All You Need Is Love

Robert Bunter: The year is nineteen something-or-other. Some guy invents satellite television technology, capable of using space machines to beam pictures and sounds across the entire globe! Then, in 1967, some TV producers decide to create a program for everybody. The climax of the show would involve the post-Sgt. Pepper Beatles, at the very height of their cultural influence and creative powers, performing and recording their newest single absolutely live, in real time, before an audience of millions. They had no reason to think that exponential leaps of genius and sophistication that marked the progression from "She Loves You" to "Yesterday" to "Tomorrow Never Knows" to "A Day In The Life" would not continue indefinitely; even the most curmudgeonly critics would have allowed that "if they keep on at this rate, their next record ought to be quite good!" Wonderful. Let's prepare the studio and order up some cameras and session musicians. "What are we going to do, lads?" asks staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin. "I've got a little number that'll do nicely," said handsome Paul. And he sits down at the piano and plays a brisk minor key ostinato. "Let's all get up / and dance to a song / that was a hit before / your mother was born," he sings, and before he can even finish the next line, Ringo throws a large, heavy-bottom ashtray at his head. There were still cigarettes burning inside of it; Paul's brightly-colored satin blouse could have easily caught fire as he lay unconscious from the impact. But he deserved it. Can you believe that he actually offered up "Your Mother Should Know" for the Our World global satellite broadcast? No, I am not making this up. After Ringo threw the ashtray, John reached over and pulled on the back of Paul's hair as hard as he could, which really hurts when your hair is the length that Paul's was in summer 1967. Paul screamed (he sounded just like Little Richard, listen to the actual session outtakes on rare bootlegs!) and George took the opportunity to karate chop him in the lower ribs. There was no fracture but an ugly purple bruise about three inches below his nipples was there for weeks. Mal Evans poked him in the behind with a sharp cane. The playful locker room horseplay and brotherly tussles that had long characterized the Fab Four's studio sessions had taken a decidedly ugly turn. 

Richard Furnstein: Thanks, Robert. You set that up nicely. The Our World programme (program here in the States) was a talent show for the world. Each of the civilized nations with television technology provided entertainment (including comedy skits, Hungarian juggling, traditional dance, and songs) for the live broadcast. I'll tell you what, they should have just cut to the chase and shown "All You Need Is Love" twenty times. Can you imagine sitting through this endless program for three minutes of The Beatles? It must have been torture. They probably had teasers before each commercial break: "Coming soon: THE BEATLES live from England." That was that, you were stuck in your chair for hours, staring at some confusing samurai swordplay, hoping for the salvation from the greatest band on the planet. Suddenly, there they were! They looked just like the creepy aged faces on the cover of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (except John and Paul lost their progressive mustaches). While the Sgt Pepper's album cover's heaving forest of exploding flowers and garish frocks was drained of all its color in the broadcast, the array of beautiful people (plus Mal Evans), willing hippie women, and stuffy old English session players provided an even sharper view of the love revolution. Look, the Rolling Stones stopped by! The Pepper sleeve told us about that band. I should check them out at some point.

Robert Bunter: So, the group wisely decided against using Paul's less-than-stellar "Your Mother Should Know" in favor of John's anthemic mission statement "All You Need Is Love." It was a simple, catchy tune with a nice universal message that really rings true. Even Paul had to agree that it was the right choice for the TV program, after he regained consciousness with the bruises under his nipples and on his behind. And yet - "All You Need Is Love" ultimately represents a disappointment. Lennon was at his best when writing about his deep personal emotions and somehow managing to strike a chord of resonant universality with the larger outside world, on tracks like "In My Life" and "Nowhere Man." When he sat down to consciously address humanity ("The Word," "Give Peace A Chance," "Power To The People," all of Some Time In New York City), more often than not he was wont to trip over his own inflated ego and serve up a platter of stale broadsides. There were exceptions ("Revolution," "Imagine," "Isolation" and "Working Class Hero"), but I'm putting "All You Need Is Love" in the former category.

Richard Furnstein: Cut Lennon some slack. Do you think it was easy for him to relate to the common man? He couldn't sing of straight happiness or love; his emotional ideal was based on dependency and abandonment fear. His nightmares were full of horrific fanged visions. Yet, Lennon had an ongoing desire to make that connection. Hence, his worldwide plea for peace and love was anchored in familiar melodies ("Three Blind Mice," "The Song Of The Marseillaise," "She Loves You") and offset by a uniquely Lennon clipped verse melody. There you go, World: you've heard it before but you haven't heard it before. Do you love it? Of course, you do, it's got Keith Moon playing brushes on a snare while Mick Jagger wears a ridiculous Lennon face jacket. Forget Haight-Ashbury, "All You Need Is Love" resides at the corner of Fabulous and Lysergic. Time to clock in at the ol' drop out factory.

It’s no wonder the hippie dreams of the ‘60s faded into the clouds like so much happy smoke, leaving behind only the seedy crumbs and vague, burnt peanut butter stink of yesterday’s stash box.

Robert Bunter: OK, fair enough. Lennon was so advanced, he needed to simplify his message lyrically and musically so it could be understood by all humans, from the most urbane sophisticates to the most primitive children. As a longtime Beatle fan who falls somewhere in the middle, let me just admit that this song is on my list of skip-overs. I’ve been over-exposed to it my entire life. There it was on the 20 Greatest Hits cassette. Then I got it on the Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP. Then, there it was on the “Blue Album,” 1967-1970 and on Magical Mystery Tour. That’s not even counting its appearances on the latter-day greatest hits collection One and the trapeze mashup record Love. And the original 1967 single. And the Our World footage appearing in every single Beatles documentary, from the immortal Compleat Beatles to the Anthology. I’m sorry, but the song just isn’t that good. It was lazily written and poorly produced. It is lyrically oblique and musically uninspired. It’s no wonder the hippie dreams of the ‘60s faded into the clouds like so much happy smoke, leaving behind only the seedy crumbs and vague, burnt peanut butter stink of yesterday’s stash box. It was the Beatles’ job to write, perform and record a song that would unify the world and heal the lingering wounds under our nipples and on our behinds. Instead, John served up a platter of warmed-over fortune cookie riddles and Glenn Miller horn charts. The Beatles would record the necessary world-unifying track soon enough (it was “Hey Jude”), but they didn’t put it up on the satellite TV and therefore everything went down the pan until finally they broke up.

Richard Furnstein: Gosh, I'm surprised you didn't complain about Ringo's poor drumming performance in the broadcast video. Listen, I'm sorry if you can't appreciate Lennon's cool gum-chewing detachment in the dreary verses. It's too bad that you can't hear the beautiful swirl of the finale as a mantra (the fanatical George Harrison later claimed it was a "subtle bit of PR for god"). What about George's squeaky but emotional solo? If only you could delight in the cello driven string section, old friend. I think there's a lot to love here. It has always represented the excitement of the transitional points of The Beatles. While in many ways a retread of the sophisticated pop symphonies of Pepper, the weird combination of live and backing tracks alone make this a completely unique recording in the world of The Beatles. (Side note: have you ever imagined what the backing track sounds like on its own?) It's certainly not The Beatles' fault that this song was anthologized to death; it was merely a single with a worldwide premiere. A snapshot at the transition from the wide eyed lovers of life in Sgt Pepper to the garish confusion that marked the Magical Mystery Tour/Yellow Submarine era. The Robert Bunter I used to know would lament that we don't have a full album of these miracle sessions. Another branch in the mighty Beatles oak tree cut short by the changing seasons.

Robert Bunter: I’m not taking the bait. This track is weak and I think deep down everyone knows it. John certainly did; I would refer you to the following quotes: “[All You Need Is Love] wasn’t our best track” (Crawdaddy, 1971); “…a real low point, creatively speaking” (Rolling Stone, 1973); “Frankly, Dick, I was just phoning it in. Me heart wasn’t in it, we just figured we had to cut a track for the telly-vision program” (Dick Cavett interview segment, 1974); “Garbage? Yes.” (Creem, 1977). Now, I will grant you that artists themselves are seldom the best judge of their own work, but I think we ought to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. One little-known fact about these sessions is that the Beatles played oddball instruments on the backing track – John strummed a banjo, Paul thumped a double-bass and George scratched away on a violin. I will admit that I would love to hear those isolated tracks. They probably sounded like Flatt and Scruggs. VERY flat and Scruggs, that is! Look, the song is far from terrible. John’s assessments (“another steaming pile shoveled onto the dung-mound of our post-Pepper doldrums” –East Village Other, 1972) were overly harsh. I’m just saying this is ultimately a pedestrian effort that does not deserve to be numbered among the greatest hits. That’s all, Richard.

Richard Furnstein: Here's a quote I'm more interested in: "It was a fabulous time musically and spiritually"--Ringo Starr, poolside, Los Angeles, California, 1995. He's right, we're both wrong. Let's go get some Mexican food, old friend. I'm buying.

I Am The Walrus: Part 2-Standing In The English Rain

Richard Furnstein: “I Am The Walrus” starts innocently enough. That is, if you consider acid-tinged marmalade leaking from a mildew covered carnival tent as innocent. The first few seconds are completely unsettling: keyboards blink on and off while Ringo shakes a leather satchel filled with rat bones. Suddenly, a flash of bats swoop down along with George Martin’s menacing string figure. Welcome to the nightmare. Lennon throws in some crippling shadow-play (“I am he”) and the listener is left trying to decipher the voices in his fractured mind. I’d argue that he didn’t need to introduce his ugly parade of pornographic priestesses and sun-deprived English gardens to let us know that things are slightly askew. The music—alternately playful and imbalanced—does the job for him

Robert Bunter: The sounds are weird. How did they do it? The bare-sounding demo versions that have escaped on bootlegs and Anthology 2 show that a lot of credit must be awarded to staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin. His strings and horns perfectly complement the air of menacing dementia that John’s songwriting had already established. How many people did it take to create this song? The four Beatles, a handful of studio personnel, and perhaps a few dozen button-down session players and a choir … let’s say thirty. It feels like every single one of them (even gentle Ringo and the benign, sweater-clad cello players) is staring directly into the listener’s terrified eyes in an unthinkable psychic assault. Listen to those drum fills and try to imagine the pleasantly-downcast Ringo-figure from the “This Boy” segment of the Hard Day’s Night film. You can’t do it. That melancholy chap has seven eyes and a rainbow-colored cloak and his face smells like chrome STOP STARING AT ME RINGO STOP STARING AT ME EGGMAN AAAARrrrrrrggggggggggggggh???!?

Keyboards blink on and off while Ringo shakes a leather satchel filled with rat bones.

Richard Furnstein: You forgot the British actors drolly delivering Act IV, Scene VI of Shakespeare's King Lear and whatever other found sounds and music were plucked from the BBC acmon. Oh, and the trusty Mal Evans who probably delivered the tea, crisps, and purple windowpane segments to this cackling bunch. That's like a busload of people focused on giving the world this sinister and degenerate mess of art. The song's sound effects and string and horn lines simultaneously mock and hector the listener. At its core, "I Am The Walrus" is a children's comedy record, but one delivered with the shaking, sweating, and pulsing white eyes of a horrific nightmare.  Are you awake? Can you see that trembling mass in the corner? I swear, there was a  shadow man in the room. He told me that he is waiting for the van to the next dimension to come. Hold me.

Robert Bunter: The vocal track is slightly overdriven and ADT'd, which emphasizes the harshness of the alliterative consonants ("Pretty little P'Liceman," "Dripping from a Dead Dog's eye") and stretches the vowels into impossible dimensions ("I'm Cryyyyyyyying").  Speaking of which, "I'm crying" is a totally incongruous sentiment, delivered in John's characteristically breathtaking falsetto register. I mean, this demented walrus is haranguing the listener about incomprehensible mind-riddles, when he suddenly announces that he's crying (actually, he says "I'm crying / I'm crine / I'm crying / I'm cry") Is this a shift of perspective? Perhaps John is assuming the role of the terrified listener for a brief moment. More likely, he was just dredging around in the depths of his consciousness and stumbled onto the primal pain that was always there. It's possible that all this listener-terror is actually misplaced, that John was really singing to HIMSELF. But who is he? "I'm crying." "I am the walrus." Is the walrus crying? He is we as we are he. The shifting identities that underlay the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band concept and the acid-induced ego confusion of "Strawberry Fields Forever" reached a peak with "Walrus." I don't think John ever got this far out again; even the ominous "Revolution 9" sound collage had a certain experimental air of art-music detachment and opiated languor. "I Am The Walrus" is the unfiltered audio soundtrack to the nightmare that was John Lennon's fundamental brainspace.

Richard Furnstein: I think you nailed it. "I'm Crying" is the pain and suffering¹ that underlies John's stream of riddles and horrorshow apparitions. The verses to "I Am The Walrus" find John stumbling around chilly and unfamiliar dreamscapes. Each ending with an altercation with dream reality. A deus ex machina, if you will. In this sense, one can look at "I'm Crying" as a mantra to return our troubled storyteller back to the start (troubled drag-addled adult->emotionally distant teenager->the collapse of childhood felt in his mother's death->Aunt Mimi's strict and steady hand->loss of his seaman father->the Strawberry Fields aether). "I'm Crying" is therefore the removal of the mask (why else would one have to declare that they are weeping?). It's the exposure of the emotion hiding under the distance hinted at in the lyrics. George Martin's primal rock n' strings swell under this raw demonstration to mimic the brain swell that accompanies these moments of clarity. You can't just declare "I love you" or "I'm mad" without the brain releasing five thousand mind warriors to chill your spine. The orchestration does an excellent job of covering the various emotions presented in "I Am The Walrus." Some highlights include the previously mentioned release of bats, the chugging and prideful cellos that underpin the suspension in the verses, and the playful interplay of the melody and orchestration on "singing Hare Krishna."

Robert Bunter: Ha! We sound like intellectuals, "reading too much into it," the kind of people John was mocking with "Walrus" (and later, "Glass Onion"). "A deus ex machina, if you will." Hoo boy. Let's briefly take a closer look at the musical side of this thing before we go off the rails. A few quick observations: the chord progression is unlike anything that came before or after, perfectly complementing the lyric's mood of unsettling fear. John's voice hits some nice blue notes (like the "together" in the line "We are all together"); even in the midst of his primal nightmare, he was a committed rock and roller. The bridge ("Sitting in an English garden") has no right to call itself a bridge; it's a totally baffling intrusion into a song structure that was already fractured. The creepy choir that sings "Oooooooh," "Ha ha ha / Hee hee hee," "Stick it up your jumper" was a nice touch. Anything else? I'm about ready to leave this one behind and get deep into something like "I Don't Want To Spoil The Party" or some Please Please Me outtakes.

Richard Furnstein: The verse progression is completely baffling. It seemingly follows the same stabbing logic that Syd Barrett would employ on early The Pink Floyd singles. The bridge is, without a doubt, the scariest moment of the song. The chorus dissolves with a cleansing wash of clockwork and magic into a more menacing return on the bats. Lennon presents his most confounding riddle yet: "Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun/If the sun don't come you get a tan from standing in the English rain." It's a highly improbably scenario and is presented like a forgotten meter of poetry (John's return to his early period monosyllabic focus in the second line). The English tan concept is the indicator that we are in a land where "nothing is real" while Martin's strings underscore the feeling that Lennon is indeed laughing at us. And, frankly, we deserve it.

I'm with you. I feel like I need to listen to "Chains" or "P.S. I Love You" to cleanse the pallet after thinking about this one for about two weeks. Grandma, take me home.





¹Is the "yellow matter custard" actually the Lynchian construct garmonbozia?


Original Beatles fan art by Joshua Newman

I Am The Walrus: Part 1-A Dead Dog's Eye

Robert Bunter: I think this was the first time the terrifying monsters of John Lennon’s subconscious mind really bared their fangs. The unsettling scribbles and wordplay of his books (In His Own Write and A Spaniard In the Works) gave some clues, but back in 1964 and 1965, these could still be reassuringly dismissed as naughty schoolboy doodles. “Tomorrow Never Knows” delivered a frightening psychedelic shock to the senses, but ultimately guided the disoriented listener to a state of blissful, crackling rapture with benign homilies like “Love is all and love is everyone.” Of course, “Strawberry Fields Forever” (and the supremely creepy video clip which accompanied it) was no picnic, either, but the primary emotions evoked there were Lennon’s melancholy and confusion. “Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite” was menacing and the orchestra swells of “A Day In The Life” were nightmarish in their own way, but the impact was still blunted by the colorful fairground atmosphere that suffused the Sgt. Pepper album. OK, that’s a lot of examples, but they’re all offered in the service of my original point: “I Am The Walrus” lets the snarling bad acid trip hallucinations completely off the leash, with seemingly no greater purpose but to leave the listener’s mind puddled on the floor like curdled milk, spilled violently from a blood-red dairy saucer while The Thing With No Face cackles dementedly behind the moldy lace curtain of sanity.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon declared "No one I think is in my tree/I mean it must be high or low" in the earlier mind-horror template "Strawberry Fields Forever." It may be the single greatest lyric in Lennon's portfolio as it highlights the duality of genius and madness. "Strawberry Fields Forever" stands firmly on the grounds of genius; it's a slightly fractured version of the gentle introspective side of Lennon (exhibited in "In My Life" and "Nowhere Man"). The vision becomes a bit cloudier once the acid kicks in: the ego collapses, the eyes pinwheel, and the pixelated black-and-white stock images of post-war England are filled with blinding primary colors. "I Am The Walrus" is the nightmare. Lennon traveled into his mind with a true heart and a steady hand ("You know I know when it's a dream") but the passages within dreams can lead you further into the darkness. There is a horrifying sense of lost ego in "I Am The Walrus." The song's refrain ("I am the eggman/They are the eggmen/I am the walrus") isn't a simple playful masquerade. Lennon's deception isn't a mischievous redirection of Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road. His goal is not to deceive, he simply has completely lost his sense of identity ("I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together."). Which part of us is me? Is that the superego or the id lurking behind the mask? Is that the holy ghost or an evil spirit? There is a lost soul behind this song. Remember, there was never a guarantee that Dorothy would make it back home. "I Am The Walrus" suggests a mass of technicolor flesh lying shivering and broken on the ground after a failed leap of faith.

Remember, there was never a guarantee that Dorothy would make it back home. "I Am The Walrus" suggests a mass of technicolor flesh lying shivering and broken on the ground after a failed leap of faith.

Robert Bunter: Lennon initially conceived “Walrus” as a mocking retort to the obsessive fans who read too much into his lyrics (he’d subsequently attempt the same thing with “Glass Onion”). Supposedly he’d been reading his fan mail with boyhood chum Pete Shotton when he found a letter from a student at his Quarrybank alma mater. The young fan told John about how his teacher was explaining the hidden meaning of Beatles lyrics. According to legend, John scribbled down a bit of half-remembered gross-out boyhood doggerel called “Dead Dog’s Eye” (presumably the Liverpool equivalent of “Great Green Gobs Of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts”) and gleefully declared, “Let the f___ers work that one out, Pete!” Maybe John was trying to vomit out a stream of nonsense in order to confuse the Beatleologists, but that’s not what ended up happening. The seemingly meaningless lyrics provide a window into his terrifying mental world. Bits and pieces of Lewis Carroll (the walrus), James Joyce (the eggman), Shakespeare (the King Lear dialogue segments at the fade) and Allen Ginsberg (the “elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna”) mix with fleeting visions of pigs, nuns, laughing joker clowns and improbable suntans. Non-words like “texpert” and “snied” contribute to the air of non-Euclidean unreality. In spite of himself, Lennon shows us his nightmare mindscape with such obscure clarity that we can all relate to it. I, you and we are all scared of “I Am The Walrus.” It’s the same instinct toward universal emotional connections that allowed John to touch our collective heart with “In My Life,” open our minds with “Tomorrow Never Knows” and weep for our sad, lost world on “A Day In The Life.”

Richard Furnstein: One thing that always intrigued me about "Walrus" is that it seemed to tap into hidden sinister vibes of the psychedelic age. The collage elements of the recording blend the shadows and vibrant colorscape of Jack Kirby's Silver Surfer artwork. The sleazy references ("pornographic priestess," "knickers down") touch on the increased commoditization of sex (particularly kink) in the 1960s, a theme Lennon would later pursue with the deviant characters that peppered "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" and "Polythene Pam." The Hare Krishna reference also seems plucked from the collective mind. The recording is the aural equivalent of a pornographic magazine left out in the rain, festering with mildew and tiny beetles. The adverts for antiquated sexual aides blending with the supple and soggy figures and confusing adult-oriented cartoons.

It's a testament to the song's unique imagery and production touches (surely George Martin's finest moment, especially the perfect arrangement) that we've only really touched on the mood of "I Am The Walrus." The song itself is unlike any other in pop music. It's like The Beatles went into the jungle and found an exotic animal that had never been seen before by human eyes. Then they had the nerve to stick it on a b-side! Holy My. I know I've said it before, but how did they do it?

Robert Bunter: You’re right, that’s a whole other can of worms. I could spend another four or five paragraphs just going deep into the implications of that moldy magazine and a fantasy sequences about the “Lennon/Shotton opening the fan mail at John’s house” scenario complete with hypotheses about what they were wearing and what the letter opener looked like. Let’s call this a wrap for today and take it further with a “Walrus, Pt. 2” installment next week. Are you still planning to stop by tomorrow to check out that “Take It Away” 12-inch single I just got from eBay? We’ve got pret-zels [tempting sing-song voice]!

Baby You're A Rich Man

Richard Furnstein: "Baby You're A Rich Man" is a celebration of the nouveau rich hippies and the LSD-addled visionaries that dotted The Beatles' path in 1967. The Beatles are both dazzled and disgusted by their vacant companions, while realizing that they fit right in with these newly minted millionaires. It's a theme that Joni Mitchell would milk to great effect on her mid-1970s fretless bass driven albums ("Oh man, dig these crazy, drugged out degenerates at this rich Hollywood party! I pity/understand them.").

The verses come off as insincere party banter ("How does it feel to be..."), asked by someone who doesn't really care about the answer. It's just idle chatter at the party before the next party. The person begins to tell John and Paul how they feel but then the tablet kicks in. The ebullient chorus comes in just as Lord Ferret Shoulders start his cosmic response. "Oh sorry, I didn't hear your response, I was chanting about how you are a rich man in a zoo of cowards in my brain. Pardon me while I fall in the swimming pool." I can't tell you how many times I've been at this party in my mind.


Robert Bunter: This one falls into a certain category of Beatle music that I’m very fond of, despite its limited merits: the mid-to-late period throwaway. I’m talking about the lesser tracks from Magical Mystery Tour and Yellow Submarine, b-sides like “The Inner Light,” outtakes like “What’s The New Mary Jane” and similar garbage (by the way, if you’re wondering why I didn’t mention “Old Brown Shoe” in that list, you clearly have no idea what an enormously important track that is and I would suggest you pay close attention to future “Let Me Tell You About The Beatles” entries for an exhaustive explanation). These songs don’t have the immortal importance of a “Hey Jude” or “Day In The Life,” but I’ll tell you what they do have: amazing Ringo drums, mellotrons, looseness, experimental attitudes, pointless overdubs, weird percussion shakers, tape loops, tambourines, groovy Paul McCartney basslines and so many other wonderful ingredients. The point is, even when the Beatles were self-indulgently coasting, they were providing us with interesting sounds and refreshing perspectives. OK, so maybe “Baby You’re A Rich Man” is the sound of John Lennon looking bemusedly down his nose at vapid paisley millionaires and doodling pointlessly on a Clavioline. I’ll have a second helping, please?


Richard Furnstein: Oh, certainly without a doubt. I'm always up for a little bit of fun with The Beatles. Just listen to Paul howl it up in the fadeout! Can I also mention how much I love the sound of this song? It's anchored by such a perfect foundation of psychedelic drums, slightly overdriven bass, and a thin saloon piano. It was the perfect soundtrack for the home movie footage of Beatles tropical adventures in the Anthology.

I didn't hear your response, I was chanting about how you are a rich man in a zoo of cowards in my brain. Pardon me while I fall in the swimming pool.

I can't tell you how many times I've drafted a tracklist for a post-Sgt. Pepper's fantasy psychedelic record comprised of these "throwaways." Think about the primal groove of "Rich Man" transitioning into the extended mix of "It's All Too Much." Think about "Hey Bulldog" as a central track to an album with garish artwork by The Fool. An album guided by Ringo's incredible huge drum sound and an increasingly unstable set of fantastic lyrics. I'll tell you one thing, the version of "Your Mother Should Know" on my fantasy album would go even deeper into the brain cathedral, all reverb chambers and milky light pouring holograms across a tiled floor. I wish The Beatles gave themselves a chance to linger in this space a little longer, they retreated to the Big Pink ("paint the entire room white") simplicity far too soon.


Robert Bunter: Well, we’re in agreement. The Beatles officially-issued catalog is nice, but it would be nicer if it was larger. Other fantasy albums: Lord Of The Rings soundtrack (there was, in fact, a brief discussion of the Beatles starring in a film adaptation, with John as Gandalf), The Album After Abbey Road (featuring “My Sweet Lord,” “Remember,” “Momma Miss America” and “April 1970”), Do It Yourself (1965 Lennon solo project). Now you go!

Richard Furnstein: I'm not playing this game with you if you insist on putting "April 1970" on the post-Abbey Road fantasy album. That song was Ringo's emotional response to the breakup of the band. Ringo: mindful of the past, looking to the future. Beautiful. It doesn't belong on an album of unity. I am intrigued by the idea of the Lord Of The Rings project, I wonder if it would have been much different from Bo Hansson's excellent 1972 imaginary Tolkien soundtrack.

Robert Bunter: “April 1970” on the post-breakup fantasy album was a joke, you nitwit. April Fool’s.

Richard Furnstein: Wait, is it April 20th already? You got me again, Bunter! I'll catch you next year!

Original artwork by Brian Langan. http://www.langorwins.com/

Hello Goodbye

Robert Bunter: James Paul McCartney's gifts as a composer and performer are vibrantly displayed here. An effortless sense of joy just leaps out of the speakers and makes you want to smile. There are those who criticise the relatively lightweight insignifigance of the lyrics (paired with "I Am The Walrus" on a 1967 single, it's one of the most obvious examples of the contrasting songwriting personae of John and Paul), but I say they're missing the point. This is a song for children, senior citizens, people from other countries and hippies, as well as normal adults. Simple words, simple thoughts and a melody that seems like it was already written, just waiting for Paul to pluck it out of the air and give it a fantastic studio arrangement with organs, fiddles and one of those percussion shaker things.

Richard Furnstein: "Hello Goodbye" is perhaps the best example of the complete superiority of Lennon and McCartney as songwriters, the Beatles as performers, and George Martin as a producer. Paul essentially delivers a 1910 Fruitgum Company song (complete with "Simon Says" nursery rhyme lyrics) and a perfect bubblegum melody. The difference here is the little touches. George Harrison is the absolute star of the show here, his backing vocals exemplify the psychedelic backing vocal sound of the time and his guitar touches such as climbing the major scale and a lovely descending figure are absolute gorgeous. "Hello Goodbye" is one of the perfect productions in their catalog and I will go to my deathgrave defending its perfect beauty.

Robert Bunter: Truly, we can all celebrate what Paul was doing here. He's speaking directly to the heart. Spare us your inscrutable riddles and acidhead nightmares, John - we're having a pleasant celebration on Paul's side of the record. Surprisingly, I will make the exact opposite point when we finally get around to examining "I Am The Walrus," one of Lennon's purest artistic triumphs.

It's all candy, they tell us. The colours are there to delight.

Richard Furnstein: Bubblegum music is a beautiful thing, and the Beatles did a lot to add to the art form ("She Loves You" as the shining triumph of the genre). "Hello Goodbye" is an attempt to channel the disposable pop song into a perfect piece of art. Check the promotional clip for "Hello Goodbye," the lads are having great fun (despite the uncertainty that they were facing the death of Brian Epstein and the future psychodrama of the White Album), even playing with their previous moptop image and referencing Elvis Presley's hip shaking. It's all candy, they tell us. Grab every shining nugget in the bowl, children. The colours are there to delight.

Robert Bunter: Paul was the one with the most consciousness of world music. From the Latin flavors of “Step Inside Love” and “Los Paranoias” to the later flirtations with reggae (“C Moon,” “Jet,”) and non-specific exoticism (“Mamunia,” “Kreen Akore,” “Loup (1st Indian On The Moon)”), it was McCartney who was quickest to exploit the groovy sounds and rhythms of faraway cultures. The trick ending on “Hello Goodbye” is a nice example of this tendency. It functions a bit like the gospel explosion at the end of “Ticket To Ride” – the singers and band top everything off by throwing back their heads and shouting with joyful abandon. Better get your passport stamped! Suntanned Paul is ready to greet you with a lei as you disembark from a jet airplane called music. Next stop: Pepperland!

Blue Jay Way

Robert Bunter: This song is awful. Yet, there's something great about it. Let's review: goony stoner George Harrison takes a trip to California in August 1967, about a month after the international triumph of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band LP (Parlophone PCS 7027). The first thing that happened was, he donned a pair of heart-shaped glasses, took a mysterious drug (in his Anthology retelling, Harrison refers to it only as "a concoction") and walked around Haight Ashbury. His trip started to go sideways ("I became really afraid ... getting bigger and bigger, fish with heads, faces like vacuum cleaners coming out of shop doorways") and he eventually had to escape a growing crowd of "spotty kids" (by which he means acne-ridden) and get the hell out of there. Then he went to Los Angeles and rented a house on a street called Blue Jay Way. Derek Taylor was supposed to stop by, but he must have gotten mixed up (!) with the directions. George (no doubt still weirdly hungover from the concoction) wanted to go to sleep and escape the hallucinations, but he felt a gentleman's obligation to stay awake to greet his tardy guest. Remember, this is pre-cellphones. In today's world, a simple text message ("DEREK I'M TIRED DONT COME OVER TO BJW PLS") would have solved the problem. But in 1967, there was nothing for George to do but write this horrifying dirge. You can almost see the "fish with heads" hallucinations that were still lingering in the corners of his peripheral vision at 4:03 a.m. when you listen to this throbbing headache of a song.

Richard Furnstein: The something that's great about this song is the entire flippin' song. The first twenty five seconds of this song features the sounds of a bleary, filthy hippie man peering out of his stained curtains. It's still the middle of the night, but the street lights blend with the (broken) motion detector light on the garage to create a bit of a half night on the windswept driveway. Maybe our hero shouldn't have taken that nap (to be fair, he nodded off) or should have eaten some dinner with his segment and a half. What's done is done. Oh shit, a car is coming up the driveway. Wait, that's just the swoop of a lonely cello. What time is it? There's not a clock in this place. Time's stopped here in Piggies-Land and there are a million murderers in this dry night air.

Robert Bunter: It was Nicholas Schaffner who pointed out that, "although George's songwriting may be improving, he still doesn't know when enough is enough. Which is particularly unfortunate when the phrase he chooses to repeat 29 times is 'don't be long.'" Nice observation, Nicholas! I love you, man.

Richard Furnstein: The "it's all too much of 'It's All Too Much'" syndrome. Schaffner needs to check his head, George was right to lead us off into the abyss. It's a magical chant; no need to take the fast train to the land of spin out. George's friends have lost their way. He's flashing a light into the foggy bay for their safe return. Consistency in the message is critical, there's no room for confusion. It's bad enough that Ringo is playing in a steeple of melting time and bended light beams. George's "it won't be long" is all we have to anchor ourselves in this world.

Robert Bunter: You know, it occurs to me that this is the second time in a Beatles song (the other was I Am The Walrus) that the word "policeman" has been abbreviated to "P'leeceman" in order to fit the meter of the lyric. I wonder if this was a coincidence, or perhaps a weird in-joke. I can see John and George giggling about a thing like that, when they weren't cowering in the corner to escape the faces like vacuum cleaners and "fish with heads." All fish have heads! I assume the ones he was hallucinating had human heads. You know, it occurs to me that Captian Beefheart legendarily fell off the stage Mt. Tamalpais Fantasy Fair and Mountain Music Festival (also in California in 1967) after ingesting a drug that caused him to see a female member of the audience turn into a fish ("with bubbles coming out of her mouth"). What was this strange drug circulating in California, summer 1967? Perhaps it had some kind of ingredient that makes things look like fish.

Richard Furnstein: Mt. Tamalpais Fantasy Fair and Mountain Music Festival? Bands had all sorts of daft names back then. Just like Colonel Tucker's Medicinal Brew and Medical Compound.

Magical Mystery Tour

Richard Furnstein: "Step right this way!" Paul shouts. Oh, where are you taking us, Paul? Oh, deeper into the Sgt Pepper's technicolor fantasy world? Are we taking a detour into the cartoonish sheen of high quality acid, fragrant fur coats, and BBC session horn players? Well, alright. We'll go with you on this magical ride. We know it will be a dead end, but at least it'll sound interesting (especially when John and George emerge from their drug haze long enough to provide hokey yet focused background vocals).

Robert Bunter: Here's McCartney: "Hmmmmm...look at that bus over there. Average, everyday people ride buses all the time; it's something we can all relate to. What if it was a trippy magic bus, taking everyone on a wild journey to who knows where? That's fantastic, y'know? Okay, let's go ahead and do it. I'll just ring the others and inform them know that this half-baked notion will be the centerpiece of our new album and feature-length Boxing Day television special. That settles that. I'm off to attend a happening at Miles "Hoppy" Indica's new avant-garde gallery. Good thing I have this cocaine! I'll just finish this plate of beans and English 'crisps' and then ring my driver to pop over and take me away. Hmmmm, 'take me away.' That's a good lyric. I'll just write it down on this scrap of paper, that way it will be worth over two million pounds at a Sotheby's auction in 1987. What a life!"
 
Richard Furnstein: In his classic over explaining of his flights of fancy from this era, Paul describes the mystery tours that were taking over soggy England during the late 1960s. Basically, a bunch of heart disease candidates cram into an unventilated bus to tour the fetid countryside and local oddities. It sounds like a nice diversion for people without real money or a sense of smell. Americans, on the other hand, have no real reference for this phenomena; instead, "magical mystery tour" sounds like a Scooby Doo adventure. The song rarely rises above the Hanna-Barbara implications of my American mind. Your mind isn't advanced by this material (unlike recent triumphs like "She's Leaving Home" or "Fixing A Hole'), it is basically an unconvincing appeal to have a good time. I'm having a grand old time, Paul. There's just no way in hell I'm getting on that gross bus or encouraging this stupid concept.

Robert Bunter: Me, neither. But if you separate this song from the malodorous, cramped bus concept which inspired it, you're dealing with a wonderfully muscular vintage 1967 Beatles song. Okay, so they were recycling the Sgt. Pepper formula a little bit, but come on! It's great, they had every right to explore that territory a bit more. How about that creepy ending? I always enjoyed the way it subtly deflated the brassy mood of the song. Suddenly the bus door opens and you step outside, only to find yourself confronted by a bleak, desolate expanse inhabited by a ghostly piano and the sound of gently tinkling wine glasses from a haunted otherness outside the boundaries of temporal mind-space. Also, the drums sound great on this track.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, Ringo's drums sound great (a perfect era for his snare), the aforementioned backing vocals make the song, and the clipped acoustic guitars deliver a little more grounded energy than most of the overcooked and delicately produced Beatles music for this era.

Your Mother Should Know

Important note: This write-up exclusively refers to the mono mix of "Your Mother Should Know." While the mono versions are the default version for all analysis on this website, the particular sonic elements of the mono mix of "Your Mother Should Know" are fundamental to the writers' artistic and analytical approaches to this song. Mr. Furnstein strongly advises that you throw out or delete any stereo versions of "Your Mother Should Know" in your possession. Mr. Bunter, on the other hand, considers the phasing on the mono "Your Mother Should Know" as the greatest misstep of the mono catalog. 

Richard Furnstein: A processed, overdriven bass introduces this number, and you take that as your chance to break free from the dance. You are arm and arm with a lovely young woman. You are quickly pushed away from a ballroom where a band of mustached gentlemen play a lively pop song. The dance is quite lovely, but the combination of the punch and the young lady's perfume has made a touch of fresh air a priority. Ahem. Perhaps a quick smoke and a tour of the gardens?

Robert Bunter: It's difficult to continue the train of thought beyond the last fleeting ... uh ... what were you thinking about? This song is catchy.

Richard Furnstein: A crazy thing happens on the way to the exit. The innocent pop song coming from the ballroom becomes increasingly distant and menacing. The piano ricochets from the chandeliers that line the hallway. A tambourine remains steady despite your increasing distance. Your steps quickly fall in line with the swing of the band. You pull away from your date just as the singer breaks into a wordless "da da da" verse, you are feeling quite woozy. You stop and hold the walls, running your fingers over the texture of the wallpaper. As you run your nails over the wall, wincing at the roughness of the ivory stripes and the silky resonance of the purple piping, the song ends. What exactly was in the punch? What the hell are they playing in that ballroom? We need to get the hell out of here.

Robert Bunter: You're scaring me, Richard! It's quite possible that the terrible mono mix on this weird track was Lennon's revenge for McCartney's allegedly sabotaging "Across The Universe" with amateurish production techniques. The first time I heard it on the new mono box remasters, I almost ran my car off the road. I thought crap only came from butts! I mean, the phasing is all wrong. A wise man once said this mix sounds like a can of flat soda floating in a toilet bowl. And that man was me.

Richard Furnstein: I think you need to reevaluate your entire whitewashed life if you think the mono mix is terrible. I never cared for the stereo version but the mono mix is a genuine highlight of Magical Mystery Tour. A postscript, I threw up all over my date. The punch wasn't spiked, the shrimp was bad.

Flying

Richard Furnstein: Hey man, get in the car and let's do drugs. Oh wild, look at that bird flying backwards. Do they usually do that? These organ hits are perfectly in time with the streetlights racing by. Whoops, we just drove off a bridge, luckily gravity is really slow in this world. The ocean is miles away from us. I'm being engulfed by clouds!

Robert Bunter: You've got a really good point there. We're tripping gently through Pepperland on this track, with psychedelic tape loops and mellotrons and boring music. If memory serves, this is the only Beatles song credited to all four members. I'd like to quote the late Nicholas Schaffner on this one: "Although few would file it under the Beatles' Great Works, 'Flying' has received more radio exposure than all but a handful of their songs. For countless disc jockeys soon discovered in this ethereal, infectious theme an ideal way to fill up those awkward odd moments before the hourly news: because there were no words, it didn't seem rude to chatter at the same time, or to phase it out mid-song."

I have to call bullshit on that one - probably Nicholas heard it once on the air and decided it was a permanent trend. But, I wish that it were true. I would love to listen to a radio station that plays trippy Beatles music before the hourly news.

Richard Furnstein: This song proves that Ringo is the LOUDEST Beatle. George Martin should have told Normal Smith to get Ringo to step away from the mic a bit. Maybe that would be the job of the Abbey Road tea boy. Either way, how is gentle George Harrison supposed to compete with that bellowing monster?

The Fool On The Hill

Robert Bunter: Pure McCartney enchantment. How about that crazy tape loop sound effect at 2:40? It sounds like a flock of birds taking off, but the birds are made of psychedelic electricity.

Richard Furnstein: My "Fool" story: Bunny Bryant (senior year English teacher) used to throw in little extra credit questions at the end of her weekly oral quizzes. A lot of times the questions were pop culture related (I'm with it, kids!), so I think one week she wanted to test the Beatlemaniacal kid who was seen lugging around "The Love You Make" (Peter Brown's accountant-focused telling of the Beatles saga). So her bonus question was "Which Beatles song was written about their experience with the Maharishi?" I've got this one tied up: "SEXY SADIE." John's original draft of the song featured "Maharishi" in place of the title words. Bam-Pow-Boom, extra credit points are mine. No way that Shannon Groft knows that. Stephanie Carlstrom? Please, she just listens to that double disc Billy Joel hits collection, and I doubt she's into the minor hits on disc two. This one extra credit question could change the entire course of my academic career.

Robert Bunter: Great story, that must have been a real triumph for you.

Richard Furnstein: Wait, THERE'S MORE. So, she reads back the quiz answers so we can grade our own tests (what a lazy move for a teacher). Bunny gets to the extra credit question and reveals the "answer" as "THE FOOL ON THE HILL." I raise my hand to tell her about the "Sexy Sadie" title switch and Paul wrote it about himself when he was on holiday and the fact that the Beats didn't even meet Maharishi Mahesh Yogi until 1967 so her answer is impossible and she is embarrassing us all and where are my extra points for being a super fan...

Bunny denies me the points. I even bring in Brown's book the next day to show her the passage about Lennon responding to his disillusionment to the Maharishi. Still, no points. I can't handle "Fool" to this day.

Robert Bunter: Completely unacceptable. I would have sued the school...Also, nice use of bass harmonica left over from the Pet Sounds sessions. Brian Wilson loaned it to McCartney after Paul did his guest spot on "Vega-Tables" from the abandoned "Smile" album. Paul said, "Hey, Brian, can I borrow this thing?" and Brian said, "Sure, keep it." (I just made that up in my fantasy.)