Chains

Richard Furnstein: Listen, we can't move ahead with our scheduled post: a tepid run down of the Gerry Goffin/Carole King song "Chains" from Please Please Me. I'm sorry, I know there is a strict schedule to these posts, developed through extensive research into maximizing the viral marketing potential of this blog. I also know that we could go on for hours about the Beatboys' rendition of that classic Cookies track. Sometimes you have to say "bugger the system" and push forward for what is right. It's time that we told our devoted readers about the Yoko Ono/John Lennon Two Virgins album. Sure, you've probably heard about the album--and the controversial body explorations of the front and back sleeves--but never dug into the hairy and uncircumsized music contained on this release. I'm sure you get the general idea: prototypical junkie bedroom explorations, including rudimentary freakout guitar tracks, crumbling barroom piano, guttural whispers, sparse snippets of Lennon's tense and mocking conversational tones, and denatured organ play. Remind you of a little of "Revolution 9"? Well, by golly, it should! While "Revolution 9" used a complex and terrifying mesh of source material to soundtrack the madness of Beatle/human life in 1968, Two Virgins is a more intimate affair documenting the start of a love affair between two married people. The revolution inside.  Yoko and John circle each other in a junkie mating dance; the old push-and-pull in a white bedroom. Unfolding wings and encircling prey. Yoko pushes the frantic fly range of her instrument while John tries on some new stuffy British businessman voices. It's positively titillating!

Robert Bunter: For readers who may not be up on the story so far: it’s 1968 and John is a wreck. Japanese avant-garde artist Yoko Ono has been on the periphery of his scene for quite a while, and they corresponded by mail while he was over in India meditating with the Maharishi. One day he takes a bunch of drugs at home with his longtime buddy Pete Shotton (his wife and young son were presumably elsewhere). According to Shotton, John started uncontrollably rotating his arms in a slow dual propeller motion while alternating between hideous laughter and uncontrollable sobbing. Every time Pete asked him what was wrong, he denied that there was any problem, which must have been unintentionally hilarious. Finally, he came to the realization that he was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. That seemed to calm him down and he spent the rest of the night babbling about it. The next day, surprisingly, he was still on the same track. He called an emergency Beatle meeting at Apple (highly uncharacteristic for John) and told the rest of the boys the news. They reacted with cartoonish, exaggerated “Oh wow, look at the time!” gestures while pointing at their watches and hastily exiting the meeting room for some lunch. By now he was pretty despondent, on a heavy bummer. He decides to invite Yoko over that night. They take more drugs and stay up all night playing with his tape recorders and primitive sound manipulation equipment – creaky Mellotron, vintage Binson tape-delay Echoplex unit, microphones with curly telephone-style cords attached, a radio and a couple record players. When the sun came up, they made love. Those tapes became the “Two Virgins” LP.

It certainly doesn't smell like a rich person's house in here!

Richard Furnstein: Of course, you're right. Here's the big question: is there more to this album than the story of two married weirdos falling in love? We've all heard stories about how couples first got together. Typical relationship origins stories are more about three dollar you-call-its at a dank bar or meeting that special someone in a co-worker's depressing kitchen than Echoplexplorations fueled by high grade heroin. These stories are nothing more than ice breakers at awkward dinner parties. Sure, this union had a tremendous impact on Lennon's creative output and the group's increasingly splintered identity, but do we really need this memento of this landmark event? Is this just an excuse to stare at the deflated genitals of famous people? What the hell am I doing listening to this, Bunter? Help me out.

Robert Bunter: Well, I think it was Lennon’s way of childishly thumbing his nose at the world. He regarded the general public with barely-concealed contempt, despite his popular image as a peaceful dreamer. The product of a childhood shattered by parental abandonment and a young adulthood filled with screaming lunatics, worshipful adulation and powerful drugs, circa-’68 Lennon was like a screeching monkey in a gilded cage, exposing himself and violently slinging excrement at the terrified masses. Taking up with Yoko and releasing an album with a shocking sleeve and incomprehensible contents was his attempt to express the nauseous revulsion he felt for his audience. He tried to offer a lot of different rationalizations for this ugly side of himself – it was variously passed off as highbrow avant-garde art (Two Virgins), primal psychiatric therapy (Plastic Ono Band), raw hairy rock (Live Peace In Toronto, “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”), political activism (“Give Peace A Chance” and the Bed-Ins), personal journalism (“Ballad Of John & Yoko”) or radical revolutionary rabble-rousing (Some Time In New York City) – but underneath it all you’ve got the stinky tantrums of a messed-up baby crying for attention. A long-haired, bearded feral baby with a huge ego, millions of dollars, piles of drugs and the attention of the entire world.

Richard Furnstein: It's the ultimate desperate play for attention. This junkie shell invites the world in to sift through the audio reminders of his first date with Ono. There's no way you would turn away an invitation for an intimate view of a millionaire genius. Once inside, however, you get a better understanding of the sadness in Lennon's life. The tape plays much more than just the audio-fartistry. The stink of the session wafts out of the speakers: stale incense, body odor, rotting fruit, and hashish laced cigarettes. It certainly doesn't smell like a rich person's house in here! The paper bag texture of the outer sleeve doesn't just hide the scandalous cover photo, it serves as a mocking reminder that this impossible album is a commodity. Nothing more than a can of fruit cocktail or some mousetraps from the corner store. Use once and destroy. The outer shell mocks the consumer from the record shelf. Enjoy the tuneless whistling, warped piano fondlings,and overexposed celebrity genitalia, Beatlemaniac. Is this what you wanted?

Robert Bunter: I need a sick bag. I'm going to be sick.

P.S. I Love You

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney was a dangerous young man. His loose balloon eyes would draw the helpless ladies of Liverpool into his warm cloak, where a dark cloud of aftershave and sweat would swarm around their wilting bodies. The women were easy prey: Paul would snatch them up like a giant ripping the roof off of a girls' school. He always seemed to be the secret man in a gaggle of boys. "P.S. I Love You" finds Young Paul reaching Aleister Crowleyian levels of control over sexual energy and power. The song--a breezy appropriation of Buddy Holly's white man samba--seems innocent enough. The P.S. of the title may even be a reference to Holly's figurehead of rock and roll innocence, "Peggy Sue." There's something sinister going on in this song. John Lennon serves as the dashing wing man on this recording, gently easing his friend into each line of the verse. Paul remains steady and confident during the pitch to Earth's women. He only breaks a sweat during the climax of his mating call ("YOU KNOW I WANT YOU TO remember that I'll always-YEAH-be in love with you"). You don't even really notice that the man is screaming until he comes down off that powerful run to join the measured tone of his buddies. It's powerful stuff.

Robert Bunter: Well, that’s just it. Paul’s greasy charm was irresistible, and the whole song is delivered with brisk professionalism. It’s difficult to listen to this one and not form a cartoonish mental image: a single blue spotlight illuminates the shabby wooden stage of a darkened nightclub. A quartet of unctuous smoothies sways gently back and forth as they effortlessly sketch a gentle tropical melody; the singer cradles an old fashioned microphone and leans into the foreground of the frame at an exaggerated, physically impossible angle. His eyebrows arch and tighten with hideous sincerity; his pursed lips glisten with shiny secretions. The audience members are the featureless black silhouettes in a George Peed album cover. The sincere intensity of Paul’s contrived insincerity begs all sorts of questions. Is it possible to tell a lie so well that it becomes your truth? The real Paul McCartney and his emotional feelings might be the real illusion; the cartoon nightclub crooner in our mind’s eye, the reality.

Richard Furnstein: The music suggests motion: a tender blend of the precision stride of a seasoned nag and the comforting creaks of a an tugboat. Where are we going? Paul suggests that he is "coming home again to you, love." It's a nice image, but Paul is reluctant to put a timeline on this return. It feels more like a tender kiss off from a man who realizes that his future his full of tender fragrant nubs, moist jazz cigarettes, and the simple elegance of teak. Paul's never coming home. His love is still true; in fact, he loves you so much that he can't break your heart. I'm sorry. It has to be this way. You'll understand years from now. See you around, sweet Penny Lane.

Paul's never coming home. I'm sorry. It has to be this way.

Robert Bunter: Penny Lane – the heartsick, immature Liverpool dalliance whom smarmy Paul is brushing off with a casual letter and postscript – is US. The fans, the record buyers, the listeners – from the damp screaming 12-year-old in the upper decks of Shea Stadium to the sad, fat old man with a shopping bag full of officially-licensed Apple Corps towels, jackets and Magical Mystery Tour DVD’s at Beatlefest 2009. The “letter” is actually the record album itself; “treasure these few words while we’re together / keep all my love forever,” he tells us. “Send a few extra bob to the fan club and you may even receive an autographed glossy photo and a lock of hair shipped via postal mail!” Paul seduced the world and then tossed us aside like so many nickels and dimes, scattered across the rumpled bedsheets of our lives from where they fell out his pants pocket during the tussle and roll of physical love. Thanks for the trinkets, Paul. I guess I’ll just hold onto them and treasure the memories. PS, I love you. But … who are you?

Richard Furnstein: That's the burden that James Paul McCartney must carry. He's just a man who was sent to this planet to keep our memories alive. George and John are dead. Ringo doesn't want to sign autographs for you anymore. It's all on Paul. You say it's your birthday? Let me play you this Paul McCartney song. Are you sad because you are lonely? Here is a magic spell called "No More Lonely Nights." Wait, you want him to live forever and play a thousand songs in a single concert? I'm sorry, he has to travel to Pittsburgh in the morning to heal their citizens. But aren't you glad that you heard "Mrs. Vanderbilt"?

How much are these memories worth to you? That depends. Are they truly longer than the road that stretches out ahead? I'm not sure if there is an answer. All I know is that I want more of it. Forever. Give me your collected letters of John Lennon. Give me "Press To Play" in multiple formats. Give me Ringo and Steve Miller jam sessions. Give me the overpriced remastered mono vinyl box set (rumored for an Xmas 2013 delivery). I want it all. I'm alive.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, I want it all, too (London Town illustrated songbook and “Take It Away” 12” single with the picture of him holding the teacup, please). I’m human. But you’d better go into this thing with your eyes open. The thing you really want is the one thing you can never have: Paul McCartney’s true heart. I’ll bet that even when you were in his actual presence, you found yourself staring at the pixilated eyeballs on the JumboTron and not the flesh and blood human at the other end of the sports arena. Paul’s voice is an electronic signal coming out of a speaker, his face is a 8"x10" glossy promo photo and his soul is a haunting melody that captured the heart of a world called Earth, I’ll bet not even Paul McCartney knows who the real Paul McCartney is at this point. He looks in the mirror and sees an album cover; his grandchildren visit for Boxing Day and he gives them autographs. He sits down at the piano and everything he plays is a Paul McCartney song. His burdens are as weighty as his gifts. The love you take is equal to the love you make, but at what cost?

Please Please Me

Richard Furnstein: "Please Please Me" is the superhero origins story. The lonely orphan teen who suffered a spider bite. The well meaning scientist who fell into a vat of nuclear goo. The Beatles were a methamphetamine enhanced bunch of bashers that were coming up small in the spotlight. Their first single offering--the ghastly "Love Me Do--traded in the leder-und-schwitzen antics of the Star Club for harmonica-drenched mid-tempo pap. In many ways, "Please Please Me" was clearly presented as the sequel to love me do: witness the return of Lennon's plaintive harmonica, the nursery rhyme teasing of Harrison's opening lead, and the pronoun driven lyrics. However, "Please Please Me" offers something more. Simply put, it's one for the crotches. John's is pleading for a bit of physical tit-for-tat in the lyrics while the pulsing "Come on/Come on/Come on" is the firestarter. Staid conservatory-trained producer George Martin proposed the hired song "How Do You Do?" as their second single, but dropped that hot bowl of garbage after John and Paul offered up the (at once) sexually frustrated and aggressive "Please Please Me."

Robert Bunter: You say that like sexual frustration and aggression are mutually exclusive. My friend, they are inextricably linked. That’s why I yelled at you that one time in high school! I think the reason this track works so nicely (you’re right, it’s the first piece of their recorded output that really strikes some sparks) is that it takes both of those intense emotions and amalgamates them into a pile of sweet harmonies and unorthodox-yet-undeniable chord changes. The singer is aggressive and sexually frustrated, but one gets the impression he won’t be for very long. “You don’t need me to show the way, love.” In other words, what do I have to do, paint a goddamn picture? But with a song this delightful, the object of his ardent entreaty is sure to capitulate. Interestingly, there is a bit of distance suggested – the opening line, “Last night I said these words to my girl” suggest a fourth-period locker-room bull session, maybe exaggerated for effect with the boys. It’s doubtful that the singer was actually yelling “Come on! Come on! Come on! Come on!” at the poor “bird” in the midst of their rendezvous.

Richard Furnstein: The "come on" build is clearly the key moment of this song. John (and his insistent buddies) are clearly trying to wear the poor girl down. They deliver their script with a mannish growl (I detect a Parisian odor to their pleas) and a hint of a smile. Then finally, the walls come down and the destination is in sight. The keening on "please pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease me, oh yeah!" tells you the rest of the story. Our heroes crave the ecstasy of release but it's never enough. They claim that they don't mean to complain about the situation during the bridge. There's always rain in his heart, the poor boy. How will he possibly heal his deep heart wounds? The answer is in the tides of pop music--you don't have to search long to find another chorus (release). The only thing missing here is the yelping passion of a rock and roll fade out, including some yelps and guttural noises from the young and doe-eyed Paul McCartney.

Robert Bunter: One of the key songwriting tricks in the Beatles’ grab bag (along with simple pronouns, harmonica solos and yelling “Yeah Yeah Yeah” or “OOOoooh!”) was the use of startling and innovative chord changes; this was a habit they never really lost, actually. “Please Please Me” was the debut appearance. The ascending chords after “Last night I said these words to my girl” were completely fresh and new; the only contemporary example I can think of that used that chord was the Everly Brothers’ “Wake Up, Little Susie” in 1957. The “Come on” section uses some bold transitions, as well. But the capper is that magnificent five chord resolution that ends the single. It’s utterly invigorating, each step like a slap in the face. After I heard that, I knew that this band was going to change the world.

Simply put, it's one for the crotches.

Richard Furnstein: The early Beatles were experts at the dramatic resolution, completely avoiding the mindless fade-out that has long been a hallmark of popular music. Think about the emotional tidal wave that concludes "She Loves You." Even sub-baby food songs like "From Me To You" tended to wrap up things nicely. It's easy to connect this approach to their well-honed live act. I would argue that there is more to it. The resolution of their early hair-shaking mega hits always managed to ratchet up the excitement level in their already exploding pop songs. You replay songs like "She Loves You" and "Please Please Me" because these splendid magicians implore you to return again to the golden cave of self realization. John, Paul, George, and Ringo have the secret recipe for the foodstuff of life--come back any time to feast on their delights. Yeah? Yeah.

Robert Bunter: Yeah!

Love Me Do

Richard Furnstein: Oof. Open a window. I'm sorry but the stench of this one really lingers. I guess we have to cover it, though. Alright: "Love Me Do" is The Beatles' first single, so I guess that counts for something. The problem is that it's just not very good. I find it hard to imagine that "Love Me Do" was really their first huge step in becoming the superpower of the century as it offers very few hints as to the genius, majesty, prose, and social commentary of The Beatles' best work. Is there any greater leap than from the lifeless thud of "Love Me Do" to the cosmic awakenings of Revolver in less than four years? First off, the title of "Love Me Do" is complete nonsense. It's not a phrase that is actually used by English speaking human beings. John and Paul try to cover up the idiotic lyrics with their best Everly Brothers routine, but the song's stark instrumentation and non adventurous arrangement don't offer much in the way of support. John insists on bringing his mouth harp to the party and everyone is quickly annoyed. Is this supposed to be skiffle music? I guess skiffle music is terrible, then.

Robert Bunter: I can imagine the hypothetical responses of “Love Me Do” defenders – “You’re not being fair. You have to look at the context of what was happening in the British pop scene at the time. ‘Love Me Do’ was revolutionary because the Beatles were writing and performing their own material, plus it had a nice raw sound that was refreshing to listeners who were being inundated by teen idols and slick pop confections.” That all sounds plausible, but to my ears, this record still falls flat. Maybe the boys were holding their high cards close to the vest, giving it the old slow play so the world would have time to adjust to their haircuts. They’d lay more chips on the table with “Please Please Me” and “From Me To You,” then drop the hammer with the all-in one-two jackpot knockout of “She Loves You” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand.” I guess it’s possible, but the 1963 UK music scene wasn’t the World Poker Tour, and the Beatles weren’t Hoyt Corkins. Listeners familiar with the primitive live Hamburg bootlegs know that the Beatles could have recorded a debut single of considerably greater impact and merit. I’m picturing a beer-stained, Preludin-jacked proto-punk 7”, “One After 909” b/w “Nothin's Shakin'.” I can tell you with certainty that I would cherish my NM+ mono picture sleeve copy of this Parlophone single, if it existed. Instead, the Beatles gave us this penny ante plod-and-wheeze (backed with the equally heinous "P.S. I Love You"). Do George Martin and Brian Epstein deserve part of the blame?

The 1963 UK music scene wasn’t the World Poker Tour, and the Beatles weren’t Hoyt Corkins.

Richard Furnstein: It's possible, but I doubt it was strictly a slow play. George Martin was a respected producer with EMI, with professional roots in the BBC's classical music department. The Beatles were just another handsome beat group and his role was to capture whatever milk leaked from their shallow teats. I'm sure Martin heard "Love Me Do" and thought it was an innocent crossover. It had a spark of spook in the arrangement and a lyric that avoided the sexual confrontation of American rock (The Beatles would head in the opposite direction for the lascivious "Please Please Me"). Martin's role was to gently suggest material since contemporary pop performers were typically too idiotic to write their terrible songs. Epstein certainly had a better idea of their potential, both musically (the pillhead hysteria from the German skratch-und-klaw) and in terms of female and homosexual fantasies. Yet he made a series of nearsighted business decisions, suggesting that he saw their appeal as disposable and limited. It may not have been a slow play, EMI/Martin/Epstein may not have understood the significance of the cards that they were holding.

Here's the greater point: the selection of "Love Me Do" as the first single suggested that The Beatless--despite the famous origins story--were hardly a sure thing. There isn't much evidence to suggest that they were better than "Love Me Do" at the time. The ascent of Beatles man to "Please Please Me" and "She Loves You" was surely against the odds. The Beatles were given their big break and then realized that they only had a stale container of "Love Me Do" soup in the back of the cupboard. They'd warm it up slightly and deliver it in a clean bowl but it was hardly a memorable meal.

Robert Bunter: You’ve got a point there. With hindsight it’s easy to imagine that staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin and delicate furniture salesman Brian Epstein would have treated their soon-to-be-incredibly-profitable meal ticket with awed deference, but the reality must have been much closer to your description. Their callous disrespect extended to their treatment of Ringo, who had only recently joined the band to replace the broodingly handsome Pete Best. Martin and the rest of the brisk, professional EMI studio staff quickly decided that his drumming on the original take wasn’t up to snuff and ordered a new session, handed Ringo a tambourine, then turned the drum duties over to faceless studio hack Andy White. One can only imagine the smug expression on Mr. White’s face as he settled his pale, underfed London flanks into the lightly-cushioned drum throne and picked up Ringo’s favorite pair of drumsticks. Some (me) even speculate that Ringo’s drumwork was not even the issue – the EMI brass just kept Andy White on hand for all sessions with new groups, in order to bring the poor lad’s confidence down a few notches and show them who was boss. Later, in my fantasy, the drunken sticksman for Derry and the Seniors (the criminally-underrated Giles “Ladbrooke” Gloanbottom) socked Andy White in his swarthy, over-fed face during a particularly tense first session. Meanwhile, hapless Ringo shook the tambourine with all the gusto he could muster on this revised take, recorded almost exactly 50 years ago on September 11, 1962. Subsequent re-issues of this track on various albums and singles have been split about evenly between the Ringo and the Andy White versions; you can tell the Andy White by the presence of the tambourine.

Richard Furnstein: It's entirely possible there was another angle to the Ringo dismissal. Have you heard the drum part on "Love Me Do"? It's hardly a Bill Bruford punishing workout. It's a simple thump/plonk pattern that a child can play. In fact, if your child can't play this beat you should mail him back to the hospital and conceive a new child and then name him Andy White. My point being that it would never happen because that drum part is garbage.

Robert Bunter: Ha! I’m sorry, but when it comes to pale drummers named “White” who can confidently handle a simple beat, I’m choosing Meg White of the White Stripes. Her primal, animalistic rhythms are extremely stimulating, and that beatific, glazed expression on her adorable face is infinitely easier on the eyes than Andy White’s self-satisfied smirk or even Ringo Starr’s hangdog droop-and-frown. She gives us all a lot to think about. I’m sorry, but these are the facts. 

Richard Furnstein: I hear you. It's easy to forget about all of the troubles of a Beatlemaniac when you see the fairer White Stripe handle the sticks and pound out some plump beats. It lends clarity to the vague yearnings and empty pleas of "Love Me Do" and other early Beatles failures. We are all just cavemen, drawn to the pale flesh and tribal rhythms, pulsing in a beautiful collection of need/want/love. Er, pardon me. I've said too much.

Twist And Shout

Robert Bunter: The Beatles demonstrate the primal power of the rock music which animated their youth. Three chords, a beat like rolling thunder, sexualized dance instructions and the tonsil-shredding vocals of a husky young man with a chest cold who'd been recording all day and knew there would be no "take two." Wait a minute, what's that George Martin? You actually did two takes?

Okay, well, my point is still valid. The final track from the Beatles' first record pounded the whole thing home. It's difficult from the vantage point of today's ubiquitous hard rock brutality to know just how galvanizing this track was to the world on which it was unleashed. People hear this song today and they think of Ferris Bueller prancing around on a parade float. When they heard it in 1963, they started having knife fights and humping each other. You gotta realize, it was different times.

Richard Furnstein: Oh, you've heard this one a million times before? I'm so sorry. You only have a man ripping his throat out to tell you about this dance party that he's having and you can barely pay attention? Put it on again, feeble mind. Sounds slow, right? WRONG. The song isn't a simple line dance about truancy, it's a slow, violent lurch into the mind of man. Sure, they could've played it faster. They could have done a "Nothing's Shakin' (But The Leaves On The Tree)" treatment on this one, but you'd miss the point. It's the stern faced pulse of the climbing "Aaaaaaaaaaaah's" that do you in. It's the heave and pounce of the finale that finally slow your heart. Get the Hell out of my dance hall, party's over.

Robert Bunter: This is the peak to which the entire record has been building. He's yelling at the female subject with the unrestrained abandon of a drowning man screaming for help. She's shaking it up (baby); due to the constant, urgent dance motions, even the demure tailoring of her primitive hoop skirt and knee length bobby socks are unable to conceal the excruciatingly delicious motion of her recent upper developments and rear butt end. The constricting social mores of pre-1964 homogenized culture can't hold anything back anymore; the tighter they try to constrict our freedom of movement, the more stimulating the friction. A generation of tumescent/squishy youths has now learned the raw truth first-hand; the wisdom that used to be scrawled on washroom walls and speculated on in hushed locker-room tones. You can't put the genie back in the bottle. It just popped out.

The demure tailoring of her primitive hoop skirt and knee length bobby socks are unable to conceal the excruciatingly delicious motion of her recent upper developments and rear butt end.

Richard Furnstein: You know who's chaperoning this little frilly socked teen fantasy, Robert? That's right: RINGO. He's the only one keeping this whole shebang in order. It's a pungent blend of hormones in the gymnasium, but Schoolmaster Ringo is keeping it right. He's got the lights low, but not too low. It's a gentle rat-a-tat tap on your shoulder as you are drawn into the squelchy pool of fragrance behind her ear. Perhaps this occasion calls for some punch, Mr. Bunter?

Robert Bunter: It's always Ringo. No matter what The Beatles do to your mind, Ringo is always there in the background, with that look on his face. What else can I say about this song? Although the original recording (first by a forgotten group called the Top Notes, then by the Isley Brothers) was only a year old when they recorded this, the hyper-advanced Beatles seem like they're doing a knowing, ironic tribute to the quaint oldies of a bygone era. I think we've covered this analytical ground before), so I'll not expound any further. Lennon's primal vocals blaze a trail toward "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" and the Plastic Ono Band album, of course. You don't need me to point that out to you. Anything else, Richard? Let's wrap this up, I'm going to go outside. It's a beautiful day.


Richard Furnstein: Fine by me. I feel like analyzing this song is like Step One in telling you about The Beatles. We should have covered this first instead of "Lovely Rita." We've grown past this analysis of the old grunt and poke rhythm while Mr. Lennon shreds his tonsils.

Oh, daft. Did we mention he was shirtless when he took this vocal take? I think the only other shirtless vocal take in the catalog was Ringo's lead on "What Goes On" (allegedly performed as a birthday gag for a sulking George). Facts!

Baby It's You

Robert Bunter: The early Beatles' girl group covers reek of ambiguity. Sure, they geniunely loved these emotional pop confections, which is obvious when you look at how much their own songwriting was influenced by them. Yet, you can't help but feel like they might be kidding a little bit. Hearing young George's phlegmy teenage baritone sha-la-la-ing in the background gives the impression of an almost ironic, self-aware cover of an oldies song by a group of young phenoms riding the crest of a totally new wave; an affectionate nod toward the curious relics of the past. Of course, when the Beatles recorded this in 1963, the Shirelles were their contemporaries, not an oldies act (actually, they were demonstrably more successful at this early stage). Still, it feels a little like the Ramones covering Bobby Freeman. But that's not to take anything away from the deathless sincerity of Lennon's vocal. His earnest tones practically leap out of the speakers, and there's nothing ironic about it.

Richard Furnstein: The sha-la-la-las are trapped in a reverb tank and it's giving John the blues. He fights through the anguish in a startling direct performance of this Shirelles song. He rarely reverts to the throat ripping that highlights many of the early covers. Instead, John is close to the mic, specks of dust taking flight from his newly tailored Beatles suit. George and Paul are in the shadows, pitching in with shas, las, and oohs, but they seem to understand that John is in complete control. He even answers his own set up "You know what they say about you?" with "Cheat, cheat." The other dudes are right there, but John doesn't want to risk losing the urgency of that line. It's the best moment in a flawless recording.

The sha-la-la-las are trapped in a reverb tank and it's giving John the blues.

Robert Bunter: At the same time, there's something campy about four young men in leather (OK, granted, they were in suits by this time, but remember, Please Please Me represents an idealized version of their live set from Hamburg or the Cavern) singing the Shirelles. The same gender ambiguity that was hinted at by their scandalously long hair and naughty, bold-fitting trouser seams is at work here. As was so often the case, the Beatles were at the vanguard of a revolution, flaunting a conscious blurring of outmoded sexual roles and show business conventions. These "boys" were neck-deep in all the women they could possibly handle. George, in particular, was legendary for his prodigious output and abundantly be-notched bedposts. By leaning in close to a shared microphone with handsome Paul McCartney and sha-la-la-ing fruitily, he was in effect saying, "I'm so secure in my masculinity, I can do THIS. What's the matter, Mr. and Mrs. Establishment, are you shocked? Have I offended your puny 'morals'? SHA LA LA LA LA!!! Now you'll have to excuse me, your daughter just threw her underpants at me. PERHAPS I'LL KEEP THEM."

Richard Furnstein: A lot has been made about the Beatles pumping out the bulk of Please Please Me in one day (and night) at Abbey Road. The band had that luxury by reverting to the lessons of their German boot camp. "Baby It's You" is my favorite "sleepwalking through the live set" moment of Please Please Me. It also highlights the girl group influence that set the Beatles apart from their brain dead bluesmen or plunky surf rockers contemporaries. The same drama and restraint that marks "Baby It's You" would serve Lennon well in his own excellent "girl group" compositions such as "Bad To Me," "You Can't Do That," and "Not A Second Time." You can keep your blues howl, Rolling Stones; the softer side suits Lennon better.

Robert Bunter: It's great when John screams, "Don't leave me all alone ... come on home" at the end while the track fades out. There's something about singing or speaking during a fadeout that adds a poignant urgency to the words. It's like hearing the melting witch bleating in the Wizard of Oz or the screams of someone falling off a cliff.

I Saw Her Standing There

Robert Bunter: How perfect is it that the Beatles' entire recorded career starts with a vigorous "one-two-three-FOUR!" countoff and ends with a stirring benedictory anthem entitled, yes, "The End"? I'll tell you how perfect: not at all. The Beatles recorded career actually started with the lackluster "Love Me Do" 45, and Abbey Road actually ends with the slight, fey McCartneydoodle I like to call "Her Majesty." And that's not even taking into account the fact that Let It Be was technically the last album released, even though it wasn't the last one to be recorded. So you can just discard everything you'd already thought about the perfect symmetry of the intro of "I Saw Her Standing There" and the gorgeous swan song of "The End." Wait, you haven't already thought about that? I guess I just assumed everybody learned about that in Beatles kindergarten. Richard, why don't you say a few words about this song. I need to collect myself.

Richard Furnstein: Paul plays it rough in the back of his throat and describes an indescribable seventeen year old girl. It's the Beatles at their most lascivious: the subject matter is all sleaze, their voices quickly jump from rough textures to howls, and the handclaps provide an insistent skin-on-skin shudder factor. Genuinely exciting stuff, even after all this time.

Robert Bunter: No doubt about that. Everybody knows the story about how Lennon injected primal sexuality into McCartney's original lyric draft, right? It was supposed to start "Well she was just seventeen / never been a beauty queen," but Lennon vetoed that and substituted "You know what I mean," thus forcing the listener to think about what he means, which is obviously that he thinks seventeen is the sexiest age a girl can possibly be. Wait, you people didn't already know that story?

Richard Furnstein: You are a real wealth of Beatles 101 information. Where are they from again? Liverville? I heard they were called the Silver Beatles at first! Can you confirm this please?

More on this song, trivia master: the verses are hardly revolutionary, but you have no real reason to expect the rush of the bridge. George delivers his solo deep in the Abbey Road Caverns, a sign that George Martin was probably not entirely sold on the youngster's shaggy riffology. If stuffy Mr. Martin had his way George and Ringo would have stayed at the docks at Liverlakes eating soggy fish and chips with aging beat relic Rory Storm. Sorry, George Martin, this is the band. I'm sure you'll be pleasantly surprised with the crew in time!

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it's funny to think about the power George Martin still held over the boys at this early juncture. He was playing the part of the grownup behind the mixing board and they were supposed to be the provincial rookies who didn't know what they were doing. He's standing there (!) giving orders, sipping tea and telling Ringo not to play the cymbals so loud, and meanwhile he doesn't know that he's dealing with four transcendental supermen who will shake human civilization to its very foundations. John, Paul, George and Ringo must have chuckled indulgently when this staid, conservatory-trained EMI lackey started calling the shots. "Oh, you want us to turn it down, Mr. Martin? Of course, so sorry." Then they reach over and turn it UP. Yeah yeah yeah! Whoo-ee! SHAKE IT!

Richard Furnstein: Lennon is surprisingly restrained on this number. Sure, his harmonies ground Paul's urgent lechery but there is little to hint at the riots that Lennon will later cause in his lead vocals. In summary, "I Saw Her Standing There" is as great as it is supposed to be, maybe even greater if you are willing to completely accept the To Catch A Predator lyrics.

There's A Place

Robert Bunter: This song from the Beatles first album (Please Please Me, as I call it) eerily foreshadows the later philosophical ideas that would animate John's subsequent work. John is singing about how he can retreat to an inner sanctuary of his own thoughts when the external world becomes too harsh. He would echo the same message in psychedelic songs like "Rain," "Tomorrow Never Knows," and "Strawberry Fields Forever," of course, but it's a bit jarring to hear such epistemological solipsism from vintage 1963 Lennon, back when life was in black and white and he hadn't visited America yet.

Richard Furnstein: The penultimate track on the first Beatles album was the perfect place for a brooder. Give the people what they want: squeeze in a little melancholy right before the euphoria of "Twist and Shout." It's a touch slight, but only in the way that rock and roll before the Beatles was slight. They seem to play to their influences on "There's A Place" rather than blowing the old guard out of the water. Two bits of "There's A Place" transcend the Crickets-aping: the slight tricks of the chorus (including some falsetto to really work up the girls) and the dramatic final verse. That verse has John and Paul belting "And it's my miiiiiiiiiiiiiiind/and there's no tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime" like their young lives depended on it. I've just gotta get a message to you, they seem to say. Stand still and let me yell in your face about this magical brain place, girl.

Robert Bunter: Beatles lore tells us that on the day when they recorded this album (in ten straight hours on 2/11/63, which I consider a personal Beatlemaniacal holiday and take off work for each year), John had a bad cold. You can really hear it on this one. The stuffy nose just adds to the mood of introspective melancholy which has already been established by the major seventh intervals and lonesome harmonica. He sounds like he spent the previous night standing outside in the English rain, wearing a long black overcoat and smoking cigarettes, looking into the window of a restaurant where his beloved was obliviously enjoying a plate of beans and English "crisps" with another man. In his pocket is a well-used personal hanky, given to young John in 1958 from his beloved Uncle George (George Toogood Smith), who also gave him his first instrument (a banjo!).

Richard Furnstein: Snot too shabby, Beatles!

Boys

Richard Furnstein: "Hey, Ringo. Pete Best kinda stinks and is a drag. Wanna join the band? You are a great drummer and have a cool look and an even cooler name." "Sure, gents, where do I sign?" "Wait, one condition. We want to all sing because we are a rock and roll oligarchy of insane greatness. Nobody cares about the drummer in Buddy Holly's band, they just focus on the singer. So we gotta all sing. Whaddya say? Could you handle it?" "Hmmmm. I've never really sang before, but YES."

The rest, as the man says, is history. It just so happened that Ringo had a lovely singing voice. His croak and enthusiast blurts were there to remind us that these handsome superheroes were indeed human beings. "Boys" was his vocal debut, and it follows the early Beatles album template. Give Ringo an upbeat rocker, let him shake his mop and bang the toms and count the money. It's especially sweet that they handed him a girl group jam. The Shirelles sang about the power of boys' lips, but it was a warning. A view to the dangers and freedom of the teenage years. The Beatles use this song as a way to declare that they are BOYS, and they'll seduce the hell out of your ladybrain and they can't help it and neither can you.

Robert Bunter: Here, Ringo displays a vocal persona that he wouldn't really return tovery often - unapologetic rock and roll screaming. It's like, at this point, nobody had told him yet that he was the homely, droopy eyed, big nosed goof who gets trotted out once an LP to poke fun at his own haplessness on apologetic confections like "With A Little Help From My Friends" and "Act Naturally." He's really going for it. The others must have been snickering in the control booth while he laid down this track. "Look at him! He thinks he's got what it takes!"

But they weren't laughing when they got back the sales figures. Ringo's blustery take on "Boys" became the Beatles first number one single in the UK! That's completely false. But it illustrates a larger point: like the tortoise in Aesop's fable, slow-witted Ringo eventually won the Beatle race with his chart-topping LP "Ringo," released in 1973. Who's laughing now?

Richard Furnstein: Ringo?

Anna (Go To Him)

Richard Furnstein: All languid drag, this is the kind of punisher that they probably couldn't pull off in Hamburg. The spook is all in the room and John's vocal is pushed way high in the mix. The instruments pulse without real flourish. It's clear this is a job site, John's got a story to tell about a lady that broke his heart and is about to leave him. Show your respect and listen to the man.

I want this song tattooed on my face.

Robert Bunter: This early soul cover (Arthur Alexander waxed the original for Pat Boone's DOT label in 1962) offers yet more evidence for the "John Lennon is the greatest male vocalist in the history of rock and roll" case that many of us have been trying to make for years to an increasingly annoyed and rapidly shrinking group of disinterested friends and business associates. I want you to pull this up on your iTunes or CD player right now and cue up the word "DOOOOOOOOOOO" at 1:27. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Richard Furnstein: (singing along) "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!"

Robert Bunter: How about that, eh? I haven't heard that much raw, unbridled animal passion since the last time I listened from outside the bedroom window ("No Reply"-style) as my wife made physical love to another man. To my wife, whose name is Anna, I say: go with him. Just leave me alone with
my Beatles bubblegum cards and my NM+ first-state sealed butcher cover which I purchased from Mark Lapidos at BeatleFest in 1974 for $301 and is now worth enough money to purchase the lawyer that you'll need after the judge hears the evidence which I recorded on my Brunell three-speed reel-to-reel.

I'm sorry, this has been a very personal post for me.

Richard Furnstein: I love the zombie backing vox on this one. George and Paul are drunk or sleepy (or BOTH!) and they clearly want to steer clear of John's romantic turmoil. The song doesn't fade because it shouldn't fade because the ending is damn perfect. I want this song tattooed on my face.

Ask Me Why

Richard Furnstein: The boys wooo-wooo-woo-woo their way into our hearts with this early exotic filler. Ringo shuffles and plods and Paul is almost inaudible. There's not much here, but that's almost the beauty. The first two minutes exist to build towards the stunning climax, where harmonies suspend over a desolate cliff of lovely. George plunks out some final notes for some well deserved suspense. It's over before you realize all the gorgeousness that you just encountered. Play it again, that's why the button is there.

Robert Bunter: The Beatles sound surprisingly polished and wonderful on this early gem. The studio version, great as it is, sounds limp compared to the energetic live readings on "Live at the Star Club" and the "Last Night In Hamburg" bootlegs. What must it have been like to be in the audience in those raucous subterranean German beer cellars in 1962? We can only imagine.

I see myself swaying drunkenly under the influence of many "pints" of dark brown lager, my arm snaking playfully across the midriff of pixie-haired existentialist Astrid Kirchherr (she needs comforting because of the loss of inferior bassist Stu Sutcliffe a mere two months ago in April 1962) as my leather-jacketed buddies from Liverpool on the cramped stage belt out this yearning rock and roll lament. Then there's that augmented chord right before the bridge, and next I hear "I can't belieeeeeeeeeve / this happened to meeeeeeeeeee" and my heart soars as I feel a hand in my pocket, a delicate female German hand that isn't my own. "Do you fancy some fish and chips, bird?" I say to her. "That would be gear, mate," she replies. And then we leap onto my moped, racing towards what sweaty, nude, tousled German sunrise?

Don't wake me up, it is too beautiful.

Richard Furnstein: I'm quivering with excitement right now!

Misery

Richard Furnstein: The second song on the first album by the number one band in our hearts. "Misery" is proof of why all those girls were screaming their fool heads off and dudes were wetting their pants with pure hetero man love excitement.

George Martin plays some neato monkey piano in the reverb tank and Harrison nails the harmony because he did what everyone said because he was the youngest.

Robert Bunter: This track has a nice bold, up-front recording style that perfectly suits the melancholy lyrics and happy-go-lucky melody. Credit is due to staid producer George Martin. He was a button-down conservatory man who was, fortunately, loose and open-minded enough to translate the unformed musical thoughts of four rough-and-ready Liverpool scruffs into golden classic record albums. If there was ever a fifth Beatle, it was undoubtedly Stu Sutcliffe and Pete Best. But George Martin and Murray the K deserve honorable mentions for translating their scruffy ideas into golden classic record albums and relentless self-promoting radio patter, respectively.

Richard Furnstein: I guess, let's talk about the song, which is their best ever. George Martin plays some neato monkey piano in the reverb tank and Harrison nails the harmony because he did what everyone said because he was the youngest. Lennon's "shalalalalala" during the fade is a top five Beatles moment of all time, and you need to listen harder if you don't agree. Also neat: Paul singing "shend" instead of "send." Whattariot!