Matchbox

Richard Furnstein: "Matchbox" is a lonesome hitchhiker's lament. Ringo stands by the side of the road, thinking about what brought him to this place. He's closer than home than his destination, and he's not even sure if she's waiting for him when he finally gets there. All he has is a name and address on a scrap of paper in his wallet. Why would she give him her address if she didn't want him to visit. He sang to himself while shuffling down the tall grass: "If you don't want Ringo's peaches, honey, please don't mess around my tree." It sounded good and all was right. The sun felt like noon. It's a million miles to dinner, friend. A beat up truck speeds by our weary traveler. The driver never even looked at poor Ringo. 

Robert Bunter: The lyrics are a collection of blues clichés that date back to the turn of the last century, maybe earlier – “poor boy / long way from home,” “wondering if a matchbox would hold my clothes,” “if you don’t like my peaches” and “let me be your little dog ‘till your big dog comes” are all part of the standard repertoire. So there’s Ringo, sitting by the side of the road and lamenting his lot in life. Woman troubles. Oldest story in the book. Mistakes have been made; of course they have. Hers or his? Maybe the fault lies with Fate, written into the great big book in the sky where some damn fool dreamed up the plot of this crazy one-way street called life. Ol’ Ringo’s scraping the bottom of his personal barrel and there’s not much left in the tank. Someone once said “The blues ain’t nothing but a good man feeling bad,” but where does that leave Ringo? He wasn’t that good.  

Richard Furnstein: Quotable Yankees pitcher Lefty Gomez (great baseball name, but non-Latino) once famously said, "I'd rather be lucky than good." Hell, I'd rather be Ringo than lucky, because Ringo is both lucky and good. Is there any other word to describe his life than lucky? From the Rory Storm days to an aging Ringo goofing off with Todd Rundgren at the Iowa State Fair, he remains a solid basher, a competent howler, and a moody charmer. Ringo is just a lucky man in a cruel world. Yet, he gave "Matchbox" his all, but it's still just a D-side on a relatively forgotten Beatles release.

Someone once said “The blues ain’t nothing but a good man feeling bad,” but where does that leave Ringo? He wasn’t that good.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, but it’s fun. The lyrics are downcast but Ringo’s irrepressible double-tracked vocal is the sound of energy and joie de vive. Usually the Beatles’ Ringo showcases involved the three superior talents of the band propping up their hapless, affable drummer, but on “Matchbox” we must award the MVP honor to Ringo. His drumwork and vocals are the only things to really recommend this one; the others are just phoning it in with some blues-by-numbers guitar lines and piano pounding. Even George Martin’s production is lackluster … the stereo mix of “Matchbox” belongs in the Worst Beatles Mixes Ever Hall of Shame along with the queasy mono “Your Mother Should Know.”  

Richard Furnstein: The stereo is an absolute mess. It's probably one of the most disorienting mixes of the early years. The inoffensive backing track is split across the stereo image to heighten the abrasive tone of the cymbals and George's 12 string electric. Listen to those cymbals collapse into the left channel during John's putrid guitar solo. Absolutely terrible job, EMI braintrust. The mono version is a huge improvement.

You are right, Ringo's voice is the only real highlight of this one. He's using his man's voice on "Matchbox," providing an interesting contrast to the puppy dog/poor boy lyrics. He never dips below a holler, so it's a relief that the song flashes off at the two minute mark. The mono version has a softer treatment of Ringo's locomotive vocal.

Robert Bunter: I’m pulling for a revival of this on the next All-Starr Band tour, maybe we can get Kenny Wayne Sheppard to play some blues.

We Can Work It Out

Richard Furnstein: "We Can Work It Out" seems like the ultimate nose-to-nose, grind-out-a-hit song from the Lennon/McCartney team. The whole thing seems like it was written and recorded in thirty minutes, and most of that time was probably spent trying to fix Ringo's uneven tambourine playing. The song comes in as a swell of acoustic guitars, spastic percussion, and the lurching wheeze of John's harmonium. Paul seems to be appealing to a lover, an extension of the emotional turmoil that runs through his Rubber Soul compositions. Meanwhile, John takes a universal love force approach to the middle eight which gives the song an unexpected and vaguely philosophical color. We are suddenly rushed back to the crisis of the heart in the verse (spurred by John's at once tender and confrontational offering "So I will ask you once again"). It's a completely effective blend of their songwriting personalities. "We Can Work It Out" is one of the greatest examples of the two sides of the Lennon/McCartney team. It is almost a shame that it didn't bolster an already stellar Rubber Soul tracklist, an album that starts to show the growing separation between Lennon and McCartney as songwriters/voices. Even Ringo's clumsy percussion suggests that "pobody's nerfect," yet things still work out for the best.

Robert Bunter: This is a nice early example of the Paul/John dichotomy which would subsequently play out via the contrasting flipsides of singles like “Strawberry Fields Forever” b/w “Penny Lane,” “Hello Goodbye” b/w “I Am The Walrus” and “Hey Jude” b/w “Revolution.” On “We Can Work It Out,” these oppositional attitudes are actually competing for attention within the same track – Paul sings with major-key confidence that the lovers or friends will be able to work it out, while John bursts in with minor-key urgency and abrupt, jarring time-signature shifts to point out that life is short and things don’t always end up as happily as the Paul-figure would have them. It’s difficult not to hear this song and reflect on the ultimate fate of the friendship and creative partnership which it simultaneously addresses and exemplifies. Life was very short for John Winston Ono Lennon, they did fall apart before too long, and it was a crime that these two couldn’t ultimately bury the hatchet. Paul was right, too: they could have worked it out, and John was a selfish pig who couldn’t see past his own ego long enough to make nice with the others and record the multi-platinum series of 1970s and ‘80s alternate-universe Beatle records of which I’ve so often dreamed. Let me tell you about them. I’m seeing an extension of Abbey Road’s moog experiments on an experimental fall ’71 LP which I imagine would have been titled …

Richard Furnstein [interrupting hastily]: Oh, not this again. Listen, Robert. I've listened to "Power Cut," your mix of Red Rose Speedway and Mind Games filler. It's clearly inadequate. Lennon's "Meat City" fading into a live cut of "Soily" by Wings? Oh, the places you'll go.

I am not completely sure I buy the theory that Paul was eager to reunite with John in the 1970s. Think about it: Paul had everything to lose by working with John again. Wings were one of the biggest bands on the planet. Paul could easily shed conflicting band members and ego trips, handling the overdubs himself if needed. Meanwhile, John was dependent on Yoko and a slew of sleazy Los Angeles session musicians to bring life to his musical visions. Unfortunately, many of those visions turned out to be dank, reverb-soaked oldies covers, sticky with saxophone ooze and monstrous snare drums. John didn't want to tour, get into minor and goofy concepts, or create medleys on the second sides of his albums. He just wanted to gaze into the spotty studio walls and moan about psychosexual power trips with Yoko. Sure, life was very short but John seemed to be speeding up the rate of decay by becoming a grouchy old man in his mid 30s. Meanwhile, Paul was smoking spliffs in Nigeria and writing Bond themes and having efficient normal person sex with Linda.

Lennon and McCartney both understood that love is all you need, and they were just trying to piece together the jigsaw of understanding that scattered across the table of love.

Robert Bunter: Stick to the point, Richard. We were talking about “We Can Work It Out.” Along with “All You Need Is Love,” “Within You Without You,” “The Word” and a handful of others, this song deals explicitly with the ideas of human love and understanding that were so foundational to the Beatles’ entire message. Superficially this song deals with a lovers’ quarrel, but by this point in their career (“sixty … FIVE?!?” – Graham Nash, I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times) they were already starting to address the larger problems of mankind. “We Can Work It Out” is sunny and optimistic while still acknowledging the risks and potential consequences of self-absorption and lack of empathy. You would probably have a more solid understanding of these concepts if you weren’t such a pig and didn’t spend every minute trying to belittle me and my carefully-considered hypothetical post-’70 Beatles albums.

Richard Furnstein: I'm trying to see it your way, but I'm disgusted by your vacant stare. Do you have to keep on talking until you can't go on? No, I'm seriously asking because I can see specks of food around your stabbed-fish-open mouth, your toxic saliva running down your unshaven chin. You don't think I understand the social awakening implied by Lennon/McCartney? That's a junior varsity analysis. You can't bring that slow pitch here to the big leagues. I'll play along: Lennon was thinking globally while McCartney was acting locally. They both understood that love is all you need, and they were just trying to piece together the jigsaw of understanding that scattered across the table of love. You are completely right, it's a beautiful sentiment and I'm sorry I pointed out that you have the mouth of a murdered carp.

Robert Bunter: Hah! You fell for it. I was just proving the Beatles’ point, and you couldn’t have illustrated the whole thing more beautifully. Maybe a few more meditation sessions or a handful of low-milligram Xannies are in order, Furnstain. I’d love to spend more time explaining the obvious to you, but it’s getting late and I have a thing. Let me just briefly point out that Stevie Wonder offered a wonderfully re-inventive, funky take on this song; the wheezing harmonium offers an enchanting whiff of eastern European peasant gypsy music; the mono mix is better than the stereo, and I love you deeply, old friend.

Helter Skelter

Richard Furnstein: Can you imagine the look on George Martin's face when he heard this giant bat of the sub-apocalypse fly through Abbey Road Studio? He was probably sitting in the control booth with perfectly rolled shirt sleeves, balancing his morning tea on his delicate left knee while munching on a carob muffin. Just another day at the office, right? Then these four British vikings swoop in with blood in their teeth and fire in their eyes. Ringo has birds of prey carrying his drums through the haunted skies. What do these evil men want? No matter, give them our prettiest daughters and the grain harvest. Just make them go away before they destroy everything. I'm sure George Martin wanted to head to church and make some confessions after hearing this leering, fully fanged treatise of sex and violence. It might be a heavy metal song, but it makes that music sound like wimpy, juvenile garbage. Is that a children's squeaky toy in the mix at the end of the song? What the hell is happening here?  Is that a pentagram on the wall?

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that’s some assault, pal! Sure, The Beatles invented heavy metal (along with music videos, long hair on men, colorful clothes, the counterculture, meta songwriting) on this track, which McCartney supposedly composed after reading a Pete Townshend interview where Pete described wanting to write the filthiest, heaviest Who song possible (he was likely talking about “I Can See For Miles,” but Paul didn’t know that.) Paul liked the idea and decided to take a whack at it. One suspects he was also pleased to do something to muddy up his top-hat-and-cane, choirboy balladeer image. “Hey, I know everybody thinks that I was the softie and John was Mr. Rockandroll, but what about ‘Helter Skelter?” Well, you’ve got a point there, Paul McCartney. This track is really, really awesome. Especially in mono.

Richard Furnstein: Paul takes us to the spiral slide on a balmy May evening; a cloudy flashback to a forgotten English childhood. The song provides the sensation and motion of spinning in an endless circle: the flashing lights begin to slowly pause into a bleeding trail and the trees along the ridge blur into a hulking monster of green and enveloping sadness. His friends (John, George, Ringo, Mal) are still there but their faces have blurred together as well. Summer is about to begin/summer is over. You aren't a child anymore, brother. This is the loss of innocence.

Paul shouts "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" on "Helter Skelter," but it isn't from a place of excitement like on "She Loves You." He seems to be providing affirmation of the unknown evil forces--the darkness--that surrounds this track.  Remember that the devil cannot enter you unless you invite him in. "Helter Skelter" is a gorgeous combination of claustrophobia and a blank void. It's driven by the fear and excitement of the unknown--the next move is huge, but you aren't sure how to take it. From the jungle gym to the jungle!

Four British vikings swoop in with blood in their teeth and fire in their eyes. Ringo has birds of prey carrying his drums through the haunted skies.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, the “childhood slide” angle on this lyric is really bizarre. He sings about a slide, then addresses some very adult lyrics to a grown woman. Meanwhile, the musical atmosphere suggests a terrifying bat cave. This is another example of the new, frightening emotional colors that the Beatles were beginning to add to their palette. We’re all used to shades of Joy, Wonder, Excitement, Melancholy, Trippy, Love and Arrogantly Bemused. The White Album (!) deploys Terror, Madness, Anger and Sardonic Contempt in much bigger amounts than we’d come to expect. No wonder Charles Manson heard this and decided to commit a bunch of crimes. Of course, that’s no excuse. Richard, tell me about the recording session. You know what I’m looking for here. Paint me a picture.

Richard Furnstein: Certainly you are referencing the loose and hypnotic initial takes of this song. Early versions clocked in at 27 minutes and 12 minutes (the latter was edited for use in the Anthology disc). It sure is titillating to imagine the good guys going off script. Light some candles and knock the dank out of this basement, we're going on a little journey. And what a journey it must have been, featuring Paul in full on blues trance mode, George repeating mantras in his head as his Gibson's sweet tones turn his legs to jelly, John nodding off, his forehead planted on a nearby wall, and Ringo famously told us about the blisters on his poor fingers (albeit only on the inferior stereo version). George Martin probably hit the talk back button after that half hour mega jam and told the boys to tidy up the arrangement. The boys would do that anyway, but I'm sure there was the initial jolt of excitement as Paul envisioned dropping a four disc version of their new album, complete with the extended explorations of "Helter Skelter," "Revolution 1," "What's The New Mary Jane," and "Revolution 9." It would have been the ultimate sign that The Beatles were unable to compromise or edit their increasingly disparate musical output. "Helter Skelter" would have taken an entire side and we all would have loved it. Hopefully that fictional version of the White Album also had sequential numbering.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that must have been a hell of a session. I’m not sure where they got this information, but several Beatle book authors describe George running around with a flaming ashtray on his head while they recorded the 27-minute take. I don’t understand that at all. Was it one of those little diner ashtrays? What did he do, light some paper on fire and run around? How did the paper not fall out? Or what if it was one of those big burnished aluminum floor ashtrays on a stand? How do you put something like that on your head? Were they operating strobe lights during this session? Common sense says that would be impossible, but it seems so right. What drugs had they taken? What were they drinking? Cognac? What did John look like during this session? Was it before or after he shaved the Sgt. Pepper moustache? Granny glasses on or off? I’m picturing light beard stubble and a white linen cloak, but there will probably never be a way to find out for sure.

Richard Furnstein: Wow. Look, I've got goosepimples!