to hide from Phil Spector's tidal wave of strings and contempt on "Across The Universe" and "The Long And Winding Road." The fact is that The Beatles were never this rough, even in their rugged teddy boy days. It all just feels a bit phony: some sad millionaires conjuring drunken spirits as a pathetic tribute to their forgotten hometown. How can they connect to the common seamen and crooked toothed ladies of Liverpool now after years of eastern thought explorations, (alleged) sexual escapades with Joan Baez, bold new psychedelic drugs and fabrics, and gentle scrubbing and care from Mal Evans? They were no longer those simple men in 1969. John Lennon once promised an eternity of explorations in the rich Strawberry Fields, but now he couldn't be interested in leaving the comforts of heroin, white suits, and Yoko's control. Interestingly, Lennon would revisit "Maggie Mae" in the late 1970s (available on the crucial Anthology boxset). It's a much calmer take and represents a sincere attempt to connect to the folk traditions of North Liverpool.

Robert Bunter: That’s a good point. The Let It Be/Get Back experiment didn’t really work. They pulled themselves together to record one last brilliant album, but it was despite of the Get Back vibes, not because of them. The whole project ultimately belongs to the small but pungent category of Beatle missteps, along with the aforementioned Magical Mystery Tour film, the Maharishi retreat, Andy White’s drums on “Love Me Do” and side two of the original Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP.

Richard Furnstein: That being said, I would trade a decade of my life for a few more pungent missteps from these British superheroes. Perhaps we could have seen another twenty years of terrible recordings and poor production choices. "Maggie Mae" is indeed a special thing because it represents the promise of a terrible, thoughtless Beatles.

Robert Bunter: That’s a nice way of looking at it. Nice talking with you, Rich!

Let It Be

Richard Furnstein: It's a Thursday morning in mid-October. The church is empty save for a bearded man in the second row of pews. His orange sweater is full of unruly pills and wear, but his shoes are clean. Three votive candles burn before a Virgin Mary statue, flickering shadows across her faded blue gown. There's a beautiful tune in the air, a simple progression that provides comfort and familiarity. That's the beauty that I hear in "Let It Be." It's the sound of a man facing into the great unknown with a calm, clear mind. Paul wrote the song after having his dead mother (actually named Mary) visit him in a dream. "Let It Be" is the feeling that lingers in the morning as Paul tries to unravel the mystery of his unusual dream. It's easy to look into the significance of the famous origins of this song as The Beatles were clearly facing the end of the line. However, "Let It Be" is not a eulogy or an embarrassing gospel pastiche, it's a very human moment from The Beatles. We don't even peek into their superpowers until George's perfect guitar solo.

Robert Bunter: It’s difficult to hear this song with fresh ears; it’s one of the Beatles songs that has been played to death. You hear it and think, “That’s a nice tune but it’s really not up there with their best,” or “They were about to break up, Paul seems to have been really troubled,” or – if you know about the story of the song’s origin – “Isn’t it sweet that Paul had a dream about his mother during a difficult time.” But it deserves more than that. The chords and melody are simple, but that’s appropriate to the sentiments. The rhythm track (John’s primitive bass fumbling and Ringo’s echoplexed cymbals) is surprisingly funky; Billy Preston’s organ (!) obviously pegs the funk-meter even further into the red. George’s solo provided a perfect template for all future power-ballad solos, but the lack of heavy reverb, delay and overdrive keep it from David Gilmour overkill. McCartney’s vocal performance is characteristically great and the lyrics make a lot of good sense.

Richard Furnstein: I'm nodding my head because I am completely with you. Here's the jillion dollar question: is "Let It Be" one of the all time greats? I have no idea what to do with this one. "Let It Be" carries the effortless calm and beauty of many McCartney moments from this era. It's almost an overfed version of the type of muted charms that would populate his first solo album (think of "Let It Be" as a template for the superior "Maybe I'm Amazed"). However, I can't shake the feeling that Paul is trying a little too hard to grace the common man with his wisdom and strength. We all want to rally against the looming sorrow and darkness, but the chorus fails to truly convince us that the answer is close at hand. Stand pat? A little wait-and-see? I'm sorry, Paul, but I'm taking action. Preston's mighty organ and Ringo's strident cymbal play can't help me through this foggy path of misery.

It's easy to see a bearded and well fed Paul calmly pedal a lovely grand piano and wonder where the good times have gone.

Robert Bunter: One of the all-time greats? No. Here are the all-time greats: “I’ll Cry Instead,” “She’s Leaving Home,” “You Won’t See Me,” “Penny Lane,” “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl,” “She Loves You,” “Yesterday,” “Hey Jude,” “Dear Prudence,” “What Goes On,” “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “Sun King,” “I Don’t Want To Spoil The Party,” “Savoy Truffle,” “I’m Only Sleeping,” “Hey Bulldog” and “I Want To Tell You.” Case closed. “Let It Be” is fine, just fine, but re-read that list I just rattled off. Same league? Not really. I’m glad you had a poignant spiritual moment, Paul. Now fetch your left-handed Epiphone acoustic and write me another “Mother Nature’s Son,” OK? The clock is ticking and the band will break up soon. There’s no time for your ponderous schmaltz.

Richard Furnstein: Let's just put it this way: there are a lot of songs that I want to hear when old Paul sits down at the piano, but "Let It Be" ain't high on the list. I'd rather hear him pound out "Nineteen Hundred Eighty Five," "Maybe I'm Amazed," "Hey Jude," or "Back Seat Of My Car" (I have no idea if that was written on piano but it should have been). The plaintive tone of "Let It Be" is magnified by its companion piece "The Long and Winding Road." These are songs that showcase the wise and calm godhead of Paul McCartney; a man that stood on a hill in Magical Mystery Tour and wrote a sad song to make young Julian feel better after his parents' divorce. While undeniably great, Paul's well meaning softer tendencies would increasingly become a sore point with John, many fans, and Paul himself (see Paul's numerous cool factor appeals that he was The Beatle that wanted to introduce the avant garde to rock n' roll).

"Let It Be" is perfect for what it is, but it can be interpreted as part of the problem. Just look at the footage of those torturous Let It Be album sessions. The band looks thirty years older than the teddy boys that threatened to hold our hands; it's easy to see a bearded and well fed Paul calmly pedal a lovely grand piano and wonder where the good times have gone.

Robert Bunter: Don’t even get me started on “The Long And Winding Road.” I don't remember what we said about this one in our write up, but I'm sure that my appraisal veered unpredictably from extravagant praise to scornful dismissal. That’s the way it is with the late-era Paul ballads. They’re great but look at what else was happening in 1969 – primitive early Funkadelic masterpieces; Ten Years After hitting their stride on the way to A Space In Time, the Bee Gees turned a lot of heads around with Odessa, and the Mothers of Invention dropped the double LP extravaganza Uncle Meat (original pressings contained a full-color booklet). The Beatles needed to seize the moment, consolidate their gains and push forward tirelessly. Instead, they recorded “Let It Be.” It was a missed opportunity.

Richard Furnstein: Missed opportunity? I think they achieved what I believe was the main objective of the Get Back sessions--to expose the cracks in the brotherhood and prepare the world for Beatles solo ventures. The White Album was an effective first shot, with its abundance of solo and augmented band recordings and individual band member photos. The isolation in The White Album tracks could be written off as a response to the flourishes of the psychedelic era. The Let It Be album was a grim portrayal of thirty year old men, together and apart. One only has to look at Ringo's face during this period to realize the extent of the damage. Footage from the Let It Be shows an exhausted and grim Ringo, his hound dog eyes lost in the cold expanse of Twickenham Film Studios.

"Let It Be" the song was surely a light in the darkness (the previously mentioned flickering votive candle), but the light only highlighted the sadness and sorrow in the cold and empty chamber of The Beatles. That this exhausted group of men would later record the medley on Abbey Road is nothing short of a miracle.

Robert Bunter: True. They’d endured years of scuffling through Liverpool and Hamburg, which gave way to screaming fans, bold experimentalism, social revolutions and new vistas of creation. Now it was time to be tired.

Get Back

Robert Bunter: There’s something strange about this one. A galloping McCartney rocker with naughty lyrics and a title that referenced the new “back to basics” ethos the Beatles were trying to champion, “Get Back” nonetheless feels oddly flat and thin with a noodly guitar tone, roots-only bassline, dead-sounding drums and Billy Preston’s gently funking electric piano shuffling along in the background. Maybe it’s just something that got lost in the recording – if you were actually sitting there on the Apple rooftop watching them brace themselves against the London wind and shake their hair out of their eyes, it was electrifying. Reservations aside though, this is a great song. Along with “Dig A Pony” and “I’ve Got A Feeling” it exemplifies a certain mood or feeling that I like to call “The Let It Be Mood Or Feeling.” And Richard? I like it.  

Richard Furnstein: Paul populates this snaky roots rocker with the usual gang of misfits, transvestites, and cocaine-toothed miscreants. The same kind of slice of life sketches that defined his earlier non-love songs ("Eleanor Rigby," "Paperback Writer," "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da"), except "Get Back" features a distinctly American cast. Kids with opium eyes, perfect teeth, and shaggy coats covering their frail bodies. Ringo's gallop is the sound of manifest destiny; the iron horse making its way across the great rectangular states. It's a coast to coast love happening. Hitch a ride. Tucson may be out of your way, but you should stay awhile.  

Robert Bunter: Well that’s an attractive vision to be sure, but the Yankee freakshow lyrics were actually hasty revisions to the original version, which was a parody of the right wing anti-immigrant rants of British politician Enoch Powell. Paul was singing lyrics like, “Don’t dig no Pakistanis / taking all the people’s jobs.” It’s a good thing they changed it, although I personally would like to own some alternate-universe Beatle records where they used all the original lyric drafts. “Scrambled Eggs,” the original Tom Tancredo hate speech version of “Get Back,” “He Said He Said” … with the butcher sleeve as cover art and Pete Best on drums. I’m telling you, when it comes to thinking up nonexistent Beatles products I’d like to buy, I’ve got some solid ideas.  

Richard Furnstein: I was hoping to avoid the "Paki" angle, as it makes me uncomfortable (just imagine how George felt: he owned a sitar!). Paul and John had a habit of slipping into "native tongues" for comical effect ("C Moon," ""You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)," "Borrowed Time," "Rocky Raccoon," "Dark Room"). Perhaps this was part of their continued exploration outside of the Liverpool/American rock comfort zone--dip some "chips" into the global stew--but it sometimes feels at odds with the posthumous world peace packaging of The Beatles.

Honestly, I'd rather discuss the naked sound of this recording. It never quite "rocks," there is a hollow quality to the verse after the Billy Preston-fueled introduction. You can almost hear the rock escape into the London air of the rooftop performance. This recording sorely misses The Room (the real fifth Beatle), the best friend that Ringo's drums and Paul's melodic bass lines ever had. We're left with mid range confusion. I'm just going to say it: this is one of the few poorly produced Beatles recordings. No wonder the Ike and Tina and Shirley Scott and the Soul Saxes versions bury the original; you can't say that about many Beatles covers!  

Robert Bunter: You’re right. The low-gloss production style of “Let It Be” (I am resisting the temptation to call it “Get Back With Don’t Let Me Down and 14 Other Songs,” the title of the original, aborted release) adds a very nice feeling to tracks like “Two Of Us” and “Dig A Pony” but leaves “Get Back” feeling a little undernourished. OK, Richard, here it comes: which version do you consider definitive? The Glyn Johns single mix or the Phil Spector album cut?

I’ll tell you what I do buy, though – the warm, inviting funk of ace keyboard player Billy Preston.

Richard Furnstein: I'm going single mix if those are my only options. Paul's vocal has a light airy quality in the mono mix (check Mono Masters, Volume 2) that seems to settle nicely in the steady pulse of Ringo's westward locomotive. My true choice would be the Let It Be...Naked version, which seems to have a much improved mix (despite its unfortunate fade-out). Paul's vocal has a touch more urgency and there is a nice separation on the simple guitar tracks. It's still clearly a final sprint around the track for this aging horse, but it has a nice balance of live energy and late twenties restraint from our heroes.  

Robert Bunter: You are absolutely right. Pop quiz part two: what artist released the “Get Back” single on Apple Records on April 11, 1969? I’ll give you a hint – it wasn’t the Beatles.  

Richard Furnstein: Ha, I love it! The answer is clearly The Beatles With Billy Preston! That's a round one of Beatles trivia night question. A fun warm up! Do you buy John's allegation that Paul was directing some of the xenophobia of "Get Back" at Yoko? John says that Paul eyed up his wife every time he sang the "Get back to where you once belonged" line.  

Robert Bunter: I don’t know, man. John could be paranoid, but Paul could certainly be passive-aggressive. I’ll tell you what I do buy, though – the warm, inviting funk of ace keyboard player Billy Preston. I remember being transfixed by his interview segment in the wonderful documentary film “The Compleat Beatles” where he bashfully describes his role on this primal, crucial Beatles cut. He’s sitting there at the piano in a funky suit and he smiles winningly and says, “My solo on Get Back was … basically my creation! They just let me do whatever I wanted, and that made it nice.” I’d like to dedicate this post to the memory of William Campbell Preston and his warm, inviting funk.

Original Beatles fan art by Jeffrey Alan Love (http://www.jeffreyalanlove.com)

I Me Mine

Richard Furnstein: I feel bad about getting on George Harrison's contributions to Let It Be. Clearly, the man was on autopilot at this point; counting down the days until he could cash in his unused sick pay and vacation days. He couldn't help offering half finished songs to the miserable Let It Be sessions. To be fair, nobody else was really trying (except for a big bearded Paul delivering his greatest late period song in "Let It Be"), but somehow the mediocrity was most evident in offerings like "For You Blue" and "I Me Mine." It could come down to George's whiny voice (God only gave him one voice, you know) and self flagellating and dim lyrics. The Beatles were throwing a miserable party. Please let George take your coat. On second thought, keep it on. It's freezing here in Twickenham.

Robert Bunter: I disagree. In defense of “I Me Mine,” I’d like to point out that it offers a really unique sound that was never really developed elsewhere in the Beatles catalog or George’s solo work: a sort of grey, wintry waltz with strings, organs and diminished chords which is leavened with periodic rave-ups (I guess you could say he pursued the rave ups on LP three of All Things Must Pass, but still). In terms of arrangement, I’d rank this track as the best thing Phil Spector did for Let It Be … his strings and choirs suit the spiritual theme of the lyric, plus he edited an extra verse onto the end by taking a previous verse and repeating it. Lyrically, George is treading the well-trod Beatles ground of warning the world about the dangers of the human ego, but between the lines you can sense he’s really directing his barbs at the grasping, selfish fighting of Lennon and McCartney; and, beyond that, at himself. I think you’d have to admit, that’s further than most of the lyrics on this album take us. We’ve got a buddy song (“Two Of Us), a weird sensual party (“Dig A Pony”), a transcendental hymn (“Across The Universe.” OK, that disproves my point a little bit, but is that even a proper Let It Be track? Come on now. World Wildlife Foundation and all that. It should be considered separately), an unfocused rant (“Dig It”), an admittedly great McCartney hymn (“Let It Be”), a stupid folk busker (“Maggie Mae”), a Badfinger template (“I’ve Got A Feeling”), a 1958 retread (“One After 909”), a less-great McCartney hymn (“Long And Winding Road”), a Harrison stinkbomb (“For You Blue”) and a throwaway rocker (“Get Back”). With the possible exception of “Let It Be,” “I Me Mine” is the only track that maintains the Beatles’ status as a religious band.

Clearly, Harrison was on autopilot at this point; counting down the days until he could cash in his unused sick pay and vacation days.

Richard Furnstein: I have no idea what you are talking about. A religious band? Just because of the church organ? Listen harder and better, my friend. I could hear "I Me Mine" clogging up the arteries on Side Four of All Things Must Pass (flows nicely out of "I Dig Love") but the vocal take is closer to the restrained hysterics that defined that album's poorly received follow up Living In The Material World. I will admit that "I Me Mine" sounds incredibly delicious; it is by far the best Spector touch on the album. The production walks the line of becoming a full on choir in the barn rave up, but ultimately it is the unlikely restraint in the horn and orchestral swells that give balance to the song's bloated subject matter.

Robert Bunter: I don’t say religious band because of the church organ but because they were sent by God to bring Love to the Universe. And that’s just what they did, when they weren’t behaving like indulgent clods. What is bloated about the subject matter? “A heavy waltz … a dissection of the ego, the eternal problem” as George put it. Nothing bloated about that. OK, I’ll admit, that is a bloated thing to say. But the lyrics themselves are concise and well-placed. If you don’t like my take on “I Me Mine” so far, try this on for size: it is FAR SUPERIOR to its companion track, “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”


Richard Furnstein: Well, I'm glad that statement is on the public record so that you can plead insanity in the future. This is making me think about everything that you've written in a new light. I'd love to hear your ridiculous theories on George's Gone Troppo or his "I Don't Want To Do It" from the Porky's II Original Soundtrack.

Robert Bunter: It’s all in the mind.

I've Got A Feeling

 Richard Furnstein: Here's an interesting case. I can't quite figure out where I stand on this one. I know it's one of the better songs from the Get Back project, and one of the few songwriting collaborations from the period. I just can't shake the feeling that The Beatles are a million times better than this song. It just seems like something that came together quickly for the boys. It's built around a pretty pedestrian riff, kind of a wishy-washy A to D trance. It's saved (to my ears) by Paul's hairy man routine (later perfected on the Wild Life LP) and John pushing my childhood ears with his mention of wet dreams (predating his masturbation reference in "Give Peace A Chance"). Then it's all over and I don't know how to feel. Why am I so grouchy about this one? Robert, help me out.

Robert Bunter: I'll be goddamned if I know, man. This is the sound of The Beatles inventing beautiful '70s rock. Even in their death throes, they were pushing ahead and pointing us all toward a glorious future. Listen to those guitars howl and yowl; listen to Paul grunt and groan and holler; listen to Ringo's surprisingly dope beats ... present-day rap artists could sample that and have a hit, I'm telling you. Great bass, of course. And Lennon digs deep and flows beautifully. Then there's that unbelievable turnaround at 2:33. This and "Dig A Pony" are the high points of Let It Be (honorable mention for "Two Of Us"), and you can quote me. "I've Got A Feeling" is ragged and wistful, like a bunch of construction workers driving home from a Sunday overtime shift during a beautiful late-August sunset. "Hey, Hog Man, put in one of those goddamn tapes in the glove box. Whaddya got in here ... 'Beatles' tape, yeah. Rewind it back to the start of side two, that's a good one." Then he lights up a joint and they decide to stop in Gloanburg's Tavern for a couple of goddamn beers. That's what this song is all about, Richard.

Richard Furnstein: The dance of the common man. The grunts and thrusts that define our life stuff. It's all here. I get it now. And, you are right. Paul is setting up future Badfinger pantswets as well as his own gold lined mines of Wings. Let It Be was intended as a return to roots concert, and this is one of the more mobile songs on a stiff and artificial "new phase recording." Oh, and I did like the "hate to miss the train" bit, considering that they sequenced "One After 909" after this one (I contend that "One After 909" is the true high point of this album). It was a clever little connection, but I imagine Glyn Johns wasn't even thinking about this.

The dance of the common man. The grunts and thrusts that define our life stuff. It's all here. I get it now.

Robert Bunter: This song has a warm glow, even when it gets frenetic. The no-frills production complements it perfectly. You can hear how simple it was to write, and that's the beauty. Paul sat there mellowly cross-picking an A chord and sang the first thought that popped into his head; John enjoying the blissful second hour after a fix, free-associating over a similar chord pattern (who could forget this terrifying footage?)

Then, they joined the pieces together, just like "A Day In The Life" without the pretensions toward Great Art. Just a couple of lads playing their guitars. They sing what they feel. Paul has found the woman he needs and it's giving him a feeling he can't hide ... wise, creepy Lennon takes the long view, gently sympathizing with everybody who had a hard year and a wet dream. He skirts at the edges of not making sense, as he was so often wont to do, but somehow the emotional message is clearly audible: bemused resignation, weary acceptance, stupefied opiate rapture. I hate to keep referencing John's heroin use - cut the man some slack, he's 30 years dead - but I think it really had a lot to do with the mood of tunes from this period like "I've Got A Feeling," "Don't Let Me Down," "Sun King," "Because," "Look At Me," and a host of others.

Richard Furnstein: I think it's certainly fair to bring up. He was a straight parted zombie at this time. Something that always bugs me about this one is George. You get the sense he's drifting even further away than John. He just hangs back in his huge black haired coat, playing a Telecaster or something. The only person he can look in the eye is poor Mal Evans. It's a sad scene. Can you imagine that I saw a band play "I've Got A Feeling" as a tribute to George on the night of his death? You'd think you could rut out "Roll Over Beethoven," this song is George's sadness. He's absent mindedly picking out an A chord while thinking of eating toffees with Eric Clapton or watering his garden. R.I.P., Dark Horse. You deserved better.

Robert Bunter: I'm surprised you were even able to pull it together to go out on that awful, awful night. I remember I was just trying to hold back the bitter tears, listening to a bootleg tape of Gone Troppo outtakes. Then I heard the terrible news that George Harrison had died.

Dig It

Richard Furnstein: This aimless jam fades in and fades out, the ultimate sign of a lack of cohesion or direction. A snake eating itself. Imagine it's the year 2011 (which it is) and the Beatles are still there in cold Twickenham studios running through a list of things to "dig." Can you imagine that complete recording? It would be a fascinating look at the people, agencies, and social constructions of the times.

Back to the song, it's at once the worst recoding on Let It Be and the greatest representation of the Beatles at this time. Lennon takes the lead because he's an egomaniac and you get the idea that full band jams can only originate from him. I'm sure if George tried to lead the band through "Thanks For The Pepperoni" or some other garbage, John would just sit there, twiddling on his Fender VI or berating his Japanese wife or writing nasty reply letters to Todd Rundgren in the NME. And can you imagine a jam with just George, Paul, and Ringo? Sure you can, it would be great and I would covet that early generation bootleg with all of my soul.


Robert Bunter: Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten that I was talking to my friend Richard Furnstein, who doesn't like the Beatles' album Let It Be. I guess I should take this opportunity to explain that the Beatles, a singing group from Liverpool, decided to make an album that would reflect a natural, unvarnished presentation. The idea was to include random noodling, studio chatter, excerpts from aimless jams and a bare-bones production style as the framework to offer such magnificent gems as "Two Of Us," "Dig A Pony," and "I've Got A Feeling." Part of that effort was this song called Dig It, which was excerpted from a much longer track. It helps to foster the impression that you're peeking behind the curtain, hearing your favorite band in their candid moments. Plus, it's got a nice chugging groove (thanks, Billy Preston! Richard, Billy Preston was a man who helped the Beatles in early 1969, FYI) and some goofily inspired off-the-cuff ranting from a great vocalist who I like to call John Lennon. There's certainly nothing wrong with this song!

Richard Furnstein: Thanks, Robert. I appreciate the sarcastic instruction on the Beatles. I was simply stating that the "peek behind the curtain" was probably the closest representation to the raw Get Back concept. You can't have the beautify of "Let It Be" or "Dig A Pony" without the voyage on the dirt roads of rock n' roll. "Lookin' for 'Don't Let Me Down," guv'ner? Best drive straight through some incoherent jams on "Mailman, Bring Me No More Blues." You know, the Get Back album, right, Robert? Didn't you beg me for a cassette dub of my freshly purchased pristine early generation vinyl at Beatlefest 1993? I remember you said you would buy your own but you were saving up for a Sega Genesis or some garbage Frank Zappa rarities collection.

Robert Bunter: I don't remember any of that. So what is your point? The Get Back/Let It Be gems are strewn haphazardly amongst various crappy rock and roll jams? Thanks for the bracing insight, I didn't realize I was talking to Nicholas Schaffner over here. Criticising Dig It for being pointless and tossed off is like criticising Tony Danza for being a talentless oaf - sure, it's true, but that's the whole idea. If it were up to you, a prime specimen of charming lowbrow trash like "Who's The Boss" would have had tried for the polished look and feel of a class series like "Highway To Heaven" or "Father Dowling Mysteries." Sometimes "aimless and tossed off" is just what the doctor ordered. Can you "dig it?"

Richard Furnstein: When I think of your grave, all I want to do is "dig it."

Two Of Us

Richard Furnstein: What an opener! As the curtain rises on Let It Be, an inebriated John Lennon introduces the sad play ahead of us. His absurd babble in a shouted middle class accent suggests a good time ahead. However, the dipping quality in the songwriting and the feeling of resolution in many of the album's songs quickly dissolves this mood. 

"Two Of Us" is one of the prettier moments on this grimy posthumous collection. It's a Paul number, but is anchored by his Everly Brothers-esque harmonies with John. It's hard not hear this one as a loving tribute to the classic pair's early days as working class rabble-rousers (lifting mysterious latches, aimless joy rides). Paul insists it was written for Linda McCartney. It's a sweet sentiment, but the endless memories discussed in the lyrics point more to an old chum than a relatively new love with an American bird. I'm not buying it, Paul.  Why do you need to lie now? You are actually going to write some of the most incredible love songs ever for Ms. Eastman, including “My Love,” “Maybe I’m Amazed,” and “Every Night.” I’m sure she can handle you writing a song for your old bespectacled chum.

Robert Bunter: The idea that Paul was writing this one about Linda is patently ridiculous. The Beatles liked to look down their nose at the obsessively analytical fans who “read too much into it” and make assumptions about what was going on in their actual lives and how that affected their art. That’s all well and good when Lennon wants to spit acid at us (“Glass Onion,” “I Am The Walrus”), but if Mr. Sincere-Pursed-Lips-and-Arched-Eyebrows Paul McCartney is going to sit there and try to tell us that “Two Of Us” was not a stirring tribute to the rapidly-evaporating relationship with his adolescent partner-in-crime John Winston Lennon, well I’m just going to look him in his beautiful doe eyes and say, “No, Paul. I’m sorry but if that’s what you think this song is about, you are wrong. Let ME tell YOU about the Beatles: ‘Two Of Us’ was written about John and it’s sad and lovely. The sooner you own up to this, the sooner I’ll leave you alone. I can tell you want me to go away but I won these backstage passes fair and square from Andre Gardner at the 102.9 WMGK ‘Breakfast With The Beatles’ Trivia Buffett at Gloanburg’s Tavern in King of Prussia and I have every right to be here. By the way, do you have any real buffalo wings that aren’t vegan substitutes? I couldn’t find them on the hospitality tray.”

Richard Furnstein: Blatant lies aside. Paul does a good job of summing up the adolescent male relationship here. It’s like James Joyce delivering “Araby” in three minutes and thirty seven seconds. A triumph that would make your old pal John proud. His coming solo career would be constantly reaching for simple words to sum up the human experience, and Paul really excels at capturing young male love in this song. All gum hunting, toad licking, and stone skipping in the fading rays of summer. It’s truly gorgeous and seems devoid of the cold, heavy knit vibe that infuses much of Let It Be, tied with Beatles For Sale as their most “winter” long player. “Two Of Us” is the ray of light. The Beatles may be “going home,” but not without whistling down that long and dark path. Perfect love and a song in their hearts.

Robert Bunter: You have really phrased that beautifully. There’s not much I can add, except to invoke the bittersweet aura of pinwheels and monkeydreams: the magic of boyhood friendships and the unbearable sadness that accompanies their inevitable dissolution as the curtain falls on childhood and the stark realities of adulthood scatter yesterday’s clubhouse promises like so many shiny round marbles on the asphalt playground pavements of days gone by. Two young, laughing friends who thought things would never change, until things like women got in the way and the day dawns when these schoolyard soulmates find themselves grown up, with almost nothing remaining of their once-strong bond except a shared obsession with the greatest band that ever lived (a band I like to call: The Beatles) and the daily blog updates they write together. It’s all they have to cling to. That’s what it was like for John Lennon and Paul McCartney when they sang "Two Of Us."

The Long And Winding Road

Robert Bunter: Just as the curtain is about to fall on the greatest band ever, we get one more look at the soft side of a man I like to call James Paul McCartney. This is the Beatle who's given us showtunes ("Till There Was You"), immortal ballads ("Yesterday"), geriatric softshoe shuffles ("When I'm 64," "Honey Pie:) and sweet goopy sugar confections ("I Will"). Now, this gentle soul is going to give us a little bit of the elegaic Ray Charles sound. Cornball harps and choirs threaten to overtake the vocal in a swampy soup of sweetness.


Richard Furnstein: Paul didn't make anybody happy with this ballad. The band seems weary (some signs of life are present in the "many ways" bridge), Paul seems bored and responds by being boring, and Phil Spector tried to spice up this bland chili by throwing swooning angels, Hollywood melodrama, and cozy strings all over this one. Paul later got all pissy about Phil's treatment (leading to the queefing angels free mix on the regrettable Christmas repackaging Let It Be...Naked), but Phil was just giving this pointless song what it deserved. Paul wrote some silver screen dreck, so Phil piled on layer after layer of cheese. You don't like it, Paul? Write a better song. No need to throw a handful of mozzarella on "Let It Be" because that is an amazing song. Seem simple? It is.

Robert Bunter: Like other late-Beatles tracks ("Two Of Us"), this is a song that could be sung to new love Linda Eastman or old buddy John Lennon. Of course, I'm voting for the latter option. The corny, roll-the-credits atmosphere is more tolerable when considered as the sound of McCartney's bruised heart, as he ponders an uncertain future ahead and laments "You left me waiting here a long long time ago / Don't keep me standing here." He's looking at the inscrutable, emotionally distant, heroin addicted wastoid across from him in the Apple studios and wondering what happened to the brilliant teddy boy with the sharp wit and the rock and roll spirit, who he'd once counted as his closest friend and brother? Where did you go, Johnny? I'm standing here looking at this long and winding road all by myself and it's miserable. Why have you forsaken me? Oh man. That's so heavy.

Richard Furnstein: I think the let-it-be-schmaltzy version is the only version of this song to hear. Ringo's gentle touch glides along the soft rock swoons while George and John's boring white squeezings are lost in the abyss of molasses. There are some genuinely beautiful moments in the mix, particularly when the faceless angels swoop in to raise the chill factor. You can almost hear their stupid wings flitting against the studio ceiling in the overblown ending. The angels were trying to get the hell out of dodge before George pushed out "For You Blue."

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah," Paul implores, a lovely call back to the early days of Beatlemania. It's as if Paul is saying, "Thanks for rocking with us, kids, I just traded years of musical innovation into my parents' collection of dusty 78s." I hope I die before you get old.

Dig A Pony

Robert Bunter: This song is a personal favorite of mine. As I said before, on the last couple Beatles albums John experimented with an astonishing variety of new musical directions that he never really followed up on in his solo career. "Dig A Pony" is one of these - it sounds like a hard-rocking soul band playing natural wooden electric guitars and singing into old-fashioned microphones on a floating dock moored atop a placidly drifting river during a warm golden summer sunset in a beer commercial. I know I'm repeating myself here, but I would have been perfectly content if the Beatles had made three or four more LP's exploring this musical in depth. I'll tell you one thing: I would have purchased each one of them on the day of release, and I would still cherish them today.

Richard Furnstein: I hate when the word "sensual" is used to describe music, that word always evokes standing halogen dimmer lamps and boring Portishead records. However, this song is a true sensual festival. Lennon is in full on creeper mode here, using the word penetrate, singing like a lady, and advocating doing "roadhogs" (fat biker chicks?). It's Lennon's weird party and primarily sex people were invited. Avoid the dip. George steps up and delivers a pant tightening solo. Ringo is all even thrusting and cymbal (symbolic?) climaxes. Paul just does what Paul always does, sings the high and creamy parts and undresses you with the doe eyes.

Robert Bunter: Then there's the lyrics: some classic Lennon non-sequiturs and absurdisms, the likes of which we haven't heard since "And Your Bird Can Sing" or "I Am The Walrus." This is a guy who could write some wonderful psychedelic animal songs. Why couldn't we have had some more? As much as I love the Beatles, I think the strongest emotion I feel about their output is regret that there wasn't more of it.

Richard Furnstein: Just listen to John and Paul let out those little effeminate howls before George's solo! I can't get enough of that one millisecond of human history.

One After 909

Richard Furnstein: Sorry, pal. You can't be the fifth Beatle. Why? Well, first of all you were born years after the band broke up. Second, you can barely sing or play amazing guitars. Third, they already have a fifth man, and it's Billy Preston. While the "Get Back" co-write for Preston was a little much, he completely defines "One After 909." His electric piano on this ultimate Beatles album filler transforms an ancient Lennon/McCartney rocker into one of the highlights of Let It Be. Preston is all muscle on this track; meat and tendons that were sorely needed during this bleak phase for the Beatles.

Robert Bunter: A bleak phase is right. None of them knew what they wanted to do. Break up? Get back to roots? Keep moving forward? Be sidemen for Delaney and Bonnie (George)? Fix up a barn in the Scottish countryside while growing a beard (Paul)? Act in movies like Candy and The Magic Christian that I haven't had the chance to watch yet (Ringo)? Attach urine-filled condoms to a nude photo of yourself hanging on the wall of a squalid flat in Montague Square while sniffing opiates and nodding off with your weird wife (John, allegedly, if you believe Albert Goldman, which you probably shouldn't)?

"One After 909" offers another possible solution: incorporate a good-natured, funky keyboard player into the band and boogie down on local rooftops. It's not an ideal outcome, but I'll tell you one thing: I like it better than what they ultimately decided to do, which was to break up. Think of the great five-man lineup Beatles albums of which we've been deprived! 1971's Soulful Mood Blend (Apple 2034), the 1972 double-lp extravaganza Songs In The Key Of Soul! (Apple 2088), the "My Sweet Lord / My Sweet Lord (version)" 12-inch extended mix single and 1976's Heard You Missed Us? Well, We're Back! (Apple, 3010).

Richard Furnstein: Take a listen to the Anthology take of "909." The Beatles play this version tight. The strummed acoustic in the introduction tries to manage expectations. Lennon and McCartney were likely already embarrassed by the "don't be cold as ice" lyric. It's a fun curiosity, but ultimately a trainwreck. Give it up to Preston for elevating a strung out batch of millionaires to rock heights that they couldn't even reach in their methamphetamine bopper days. Yay, Bill!

For You Blue

Richard Furnstein: The whistle blows down at the blues factory, and a leathery George Harrison clocks in and pushes out this product before lunchtime. John plays a fun lapsteel part in between nodding off and George tries to reinvigorate the gallop ("go Johnny go!").

 It's a fun little diversion on Let It Be, and a good chance for the Beatles to shuffle in their darkest hour. The only sadness here is that George had about thirty superior songs in his back pocket, but his insecurities kept him from delivering them to a band that was honestly considering releasing dross like "Maggie Mae" and "Teddy Boy" to the general public. "All Things Must Pass" and other gems were his golden parachute. The writing was on the wall, and he wasn't giving up the goods. A real tear.  

The writing was on the wall, and George wasn't giving up the goods. A real tear.

Robert Bunter: It would seem to be very easy to dismiss this track, but it’s difficult to imagine Let It Be without it (Glyn John’s Get Back, anyone?) Part of the brilliance of the Beatles lies in the way the context of their brilliant career is able to elevate otherwise disposable tracks by proximity alone. That said, this song really stinks. It’s kind of hard not to conclude that George was not just holding back his ace tracks for solo work, but actively inserting a total piece of garbage into the mix as an act of deliberate sabotage. It’s possible – remember, this is filthy George Harrison we’re talking about here.