Teddy Boy

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney's songbook is full of sketches of the daily lives of simple folk. "Teddy Boy" fits well with better known songs such as "Eleanor Rigby," "Penny Lane," "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," "Lady Madonna," and "She's Leaving Home." They all provide a portrait of the quiet moments of common people. The subjects of these songs flutter about like impatient extras on a movie set: a middle aged man pours his morning coffee as a baby babbles in a playpen. A young woman runs to catch the morning trolley while tugging at her sagging pantyhose. A shadow lingers over these portraits, often in the form of death, loneliness, or shattered dreams. The Let It Be outtake "Teddy Boy" brings all three to the table as a widow and a child try to support each other in the changes following the death of a "solider dad." It's a vague story but the essential emotional cues are there: a child hugs his mother as she cries over a solider's photo. Paul can hardly narrate this touching scene, offering platitudes such as "oh my" or "oh no." You created this world of misery, man. Help these people out.

Robert Bunter: It seems to have been a default mode for him. When Paul sat down and picked up a guitar and let the ideas flow naturally, a seemingly infinite stream of strong melodic hooks and third-person Everyman portraits bubbled to the surface. “Teddy Boy” illustrates this particularly well, as it never developed past the fragmented rough-draft stage. Even the “completed” version that appeared on his debut solo LP McCartney sounds like little more than a sketch. It’s catchy enough, and the darker undertones you describe add a bit of depth, but few would rank this among his highest achievements. It doesn’t even shine very brightly alongside similar, roughly contemporary Macca throwaways like “Junk” or “Her Majesty.” Every time I buy another Get Back sessions bootleg or outtakes compilation and see “Teddy Boy” on the tracklist, I have to suppress a faint groan of disappointment.

Richard Furnstein: At least you try to hide your disappointment in this song. You can actually hear Lennon's deride"Teddy Boy" in the band's aimless Get Back recordings. His distaste surfaced in the form of  jokey voices, rambling asides, and square dance instructions during the song's protracted coda. You can almost feel the cold air and ambivalent vibrations of Twickenham Film Studios come through your speakers when you listen to this song. To be fair, Lennon was pulling this too cool for school routine on all of Paul and George's offerings during this period. It's just that he was actually right this one time.

"Teddy Boy" is much more successful on the McCartney album. It's still not much of a song, but the arrangement is tightened up significantly. To be fair there are probably 1.5 fully realized compositions on Paul's debut and it's still one of the best things he ever recorded. The recording offers many of the charms of the album: muffled drum tracks, light echo box tricks, the warm ambiance of the McCartney living room, and off-kilter Linda harmonies. The small touches such as the gorgeous "ooooooohs" at 2:02 and the fluttering ending really make the recording. I wish Paul, Linda, and Martha the sheepdog were still in that living room, pumping out lo-fi  delights on a dusty Studer tape machine. Stick around for dinner, there's a vegetable barley soup on the stove and Linda is making her famous yeast crepes. We'll listen to some old tapes together.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s a lovely image. Too bad the McCartney album and its trappings of domestic contentment (warm, homespun songs about family and love accompanied by charming snapshots of Papa Paul chopping down trees, holding babies and picking his nose) is one big lie. Here’s the real facts: John quit the Beatles but everybody convinced him to keep quiet about it because they were in the process of a massive renegotiation with the record company and didn't want to upset the applecart (that’s my little joke). Paul is an emotional wreck and retreats to his Scottish farmhouse where he grows a beard and drifts slowly toward a full-scale Brian Wilson-style breakdown. Stops wearing belts. Vodka for breakfast, sacked out in bed all day, showers optional. Very optional. A reporter from LIFE magazine shows up and Paul screams in his face and throws his camera at him. The fans have started to speculate about whether he’s dead. One can only imagine what newlywed Linda thought of the situation. She had climbed aboard the Paul train just in time to see it run completely off its rails. Drunken sadness and paralyzing numbness gradually coalesce into fury. They can’t do this to me! So in an undisguised power play he cobbles together McCartney on primitive home recording equipment (by today’s standards, anyway – in 1970 it was state-of-the-art) and releases it along with a self-interview press release to tell the world that he’s quit the Beatles and doesn't care about them anymore. Against this backdrop, the Happy-Family-Man-Strumming-His-Guitar-By-The-Evening-Fire vibe that the album and its packaging attempted to convey ring chillingly hollow. You can build up sweet mental fantasies about tape recorders and yeast crepes, Richard, but the reality was considerably more hairy, smelly and toxic. I’m not here to sugarcoat the facts.

You can build up sweet mental fantasies about tape recorders and yeast crepes, but the reality was considerably more hairy, smelly and toxic.

Richard Furnstein: Paul's retreat to his country compound was part of a greater social trend at the end of the sultry sixties. The unwashed legions were retreating to the mountains--a new farm movement featuring malnourished children, diseased livestock, and bog-like conditions in the fields. Neil Young captured the simple pleasures of this movement on "Here We Are In The Years" from his 1969 debut album: "Go to the country, take the dog/Look at the sky without the smog/Look at the world laugh at the farmers feeding hogs/Eat hot dogs." Paul wasn't as dim witted or charming in his appraisal of country life. He just reverted further into the familiar comforts of mama-based blues and ballads built for wide open spaces. Want to play some mason jars and record it for the album? Great, we'll call it "Glasses." How about an audio hunt track to really "get back" to the origins of man? Here's four plus minutes of "Kreen-Akore." There were no expectations. John wasn't leering at him when he introduced some bone-headed blues like "Oo You." He didn't have to worry about George's sour puss appearing in the gatefold. Ringo didn't have to be bored during the sparse "Every Night." That's the charm of the McCartney album. It's beautiful and it's nothing at all.

Robert Bunter: Back to the land? Sure, it’s wonderful that Paul could crawl into a filthy swamp and record a strangely beautiful solo album. But we’re supposed to be talking about “Teddy Boy.” It wasn’t a very good song and it came out of a particularly low point in Paul’s life. The outtake/bootleg versions of the Beatles attempting it are hard to listen to. It sits more comfortably among the half-baked platters and weird experiments of McCartney or the dismal vibe of the aborted Glyn Johns Get Back LP. Look Richard, I’m sorry but this whole discussion of yeast pancakes, stinky groat clusters, hot dogs, body odor, vodka, sheepdogs, sagging pantyhose and rotten Apples is making me nauseous. Let us have a little mercy and draw the soiled curtain of dismissal over this sordid chapter in Beatles history, shall we? Do you have any final thoughts?

Richard Furnstein: Yeah, hold on. Urp. No, that's better. I'm good.

Bad To Me

Robert Bunter: The relatively obscure demo for this great early Lennon song (available on the bootleg "Acetates") was given to dorky Billy J. Kramer and his stupid Dakotas to cover. Well, that's just fine. What we can do now is, ignore the cover version and wallow in the supernal experience of hearing an early Beatles pop song in it's rough, acoustic, lo-fi demo form. Instead of sounding dated and corny, it sounds edgy and ahead of its time. It's like hearing circa-1992 outtakes from the happy album that Elliott Smith never got around to recording.

Richard Furnstein: "Bad To Me" starts in a manner similar to the contemporary "Do You Want To Know A Secret," sweeping music hall chords that give away to a conventional pop song. It's wholly superior to "Secret," as well as many of the original compositions on Please Please Me. You are completely right, Bob. The demo has a sweet Fading Captain Series toss off quality. Hit play on the dictaphone, whisper into the mic (Mal Evans is passed out on a nearby couch), and catch a bit of twilight genius in a jar. There's one word for its exclusion on the Anthology series: criminal. Thanks for throwing us "Lend Me Your Comb," Sir Paul Ono, but certainly there must be something healthier in the icebox? (Sarcastic tone.)


Robert Bunter: You want to know why they didn't include this on the Anthology series? They didn't think we could handle it. It's the same reason they didn't include "Carnival of Light" and the 27-minute "Helter Skelter." It was just such a huge mistake.

Richard Furnstein: Billy J.'s version deserves some attention. He delivers on the promise of Lennon's lo-fidelity recording, while minimizing the greasy haired hiccups and hip convulsions that were a mainstay of his dying breed. Billy J. injects a bit more manliness into his version; as a result, it loses the vulnerability implied in John's demo. Is that a mandolin I hear in the background? Perhaps a knowing nod to Phil Spector's well honed tones?

Robert Bunter: I guess so, but mostly not. I don't think there were any "knowing nods" to "well-honed tones" here, just a cynical cash-in on every level. Hey, the Beatles are big bucks - let's have this lurching ape sing one of John's castoffs and press it up in time for the back-to-school sale at Gloanburg's Shilling and Pence. The whole thing reeks. I'm sorry, man. I don't mean to be cross. It just irritates me whenever I start thinking about the Anthology, which true fans refer to as the Missed Opportunitythology. The legacy has been soiled, and I, for one, am about to puke. How about another out-fake of Penny Lane with the goddamn extra trumpet notes at the end? Oh, thanks, Apple. I've never heard that before. Get the hell out of here.

Richard Furnstein: Two (2) tepid versions of "Fool On The Hill"!? Thanks for the diseased water supply, Crapple Corps!

I'm Just A Child Of Nature

Robert Bunter: So, we’ve arrived at the Esher demos. Perhaps a word of explanation is in order, for readers who don’t know very much about the Beatles. After returning home from their spiritual explorations in India in 1968, the Beatles set about the task of preparing to record The Beatles, which you may know as the White Album. They gently tripped their way over to George’s psychedelically-painted bungalow in Esher, got out the old Brunnell three-speed reel-to-reel tape recorders and acoustic guitars, and recorded a series of astonishing bare-bones song sketches. There was probably a bowl of fruit nearby … I’m picturing tapestries hanging from the walls, joss sticks burning, and most likely they were seated on purple cushions on the floor. Their colorful, flowing garments were outrageous. 

Richard Furnstein: "I'm Just A Child Of Nature" is undoubtedly the most significant "outtake" from the Esher sessions. It certainly buries George's "Circles" and "Sour Milk Sea" (although, to be fair, SMS was later significantly improved by yowling soulster Jackie Lomax). You may recognize the melody as "Jealous Guy" from Lennon's Imagine album (and, if you do, congratulations for being aware of one of the most beautiful recordings in galaxy history). Here, Lennon is more concerned with trumpeting his advancing hippie man skills. Paul was strutting around Rishikesh in fragrant white gowns, proclaiming to Prudence Farrow that he was Mother Nature's Son. While Prudence was no Mia in the bone zone department, John couldn't let this peacockery stand so he came up with the ridiculous moniker Child of Nature. And there you have it: these mentally stunted adults couldn't just meditate in an affluent retreat in the land of elephants and okra, they had to arm wrestle and beat their chests like common sub-apes.

The solo years would allow John to revisit the song's lovely melody, this time as a testament to his unhealthy insecurities surrounding his Japanese wife.

Robert Bunter: John had returned from India with a clutch of wonderful new songs and a bad case of the Yokos. This diminutive Japanese concept artist (still living in London at the time) was haunting his dreams and interrupting his thoughts during his deepest meditations. He probably imagined her creepy little-girl voice chiming in with a bunch of inscrutable riddles and kindergarten mysticism. There he was, chanting in his humble hut, when all of a sudden, it’s: “John! John … it’s me Yoko … John … it’s me … if a tree falls and no one hears it, does it make a sound? … what if they gave a war and nobody came? … John … things are more like they are now than they ever were before … John, John” until he’s half-mad. So, he takes a walk down to the stream and writes “I'm Just A Child Of Nature.”

Richard Furnstein: There is speculation that Lennon abandoned "I'm Just A..." because Paul had delivered the superior hippie kid anthem in "Mother Nature's Son." I'm sure this played a large role in the decision making of the increasingly petty and paranoid John Lennon. I would offer that the twinkling sentiments of the song didn't wear well back in grimey England. The Beatles probably returned from the misty mountains of India and had to face a generation of filthy, drug-swallowing deviants with loose hygienic standards and uneven facial hair. Lennon could probably see that his lovely snapshot of his easy breezy time in India would later be co-opted by these gross inferior creatures (imagine the "I'm Just A Child Of Nature" Lennon posters hanging in freshman dorm rooms!) and decided to shelve it. The solo years would allow John to revisit the song's lovely melody, this time as a testament to his unhealthy insecurities surrounding his Japanese wife.

Robert Bunter: I think this is the quintessential Lennon melody. If you stripped away all the layers of shifting identities and listened to the deepest part of his soul, this is what you’d hear. The gentle tune is pretty and memorable, yet the mood is darkened by weird, discordant moments (like the chord on the word “free” in the chorus) which somehow heighten the shimmering beauty instead of breaking the spell.

I'll Be On My Way

Robert Bunter: The scenario: Paul knocks off some boilerplate Buddy Holly and the Crickets '50s rock in 1963. Even he knows it's not good enough for the Fabs. So they call up Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas. "Hey, Billy: you know how you're about to cover one of our songs? Why don't you put this other one on the B-side? Sure, you can have it. It's all yours. We'll get the songwriting money, of course. Sometimes when we think to ourselves about our future in rock and roll, we consider becoming professional songwriters for other artists, so they can have hits, too. It makes us feel like Lieber and Stoller or Goffin and King. Oh, and Billy? Do you want to know a secret? You stink."

Richard Furnstein: You have to feel for the Billy J. Kramer & The Dakotas and the Peter and Gordons of the world. The Beatles were high as kites on King Shit Mountain, popping open endless pies and chortling with glee while a host of lesser beings were cowering in the valley of Thine Greatness. The best that these subhumans could hope for was a few soggy pizza bones to find their way into their desperate valley.

Robert Bunter: The Beatles own version on Live At The BBC is competent. They don't seem to be putting too much effort or heart into this one, but that's what those BBC shows were sometimes like. "Hey, we're just here hanging out at the radio studio, having a few laughs and reading fan mail." "Say, would you boys like to play another song for us?" "Sure, that would be gear. Here's one that we wrote and gave to Billy J. Kramer. He's a great bloke, really." "Say, you sound awfully condescending, Paul." "Yes, I have a very superior attitude."

Richard Furnstein: Exactly. That's the anatomy of "I'll Be On My Way"--egomaniacs write some trite pop for inferior musicians. The Beatles could hardly bother to toss off the BBC version. I think they maybe spent five minutes, seven minutes tops, recording this song. The waif clocks in just under two minutes and you have to factor in a few minutes for some milk breathed intern to tweak some royal seal encrusted microphones. Maybe a minute for John to dash off to the W.C. for a quick fag or to pilfer a few English "Crisps" from a fetid catering cart. Uh-oh, it's time to cut this one. Cue some aging British ghoul: "Say boys, here's a sincere question for the dying listeners at home that you are just about to steamroll into oblivion. Can you answer with a flippant and brilliant observation? Can John just make a monkey face and put on his best Peter Sellers? He can? Golly, thanks for the guiding light in the pathetic darkness that is our lives, you stoner casual sex supermen!"

Robert Bunter: OK, are you gonna talk about the lyric "As the June light turns to moonlight" or should I?

Richard Furnstein: You just did! But yeah, that couplet is the ultimate sign that Lennon/McCartney weren't breaking a sweat on this throwaway. "Good news, Billy J. The Beatles wrote you a song. Bad news, Billy J. It kind of stinks!"

It is insulting that the incredible Live At The BBC collection was promoted as the only place to get the Beatles recording of this lost Lennon/McCartney classic. There are so many killer recordings on that double disc set that it is easy to ignore this weak effort. Apple should have been promoting sweet recordings of "Soldier of Love," "Nothin' Shakin'," "Sweet Little Sixteen," and "Ooh! My Soul!" instead.

Robert Bunter: I think we've said all there is to say about this song. Sure, it's great!

Nothin' Shakin'

Richard Furnstein: Imagine a world where George Harrison wasn't a Beatle. He'd probably muck about as a guitarist in some dumb beat bands and then maybe get his head together to record some decent folk records in the late 1960s and then die of a smack overdose in the early 1970s. Best case scenario would be that 4 Men With Beards or some other vinyl collector's label would reissue his stuff.

But wait, fantasy scenario! You are forgetting about "Nothin' Shakin'" from the incredible Beatles At The BBC compilation. This recording suggests that George could hang with the best and would have been a monster solo artist in the early 1960s. He owns this song. The fact that the Beatles didn't cut this for one of their albums is nothing more than pure, disgusting jealousy for the youngest Beatle. Get over it, John, Paul, and Ringo. Let George have his fun!

Robert Bunter: George had such a unique voice. What kind of accent is that? He doesn't sound like the rest of the Beatles, really. It's subtle. Kind of thick and phlegmy. Here's a question for you, Furnstein: what are you doing listening to this on Beatles At The BBC? Did you lose the copy of Rockin' At The Star Club 1962 that I burned for you? That version is so patently superior that to argue about it would be the height of folly on your part.

Richard Furnstein: I've been pwned! The lead guitar on the Star Club version is a loving testament to the power of cheap amphetamines and crooked nosed German prostitutes. The lead surf guitar absolutely dominates that recording.

If You've Got Trouble

Robert Bunter: OK, here's one. By the time this song came around, it had become customary for John and Paul to bestow a second-rate filler tune on hapless sticksman Richard Starkey. With the low bar that had already been set by "I Wanna Be Your Man," what is there to lose?

Richard Furnstein: I'll tell you what: quality. Self-respect.

Robert Bunter: This is a track that every half-wit "20 Greatest Hits"-on-cassette semi-fan feels justified in putting down. Well, guess what? This is a true classic. Reason number one: killer drum intro. Should I continue? OK: what about "You think I'm soft in the head / Well try someone softer instead, pretty thing?" This is the kind of vintage Lennon mind game wordplay that makes people drive over to Strawberry Fields in NYC and weep for opportunities lost. Number three: "Ah, rock on, anybody" followed by classic Harrison Gretch fumbling.

Richard Furnstein: It's like a theme for a really shitty 1960s spy movie that I never want to see!

Not Guilty

Richard Furnstein: Man, this Pink Floyd song is especially boring!

Robert Bunter: Good one. It's our heroes again, but George is in a crummy mood. I'm so completely surprised. When this earnest, awkward goof wasn't sitting on his high horse and offering high-handed judgments of everyone's spiritual shortcomings, he was bitching and moaning in a most unbecoming manner.

Richard Furnstein: Don't upset the applecart, George!

Robert Bunter: Nice harpsichord and "sh-cha-cha" background on the pointless guitar break.

Richard Furnstein: Ringo seems particularly bored with the old pop and roll on this one. I imagine this one would have had trouble making a triple album version of the White Album. The fade is pretty neat, though.

That Means A Lot

Richard Furnstein: Anthology filler, a supposed pant-wetter that any Beatles fan worth their salt already had on Unsurpassed Masters Volume 3. Help! outtake, and just think about the shit they put on the actual album.

Robert Bunter: Phil Spector, meet Paul McCartney! This could easily be considered the finest Beatles song. Why the group did not release it during their original lifespan is one of the mysteries that could keep a man up at night.

Richard Furnstein: Canyon-sized echo was deployed by Sir George Martin, at considerable expense to EMI Parlophone Swan Capitol records. The fifth Beatle (ambience) almost prevents this from being a total sonic abortion. Wait a sec: "Love can be suicide"!?! I take it all back. This rules.

Robert Bunter: Told ya. The "can't you seeeeeeeeeeeeeee, yeah!" fade is the stuff Beatlemaniacal dreams are made of!