Getting Better

Robert Bunter: This song is joyful and infectious, but it doesn’t really fit into the Sgt. Pepper concept. It would have made more sense alongside “Good Day Sunshine” and “Got To Get You Into My Life” on Revolver. Pepper is an extended meditation on show business and identity that slyly upends the backpack full of roles and expectations the Beatles were carrying around by 1967. The album opens by announcing that the Beatles have been replaced by a groovy band of satin-military-suit-clad tuba players who are about to take us on a magic carpet ride around the world (and … elsewhere?) The rest of the album uses jump-cut editing splices to whisk us from a psychedelic boat ride (“Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”) to a soap opera (“She’s Leaving Home”), a circus (“Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite”), an exotic Eastern mystic sermon (“Within You Without You”) and an old-time soft-shoe revue (“When I’m 64”). Sure, you’ve got the John-figure lurking in the background throughout, with his spooky moustache and dead carp eyes slowly leaking bleeding Everyman nightmares into the corner of the frame (“Good Morning Good Morning”) before finally pulling back the curtain on the whole charade (“A Day In The Life”) and leaving the listener’s contextual framework in shreds. But for the most part we are strapped safely into the lurching cart of a hallucinatory funhouse ride. In that context, Paul’s relatively earnest and autobiographical “Getting Better” sticks out like a sore thumb.

Richard Furnstein: You clod. "Getting Better" is central to the Sgt. Pepper concept: a song cycle about the promise of renewal in the Age of Aquarius. The bright and bold sleeve for Sgt. Pepper represented an about face from the pen and ink wanderings of the Revolver color. Lennon suggested that we "listen to the colour of [our] dreams" at the conclusion of Revolver. Sgt. Pepper boldly insisted that everything required a fresh coat of paint ("I'm painting my room in the colourful way.."). Paul's entire Sgt. Pepper concept was about escaping the greyscale images of The Beatles. What better way to do this than to don marching band jackets, pick up shiny brass instruments, and adopt a new, garish monicker (truly only bested by the daft "Colonel Tucker's Medicinal Brew and Compound" concept). "Getting Better" is clearly about self improvement, about wiping the slate clean after past transgressions (domestic abuse, poor academic performance, anti-social tendencies). Suddenly: a new day to change one's scene (or as much as possible: "I'm doing the best that I can"). Paul's message of hope carries through the remaining Sgt. Pepper songs: the scenes include reclaiming happiness in the golden years ("When I'm 64"), reclaiming spirituality in the modern age ("Within You Without You"), coming to terms with the ghosts of childhood ("Strawberry Fields Forever," "Penny Lane," and "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite"), experimenting with mind expanding drugs (the turned on businessman of "A Day In The Life" and "Good Morning Good Morning") and taking decisive action towards this progress (the lanky teenage rebel in "She's Leaving Home").

Let's tear the whole damned thing down.

Robert Bunter: Hmmm, well I guess you could say that there’s more than one way to look at it. As usual, the extra baggage about the contemporary cultural shifts of the so-called Love generation or “extended meditation[s] on show business and identity” (Bunter, 2014) only becomes obvious in hindsight. That reminds me, an interesting thing happened on March 21, 1967, early into the “Getting Better” sessions. At this point, all the Beatles but Paul had tried LSD. John, George and Paul were in the studio doing some vocal overdubs when John decided to take a pill that he thought was speed. A touch of amphetamine, just the thing to add a little zang to the otherwise tedious process of hanging out in Abbey Road with the most talented and charming humans who ever lived recording an album that represents not only the undisputed peak of their career but one of the highest artistic achievements of the 20th century. Of course, you can guess what happened. He took the wrong pill and started an acid trip right there in the booth. Ringo’s pores became eerily distorted and disproportionate (which later inspired the “Sea of Holes” scene in the Yellow Submarine cartoon). Paul was wearing a strange necklace thing that started to look like paisley sausages. Mal Evans was levitating like a can of beans. Uh-oh. John excused himself from the vocal overdubs. “Sorry lads, I’m not feeling quite right for some reason.” Thus it fell to staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin to take his young friend up to the Abbey Road rooftop for a bit of fresh air. Pretty soon the others realized what was going on and rushed the hell up there to make sure John didn’t try to swan dive right off the side because on acid you assume that you’ll just gently float to the ground or maybe actually fly. Problem is: you don’t. There’s just a pile of paisley sausages on the iconic Abbey Road crosswalk and a bunch of screaming girls who were hanging around outside the studio and that’s it for the Beatles. The others fetched him back inside and Paul gave him a ride home. When they got there, Paul said to himself, “OK, this is the night for me to try acid for the first time. I’ll take it with John so he doesn’t feel so alone and frightened.” And he did! Paul’s first trip was March 21, 1967. They both talked about it years later in interviews. John: “We got into a heavy thing, staring into each other’s eyes, saying ‘I know, man … I know! I KNOW.’” This is a sweet story to contemplate. They were still young men who’d been through a lot together. Not just the group’s meteoric rise to superstardom, but the loss of a parent. It was not the kind of thing that macho young greasers like John and Paul would ever talk about out loud, but with their inhibitions relaxed by mind-altering drugs, they were able to communicate everything in those three simple words: “I know, man.” If I had a time machine, I would certainly set the dial for March 21, 1967 and lurk outside the sitting-room window at Weybridge so I could witness this tender scene firsthand. I just hope they don’t see me and become frightened.

Richard Furnstein: Don't spook the horse. "Getting Better" also ties in with Peter Blake's elaborate cover art for Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Clubs Band. The photo finds The Beatles posing as a marching band, supported by a cast of entertainers, philosophers, addicts, scientists, gurus, and (most harrowing) their childish 1964 selves. It's as if they are saying, "we are nothing more than we, dear friends." Lewis Carroll begat Aleister Crowley begat William S. Burroughs begat Marilyn Monroe. The Beatles are standing on the shoulders of giants, offering the finest artistic output of humans developed with the greatest sound recording techniques and equipment. You are truly blessed. The Beatles are staring out at you (the pimply, soggy listener) as if to challenge you to make the next move. In front of their feet is a lovely garden/funeral arrangement. A collection of flowers ready to explode in the summer of 1967: aching anthers pulsing with the pollen of new life.

Robert Bunter: Speaking of gardening, that was how the idea for the song originated. Paul was chatting with his groundskeeper -- the gentle and reliable Reginald Peake--and asked “How’s it going?” to which Peake replied, “Well, it’s getting better!” and of course Paul got “THAT LOOK” that he used to get when a song was brewing and ran back inside to the piano to effortlessly immortalize the fleeting remark of a common landscaper. Meanwhile, poor old Peake is still standing outside with his pruning shears, staring at the empty space where Paul used to be before he ran back inside, like “What? What did I say?” Later, Paul gave him a signed copy of the finished LP. It was a first-press mono Parlophone in mint condition with all inserts and OG inner sleeve, but the clueless gardener played it repeatedly on his shoddy common-man portable phonograph causing noticeable wear, audible scuffs and unforgiveable surface noise. For the rest of his days, he derived great joy from hearing the record, especially proud of his “star turn” on Side One and the heavy breathing at the end of “Lovely Rita.” When ol' Reg passed away in 1979 from advanced gout, the album was bequeathed to his daughter who kept it in appalling conditions of humidity and heat, not even bothering to store it in a simple two-bit poly bag. That gorgeous inner sleeve (designed by the Apple-contracted Dutch design team The Fool)? Seams split to hell. It was just stacked up on her dumb shelves in a sloppy pile with all her other stupid records. Her kids used to play with it and busted the damned thing all up.

Richard Furnstein: A harrowing vision, to be sure. Paul had a talent for highlighting the minor victories of the diabetic underclass. The sad, pock-marked visions provided depth to such chestnuts as "Another Day," "Eleanor Rigby," and "London Town." The inspiration behind "Getting Better" is less specific; rather, it seems to represent an entire generation rather than one lonely misfit. In that sense, "Getting Better" is a companion track to "She's Leaving Home," showcasing the larger cultural shifts at play. The key lyric in "Getting Better" is "the teachers who taught me weren't cool." It's certainly a minor offense, but the catalyst for a philosophical and lifestyle shift. "Getting Better" offers a life-and-how-live-it manual for the youth who were leaving their parents in the sad suburbs and embarking into a world of discount barbituates, aimless new age explorations,  and primal/hairy sexual intercourse. The sharp and confident introduction of "Getting Better" announces the new chapter. The treated piano and slack single coil electric guitar bursts open the door into the new world. It's a choose your own adventure moment. How are things getting better for you, love? A hippie collapses onto a diseased bean bag chair in a grimy tenement in The Mission. A pot-bellied, cocksure man opens the door to his bachelor pad, wafting in the freedom of divorced life. A diminutive hippie stares out from between the curtains of her straight black hair: "I won't become a Mrs., ma. I'm going to grad school." A slender, wild-eyed Yogi finally masters the King Pigeon Pose after weeks of careful attention to breathing. A young man finally saved enough money to purchase his dream muscle car and is off to cruise the hamburger stand. Martin Luther King's dream. Stonewall. Let's tear the whole damned thing down.

Good Morning Good Morning

Richard Furnstein: The rooster crows and the loneliness of night falls away. We suddenly confront the sun (Ringo's drum introduction), a million hungry critters, and the sad truths of our life. Woke up, fell out of bed, realized I don't love my wife or my child, and I want to take weird colored drugs with Mal Evans in order to escape. Is there any other way out of this world? It's a depressing worldview. John clearly craved domestic stability (dead mother, absentee seaman father) but couldn't face the drudgery of a suburban home life. Nothing to say but what a day. Pull up a chair and eat your pork chop, dear. "How's your boy been?" finds John referencing his lonely escape into masturbation to pass the time. It's an unfortunate endgame to his dying relationship to the perpetually nervous Cynthia Lennon. It's also a concise way to reference the biological necessities that open and close our limited days on this smog-filled planet. Shower, shave, defecate, eat some good food, and then take three tablets of acid and look at the lights with Magic Alex. That's the game of life.

Robert Bunter: Yes, yes. The mundane human interactions of ordinary folks, which McCartney regards with bemused affection ("Penny Lane," "Another Day," "London Town," the middle section of "A Day In The Life," "Hello Goodbye" and so many others) are terrifying and repugnant to Lennon's childhood-traumatized, chemically-enhanced eyes. One of the fascinating things about the Sgt. Pepper album ("Pepper," as I call it) is the way the magical fantasy-world established on side one (mostly by Paul, though John the dreamweaver pitched in with "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds" and "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite") starts to gradually unravel on side two as the harsh realities of life intrude via Lennon tracks like "Good Morning Good Morning." Finally "A Day In The Life" destroys the charade ... it's like you're watching a crazy variety show in a gaily-colored theater, but as you get toward the end of the second act, the curtain starts to fall down and reveals the half-dressed extras and bored technicians, creating a sense of palpable unease. Then, a nuclear explosion (the "Day In The Life" final piano chord) blows the whole theater apart. Then you wake up and realize the whole magic performance was a dream. You're about to get up and change the record (pristine original Parlophone mono, of course, dummy!) but all of a sudden the terrifying inner groove loop comes on and you're not sure about anything anymore. Anyway, that's how "Pepper" goes. "Good Morning Good Morning" is like the part I was talking about where the curtain starts to fall away. The same beefy brass section and heavy rock guitar tone that made the opening "Sgt. Pepper" theme so charming now seem harsh and discordant. The gentle audience laughter and applause sound effects have been replaced by bleating animals.

Richard Furnstein: This isn't even a "four legs good/two legs bad" fantasy. Lennon's message is that we are all animals. "Good morning, love, here's your sausage and toast." Don't want to see the sausage being made? Too bad, because you are the sausage.

You know what I would to have seen being made? This song. Imagine Paul laying down that searing guitar lead, headphones framing his angel face as he effortlessly gave birth to Joe Satriani. Imagine Ringo perched high on his drum seat, bringing order to John's fractured view of pop music timing. His cymbal hits like landmines of pink clouds popping across the sepia tinted mediocrity visions of the lyrics. Will the clouds raze this city or will they waft across the sleepy countryside like a psychedelic dragon, bringing color, life, and mythical transfigurations to the milky landscape? The escape is coming, and it's not just for the hippies and their bold new pharmaceuticals. The sad businessmen with their aluminum wrapped Scotch eggs can feel it. The sexually frustrated/curtain twitching housewives are begging for it.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that's another angle. Despite the horrifying implications of the bared-fang lyrics, horn section, animals and icepick-to-the-forehead guitar tone (especially after "It's time for tea and meet the wife"), this song rocks harder than anything else on Sgt. Pepper, with the possible exception of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)," which follows it. There is a fine sense of excitement as the song picks up steam toward the end. The Everyman character who's been shuffling thorough his uninspired routine all day is heading home from work. It's five o'clock and already the sun is setting. Did they have daylight savings time in England in 1967? He decides to "take a walk by the old school," a bit of breezy nostalgia. Lennon's arch narrator seems to be making fun of the square, 9-to-5 main character (tellingly, referred to as "you") with his goofy slang ("Now you feel cool," "Now you're in gear"). The smiling You-figure begins to revel in the urban hustle-bustle as he strolls through town, flirting with any girl who happens to ask what time it is. At this point, John switches from second person to first person in order to facilitate a bit of verbal cleverness ("Somebody needs to know THE TIME / glad THAT I'M here") but immediately switches back ("Watching the skirts you start to flirt"). He is me and you are he and we are all together. The song is full of ambiguity, actually. For example, is it: "I've got nothing to say, but it's OK" or "I've got nothing to say but 'it's OK'"? Either interpretation would shift the meaning 180 degrees. Or what about "Nothing to do to save his life, call his wife in?" Is this a doctor regarding a terminal patient on his deathbed with callous indifference, or simply a bored character who calls his wife because he can't find a thing to do "to save his life"?

Don't want to see the sausage being made? Too bad, because you are the sausage.

Richard Furnstein: I've always taken "called his wife in" as a loving tribute to the Boëthian Wheel. That man actually dies. It's unexpected and crude but altogether real. The din of everyday mundane life highlighted in "Good Morning Good Morning" and "Penny Lane" (what a true shame that these songs were divorced from each other in final release form) includes both the light and the shade. The town is indeed getting dark (a man dies) but only an illogical skeptic would deny the inevitable of another day. A lesser songwriter would have shown us the promise of a new day through the miracle of a new baby's cry. Instead, he admits he has nothing to say and lets a gaggle of beasts (including the farm animals and jungle creatures) tell the end of the tale for him. The sun will indeed rise. The chickens need to be fed. Get to work.

Robert Bunter: That would be a great place to end this, but I'd just like to add that there is a logic to the order of the animal noises. The rooster crows for dawn, of course (could that long-dead rooster have known when it was recorded for EMI's sound effects library that he would be immortalized by the Beatles? He seems to crow with uncommon vigor). But at the end, each animal is chased by another larger creature. We hear a tweeting bird, then a cat, then a dog, then horses, sheep, woves and finally, humans (in the form of a fox hunt). In the stereo mix, they chase each other from the left speaker to the right. Then there is a chicken cluck that morphs into a guitar note.

Richard Furnstein: And what leads us out of this joyous cacophony? Only Paul McCartney (the supreme light himself) counting 1-2-3-4 into the Reprise. A primary education for a new day.

Robert Bunter: Beautiful!

Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite

Robert Bunter: In a way, John’s terrifying “Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite” ranks among the most “peppery” of the Sgt. Pepper’s tracks, in terms of Paul’s concept of a Beatles record masquerading as an old-timey variety show. In subsequent years John would play down the “Pepper” concept as a fraud and a McCartney ego trip (and of course John’s album closer “A Day In The Life” manages to simultaneously deflate and shed light on the harsh reality behind Paul’s whimsical fancies), but at the time he was willing to play along. Characteristically, John’s vision of an old-timey variety show has a lot more fangs than Paul’s. Paul assumes the emcee role and opens the curtain with flourishes of showbiz razzle-dazzle. Then we are introduced to the hapless yet loveable Billy Shears and his ode to friendship. A few tracks later, “Mr. Kite” offers a much darker vision of early 20^th century popular entertainment – John’s emcee is a bored-sounding carnival barker, his voice oozing over the grim, minor-key gypsy melody with the same jaded contempt that strippers and freak show performers feel for their drooling audience of rubes, marks and squares. Paul conjures visions of a pleasantly amused crowd reacting to a colorful and friendly band of performers; John invites us into a dank, stinky tent where elaborately-moustached gymnasts in eggshell tights tumble through flaming hoops and drugged horses dance creepily (this was really accomplished with painful, hidden clamps and spiked bridles which directed the poor beast which way to go). But don’t worry! All you have to do is turn the record over and you’ll be ready to enjoy George’s interminable curry sermon, punctuated by a turgid sitar solo in 7/4 time. Thanks for inviting us to your wonderful show, Beatles!

Richard Furnstein: Lennon took most of the lyrics to "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite" from a Victorian carnival poster discovered in an antique shop (word is that John read from the fine print on the poster as he sat at the piano, pumping out the tune). However, the horrorshow ambiance of the recording is purely Lennon's drug fantasy. The sound of "Mr. Kite" fits in with the unsettling combination of nostalgia, fantasy, and drug experimentation of The Beatles' psychedelic recordings. The famous cover photo for Sgt. Pepper's is a window into this world, where The Beatles are outfitted as a droll marching band in a sea of black and white oddities (Aleister Crowley, a slightly hidden James Joyce) and technicolor splashes (the sheen of the marching band outfits, the funereal flowers). The heavily pixelated stark newsprint cutouts provides a shock of contrast next to the way-out implications of marmalade skies and a flaming hogshead. Lennon was in full control of this fantasy--guiding a generation of creepy long hairs into the light with his sinister word play and frozen Lysergic images. It didn't matter that the finely-wrought lyrics to "Mr. Kite" are almost verbatim from an antique poster. The language of "Mr. Kite" is a window into a world of danger and improbable illusions. Lennon was certainly sympathetic to the improbable world and fantastical events suggested in the poster's script.

Robert Bunter: Most of the time when Beatle books discuss this track, they focus on the swirling collage of organ and calliope music which George Martin conjured in response to John’s vague request to “do something fairground-y … I want to smell the sawdust.” They looked into renting an actual calliope but nothing would fit through the door. Instead, Martin collected a pile of tapes of organ and circus music, cut them into strips and threw them into the air, then glued them back together in whatever order they fell. This was supplanted with some actual real-time recorded organ and harmonium playing the melody. The final effect is wonderful, of course – exactly the terrifying, trippy carnival evocation that John had in mind. Even more wonderful, in my opinion, are the many circulating video clips of an older George Martin, seated in front of the recording console, re-telling the “we threw the tapes in the air” story for the umpteenth time with evident gleeful relish. The staid, conservatory-trained producer’s eyes sparkle as he remembers what a delightfully madcap afternoon that was. There’s something almost cute about it. Here are the Beatles, their minds sizzling on exotic drugs, changing the world with their bold satin military outfits and various attempts at facial hair (some more successful than others – George’s dirt-stache was rightfully panned during the 2006 “Beatle Facial Hair” panel discussion at Beatlefest, which I was honored to moderate). And then here’s dapper George Martin in a tasteful white sweater, sipping a cup of tea and feeling like a wild-eyed revolutionary for gently tossing a few strips of magnetic tape in the air. He probably was extra vigorous in the bedroom with Ms. Martin after he got home that evening; literally “feeling his oats.”

John invites us into a dank, stinky tent where elaborately-moustached gymnasts in eggshell tights tumble through flaming hoops and drugged horses dance creepily.

Richard Furnstein: "It's time for tea and meet the wife," indeed. Sure, George Martin felt schoolboy glee whenever he was able to lead Beatles recordings into new terrain. His heart would certainly race when they would scheme on ways to bend the strict rules of the Abbey Road headmaster. "George, we want this song to sound to like a calliope that we remember from our childhoods in 1947" or "I want to sound like the Dalai Lama, but underwater and backwards." All George Martin could do was sit back in his barrister executive chair (adjusted for minimum tilt, mind you) and stuff some Sir Pennington's Basingstoke Blend tobacco into a cherry-finished pipe. He'd take some pensive puffs on the pipe and look John and Paul in their spinning top eyes and say, "Gentlemen, this is what we'll do..." See, George Martin was there to find solutions for rich and curiously talented junkies. He was paid the big bucks to translate gobbledygook and gentle hallucinations into precise sound textures. He was unhampered by the auditory illusions and pesky dragon shadows that haunted his co-workers. George Martin was free to create and problem-solve while John and the boys were off debating the cosmic possibilities of the concept of "real fire." The Beatles wanted the impossible in short order, and the recording team was there to find a way to the golden princess. Speed up the tape. Flip over the tape. Cut up the tape. Are we there yet, sir?

Robert Bunter: Yes. That’s just how it was. I’d just like to add that the “LOVE” album mashup of this track with “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” works brilliantly. Plus, everything on that disc sounds so much better than the original albums, even the new re-mastered versions. I don’t know what Giles Martin (George’s son, possibly conceived on organ tape-throwing night, who knows?) did, but I like it. There is a lot of clarity, space, punch and transparency in these 21^st-centruy re-imaginings, and furthermore some of the merging and juxtapositions are simply exhilarating. When the “She’s So Heavy” riff comes in instead of the horse-waltz, my eyes fill with tears of excitement. I know this is an unpopular opinion in Beatle-land (see transcripts of Beatlefest 2010 “LOVE” panel discussion featuring the director of Cirque de Soleil, former Wings guitarist Denny Laine McCullough and Ringo Starr), but I think that album is an unambiguous triumph and a worthy addition to the canon.

Richard Furnstein: I couldn't agree more. How about the "Helter Skelter" ghost in that track or the punishing organ before the "I Want You" mash? The LOVE album is the most valuable addition to The Beatles catalog since Let It Be oozed out onto the sheets in May 1970 (the In Mono box is certainly close, but those releases already existed for the chosen Beatlemaniacs). It's exciting that mankind has Giles to carry the torch in the coming decades. It's better than having to rely on Geoff Emerick or his children. Giles clearly brought the innovations of Pro Tools to The Beatles, taking his dear old dad's haphazard cut and splice and innovations and translating them into the binary modern world. Mindful of the past, blazing into the future. Can you imagine the overactive/drug fueled imaginations of Lennon/McCartney in the modern age? The endless possibilities of the blank digital canvas would have been crippling to the wide eyed John and Paul. They had enough problems dealing with the unpredictable acid trips and the disembodied head of Pablo Fanque appearing in the rear view mirrors of their Bentley Continentals. What a scene!

When I'm 64

Robert Bunter: Oh, Paul. What are we going to do with you? Possessed of one of the most electrifying male voices in heavy rock history, James Paul McCartney also happened to be one of the most versatile and gifted songwriters of his era – equally capable of breathtaking anthems, bold experimentalism, heartrending ballads, and delicate acoustic meditations. And it mattered not to what he turned his hand: it was almost always anchored by an almost supernaturally catchy melody and performed with admirable virtuosity on a wide variety of instruments. He is the man who can do anything. So what does he do? He dons one of those round Styrofoam hats, grabs his dancing cane and plops out a seemingly endless series of rooty-toot soft shoe ditties “for the grannies to dig” as George so accurately put it. It’s like Albert Einstein took a break from his equations to write jokes on Bazooka Joe wrappers, or Michelangelo painting the side of a goddamn barn.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, Paul had a great howler on him. He could have built his entire career on his howl and a rebellious rock persona with a tight expiration date. Paul was more than a get rich quick scheme and a leather daddy hat. Sometimes wanted to sing about old people tending to their little potato patches, grandchildren that scoff at your Eddie Cochran imports, and finding your dear love attractive even though she's now an old lady and smells weird. "Hope I die before I get old," eh, Pete Townsend? No way, Paul's seen the impact of early death on his life (his dear mama and good friend Stu and maybe some other people) and he's celebrating the crazy journey of life. "You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead," he would later observe. Sounds nice. Put some tea on the kettle. You grandkids can use that dorm room hot pot that you plug in, but I'm doing this the old fashioned way. Take the long way 'round.

Robert Bunter: Well, it pains me to admit this, Richard, but you’re right. Paul’s right. You’ve actually taken this whole analysis to the next level. Everyone assumed John had the greater emotional maturity because he was willing to forcefully confront his bleakest demons. Likewise, we assumed Paul’s eager-to-please Everyperson charm was a mask behind which he hid his real feelings. The truth is, he was aware the whole time that the real cosmic truth of life lies in the simple, everyday world around us. Old people shuffling around in sleepgowns while they brew their tepid brown mugs of Earl Grey were once vital, young people, full of angst and complex thoughts. THEY NEED BEATLES MUSIC, TOO. Paul’s ultimate wisdom recognizes the endless circle of life and the inevitability of aging and loss in a way that John’s primal babyscream tantrums were unable to approach. As someone once said, “It’s like a dusting of opium on Auntie Minn’s biscuits.” Behind the Paul-mask, a showbiz entertainer. Yes. But, behind the entertainer mask: PAUL.

Richard Furnstein: A snake eating its own tale. Adding to the cycle of life cacophony is the fact that this is one of Paul's first songs. It's the sound of pure melody pouring out of a confused adolescent on the sitting room's upright piano. "Your Aunt Mim has stopped by for wafers and tea, Pauly. Play us that song about old people." And he did, because he gives the people what they want. I'll tell you what I want, though. Great recorded pop music with killer bass tones (CHECK) with a light touch of sentiment (OH YEAH). It's not just light story time, however. Paul offers the amazing lyrics: "Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear" and "Yours sincerely/wasting away." "When I'm 64" is the perfect balance to an album about the heavy progression of youth culture. Take all the drugs you want and give your love away now, kids. But keep in mind a lifetime of new drugs (grandchildren, post menopausal intercourse, nice old sweaters) awaits you. It's closer than you think...

Paul was more than a get rich quick scheme and a leather daddy hat.

Robert Bunter: Wow. We’re really getting down to it! The harsh yet comforting realities of life. Now for some random observations: if you listen really closely in headphones, you can hear some amazing, subtle reverb on Paul’s lead vocal, which seems totally dry at first listen. While we’re on the subject, Paul’s voice has been sped up to sound more youthful, and he adopts a ridiculous Scottish accent on the word “your” in the lyric “Grandchildren on your knee.” I’ll bet whoever was in charge of ringing the bell at the end of that bridge had a hard time not laughing. The Lennon/Harrison backup vocals add a distinctive flavor, like pepper (!). The harmonized clarinet line under the last verse (and under the phrase “go for a ride”) is really compelling when you focus on it. Lastly, Paul’s closing “Hooo!” as he trots offstage is totally corny.

Richard Furnstein: So we agree, this is one of the clear highlights of "Sgt. Pepper," right?

Robert Bunter: You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s is without a doubt the worst song on that album. I’m going to go even further: it’s terrible.

Richard Furnstein: I hope you enjoy the rest of your life. I hope you bounce grandchildren on your knee or whatever it is your people do. Best of luck to you. We can't grow old together as friends now.

Robert Bunter: Hoooo!

Original Beatles fan art by Jeff Love (http://jeffreyalanlove.blogspot.com/)

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)

Richard Furnstein: Loosen up your cravat. Hide your sousaphone. Get out of here, calliope! The Beatles are a rock band and the reprise of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" is the one pure rock and roll moment on this stuffy concept album. Again, I'm going to hector you to throw out the limp stereo version of this track; the mono recording offers some perfect Ringo boom thwacking, piercing guitar interplay, and exciting crowd noise swells. Then, as soon as you get into the groovy, the track is over, spilling into some more pretentious mopery. The boys from the cover of With The Beatles have grown weird mustaches and have fallen completely into the recesses of the dark room. Marijuana and uppers were fun, but now they are into being terrified by their own imagination. The reprise is a beautiful moment of light in the claustrophobic (albeit brilliant) Sgt. Pepper's universe. It's the furthest thing from a throwaway.

One of the true delights of the mono version is Paul's impassioned scatting to wrap the song. He's fighting against the velvet curtain that is quickly closing on Billy Shears and the gang. Paul has delivered some impassioned scatting in his days ("Powercut" and "Hey Jude" come to mind) and the reprise is one of his finest Little Richard freakout moments. But what exactly is he saying? Let Me Tell You About The Beatles isn't quite sure, but we've assembled some opinions from Robert Bunter, myself, and some of our faithful readers.

Josh Newman: I be wanna be closer/You and me babe/Play the goddamn music music whooooo/Take it to the back of the mountain

Rick Flom: I will run in a gondola gong!/Rudy me, babe!/All of off-roads Rudy Bay in mom an animal!/(whoo)/Yeah you room, no. Nomad.

Robert Bunter: Wennalaaannnanaaa-henna-henna-how-WOOOOOOO!-thank you, we loved Beatlemania.


Brian Langan: You know you got it right?/You and me babe!/What about your pretty face in the back?/ Thank you baby, baby!

Nick Krill: Good Godfrey Dangels.....if i had a nickle for every time Paul went into ape mode at the end of a Beatles song. i can just picture all the other dudes sitting there in the control room rolling their eyes thinking, "Here he goes again, how are we gonna convince him to bury this in the mix this time?"

Here goes: Oh, you don't want to be standing 'round?/Would you wanna be dead?/I will walk you through the valley of the dead!/Yeah, you know to stand by me.

Thomas Hughes: You're normally scared, right?/You're really dead?/I look out back for abandonment./Yeah, you guys are bums

Richard Furnstein: Some great interpretations. And some real fodder for the Paul Is Dead community. I stand by my take:

Are you going to watch me tear?/You heard what me said/I don't goddamn with any Budapestians/Thank you very much and good night

Fixing A Hole

Richard Furnstein: Much like "Penny Lane," "Fixing A Hole" is evidence that Paul McCartney could match John Lennon in abstract, emotional, and unconventional songwriting. It's unlike anything else in the Beatles catalog (or in the subsequent McCartney solo work). The introduction suggests a McCartney old time revue, but the song quickly kicks into an unusual meld of progressive rock and carnival music while maintaining a loose druggy vibe (especially at the "where it will go" ending). A lot of credit goes to George for a series of innovative lead guitar bits, a series of swoons and honks that dance with and around George Martin's buttoned down harpsichord.

Robert Bunter: To me, this is the most “Sgt. Pepper-ish” of the tracks on this album. As you said, it sounds simultaneously old-fashioned and like nothing else that ever happened. This is one of those songs that must have left first-time listeners totally baffled. You can picture them seated on paisley beanbag chairs, staring at the LP sleeve and trying to figure out what dear Paul is talking about. At first we seem to be dealing with grey, dull home repairs on a cloudy day … but what do holes in the roof and cracks in the door have to do with Paul’s mind? There’s clearly more than meets the eye here. Paul doesn’t usually write about himself, so rare occasions when he does assume exaggerated importance – yet Fixing A Hole seems to cloak everything in wordplay and unclear pronunciations: is his mind “wondering where it will go” (referring to the rain that gets in) or “wandering where it will go” (referring to his drug-induced freedom of thought)? Does he mean “When I’m wrong I’m right [correct]?” or “When I’m wrong / I’m right where I belong?” It’s all just so inscrutable.

Richard Furnstein: To me, Paul's goals are clear. Again, we're looking at the Beatles on the edge of an extended holiday of mind expansion. No more carting Vox AC-30s to the Alabamas of the world. No more fitting in Murray The K into their mornings. Just a long road ahead of recreational drug use, scratch and sniff stickers, jazz rock (if you want it), and beautiful girls with intellectual, Buddhist parents. "I'm making the time for a couple of things that weren't important yesterday." Paul has his priorities straight and is gently suggesting you do the same. Compare Paul hinting at the idyllic future of peace and love to George bemoaning the intellectually and spiritually lazy. Paul is suggesting that it's all out there. You may want to reconsider your plans to take over your dad's barbershop. Have you been to San Francisco, man? Try it out, if you want. The air is moist, the tunes are ragged, and the burritos are delicious.


Robert Bunter: To me, you’re reading too much into it. I don’t hear any exhortations for listeners to embrace a carefree lifestyle here, although that’s undoubtedly happening elsewhere in the 1967-68 catalogue. Basically, I just hear a foggy-minded lyricist (tired?) who’s expressing himself in fractured, obtuse metaphors. Nothing wrong with that! Personally, I love this track.

Richard Furnstein: Oh, so "I'm renovating my room in a colorful way, and when my mind is wandering there I will go" doesn't speak to a cultural and artistic revolution? Are you really that dense that you need your metaphors served with huge neon signs and academic validation of the Beatles significance from Bob Spitz?

Robert Bunter: Sometimes it's easier for me to understand your analysis of poetic and cultural meanings when you QUOTE THE LYRICS CORRECTLY. "Painting my room." It's not like we're talking about some dodgy Twickenham bootleg tracks here, it's Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Band, the most important Beatles album, with key tracks like "Lucy In The Diamond Sky," "Within You And Also Without You," and "It's Just A Day In The Life."

Um...Did you know it wasn’t recorded at Abbey Road, and that the lead vocal was recorded at the same time as the rhythm track? I know those facts from my own personal memory and archive of obscure trivia books and old magazine interviews, not because I just Wiki’d it. You’re right about George’s great guitar work. I’d also like to mention the great background vocals. It’s nice to listen to the whole track while paying special attention to the backups, they’re great. Wasn’t there a thing on YouTube recently when someone posted up each of the four separate tracks used on Sgt. Pepper? That might be something for you to find and then include a link to it on this writeup so the readers can hear what I’m talking about, Rich.

Richard Furnstein: No can do. I'm filling the cracks that ran through the door, buddy. And your crack ain't one of them.

With A Little Help From My Friends

Richard Furnstein: In a touching display, uber-humans John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote "With A Little Help From My Friends" to reflect on the role that friends play to support in times of weakness and doubt. Then, wisely, these infallible egomaniacs passed the song along to their tone deaf, large nosed, maligned drummer with the weak immune system. And, gosh, does Ringo deliver. It's by far his best vocal on a Beatles track; he fully conveys the simple beauty of the lyrics without adding too much weight to the song's more poetic moments ("What do you see when you turn out the lights? I can't tell you but I know that it's mine."). It all leads up to one of the most real and durable moments in the Beatles squishy psychedelic period.

Robert Bunter: Previous Ringo showcases fell into two categories: trifling goof-outs like "Yellow Submarine" and C&W showcases (the rumbling "I Wanna Be Your Man" is the exception that proves the rule, or something). "With A Little Help From My Friends" was the first time he graced a really substantial piece of material. In the context of the imaginary Sgt. Pepper live show, Ringo perfectly inhabits the role of the beloved, slightly hapless performer who gets trotted out for a happy tune after the theme song dies down. I wish that Sgt. Pepper's was real life and there was actually such a wonderful show and I was in the audience. I would drop my quarter-segment of Purple Flash about an hour before the curtain went up, so it would just be starting to kick in about halfway through the Sgt. Pepper theme. When I start to get sweaty and freaked out by my distorted perceptions, "With A Little Help From My Friends" will calm down my vibes and set me up perfectly for "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds". Most likely, I'd be staring with wide, dilated eyeballs at Paul McCartney and marveling at what an utterly terrific bass part he's playing here. When it gets to that great moment at the end when Ringo bellows "FRIENDS!" I'm sure that I would be totally enraptured.

Richard Furnstein: I think I would imagine that Paul's full bass guitar was actually played by the disembodied colored head of Oliver Hardy bouncing in time with the rhythm. In fact, this is my typical acid fantasy/nightmare when I stare into the crowd of faces on the album cover. Oh yeah, plus William S. Burroughs is melting and cackling that weird old man, junkie clogged throat cackle. But only in the right channel of my headphones. Does that make sense? I'm listening in mono, obviously.

Robert Bunter: I think this is up there with the all-time best Ringo moments. You've got the drum track for "Rain," the "This Boy" scene in the Hard Day's Night film, "I've got blisters on me fingers," and "With A Little Help From My Friends." It's just another case of the Beatles serving up heaping helpings of warm feelings and human smiles on a vinyl platter. I'll take seconds, please!

Richard Furnstein: What about the drum solo on "The End"?

Robert Bunter: Oh yeah, doy. "And the drum solo on 'The End.'"

Richard Furnstein: My favorite "With A Little Help" memory is the bit on the Lennon Anthology box where Sean Lennon is singing the bridge of this song. Yoko asks John the title of the song and John is caught off guard. He eventually identifies it as "With A Little Help From My Friends" from the biggest album of all time. It's a touching moment, but it also makes you feel bad that Ringo has to wheel out this song every single night of his All Starr Band tours while John immediately replaced it in his memory bank with "Bless You," "Meat City," and "I Found Out." Poor Ringo!

She's Leaving Home

Richard Furnstein: The lights go down on the rock and roll stage to reveal Paul and John, dramatically delivering another McCartney melodrama. The story in brief: chick who has taken her A-levels and advanced classical piano lessons leaves her boring English parents to meet some sleazy pot dealer at a Knight's Inn. They run off and he gives her the clap or babies with stupid names. That part isn't clear. The parents have to reflect on this coming of age story with passive aggression ("How could she do this to me?" You just answered your own question, mother).


Robert Bunter: The generation gap was never so poignantly evoked as it is here by young Paul. Only four years after basically doing everything they could to encourage the world's youth to assert their freedom and independence, the doe-eyed Pied Piper of Liverpool has second thoughts, or at least a vague pang of sympathy for the nightgowned matron weeping at the top of the stairs. This is the same McCartney who elbowed "'Til There Was You" onto With The Beatles so that the moms still had something nice to listen to while John was inciting a "You Really Got A Hold On Me"-fueled revolution.

The group offered something for everyone, and the proof is in this token gesture of understanding. Too little, too late, perhaps, but who among us cannot be moved to tears by LenMac's aching falsettos and clever "buy/bye-bye" wordplay? Human people are damned lucky to exist in a universe with something this beautiful.

Richard Furnstein: Paul is primarily the narrator in this play, while John is in the role of the parents. A stab in his black heart, as he pretends to know what it is like to have parents that give a shit about you. It's the ultimate orphan fantasy: to leave your parents and have them deal with the fallout.

Robert Bunter: Paul's impetuous decision to use Mike Leander for the string arrangement (I just pulled that out of my mind without looking it up) might have angered staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin, but it was the right move. These harps and fiddles bring the right touch of pathos to Paul's heartrending melody.

Why did the girl leave home? For "fun," which is "the one thing that money can't buy." What? That doesn't make any sense. What a selfish thing to do to her poor parents.

Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds

Robert Bunter: Little children love to listen to this delightful tale, inspired by a drawing by John's son Julian of his classmate Lucy O'Donnell, who diedva few years ago. Who among us hasn't fantasized about lazily drifting downstream in a boat while marvels unfold from the shore?

Richard Furnstein: This is the great song that helped usher in a million terrible songs. John pulls some jabberwocky out of his melting brain (tangerine skies! newspaper taxis!). It looks good on him, but doesn't quite sparkle with hack psychedelic songwriters. The chorus arrives just in time to beat the fog out of your brain.

Robert Bunter: When people (incorrectly) talk about Sgt. Pepper's as the peak Beatles masterpiece, it is songs like this they're thinking of. The melody is beautiful, and the lyrics whisk us off to a magical fairyland that somehow doesn't seem that far away. Paul did a nice job on the electric bass. If you don't take drugs, you can get the same effect by spinning around as fast as you can for a few minutes until you're dizzy and then sitting down.

Richard Furnstein: The acronym of the song's title is famously L.S.D. (less famously L.I.T.S.W.D., which isn't nearly as cool). John claimed it was an innocent mistake and that he was scanning other Beatles titles for clues, but didn't find any. You didn't look hard enough, John! What about "Not A Second Time" (N.A.S.T.) or "Roll Over Beethoven" (R.O.B.)? That's just on one album, imagine if I looked at the other albums! Lazy.

Within You, Without You

Robert Bunter: This is what we were all afraid of when George (the biggest asshole of the Beatles) started flirting with bogus Eastern musical trappings during the Revolver sessions. Oh yeah, great idea, creepy Harrison. Record a bloated five-minute side-opening drone that combines the murky, dreary excesses of Indian raga baloney with your own irritating tendency towards preachy self-righteousness. Brilliant. I can just smell the shit-flavored incense stinking up the stuffy room over-decorated with Persian rugs and Bombay knick-knacks at Kinfauns where you wrote this zingy-boingy sounding garbage. The only thing that salvages this non-song is the transcendently beautiful string work of Peter Beavan, Erich Gruenberg and Alan Leveday.

Richard Furnstein: To be fair, I think we were more afraid of "The Inner Light." George delivers the only real groovy on Sgt. Pepper's; an album overrun with glimpses of English suburbia--a clear retreat from the flirting with urban subcultures on Revolver. George doesn't give a shit about meter maids, boring housewives, or a man catching his morning bus. Big deal, says George, you smoked some ganja in the work bathroom, but can you see inside your own self righteous aura like I can? George opens the dorky Pepper's concept to the whole world. Paul is walking with a tea cup through his childhood memories, but George comes riding in on an elephant decked out in spring blossoms. He's not looking for some hip kids to get on his level, he's going to create a batch of degenerates that can see his indulgent inner visions. It's a few quick steps from Fabian to snorting opium in a park with a blonde girl with terrifying eyes. George gave everyone a road map that smelled a bit too much like dal makhani.

Robert Bunter: You hear that spooky raucous laughter they dubbed onto the end? That's the sound of relieved listeners who are about to be swept away by the unstoppable charm of "When I'm 64."

Richard Furnstein: Stop hiding yourself behind the wall of illusion. George tried to warn you, dip.

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Robert Bunter: Right from the beginning, with the crowd noise and scattered accordion notes, you can tell the Beatles are saying to you, "Hey, this time, we're going to try something really different." What a surprise when the next thing you hear is the worst guitar tone of all time, with that irritating trebly acid-rock vibrato in a feeble attempt to mimic the then-saleable "San Francisco sound" of groups like Jefferson Airplane and Col. Tucker's Medicinal Brew & Compound. Luckily this song redeems itself. Listen to those trombones! LOL!

Richard Furnstein: This song is a real trombonerfest. I guess this kicks off the concept-album-that-never-was (it loses momentum after track three). Absolute pathetic effort, guys. Still, this did confuse the hell out of me when I was a kid. The band was playing dress up on the cover, they were welcoming the Rolling Stones (three years too late), and making up daft characters that only existed in their acid-addled minds. I'm a kid, help me out here!

Robert Bunter: McCartney turns in his usual bravura performance on lead vocals, and proves the wisdom of the old "less is more" adage with his simple yet appropriate basswork. Not bad at all, but they're really just setting us up for the one-two punch of "With A Little Help From My Friends" and "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds," unquestionably the two finestsongs ever waxed by human men.

Richard Furnstein: Sick demented guitar lead at 1:54. It really pops on the mono version. Leave it in there said a blissed out Magic Alex!

Lovely Rita

Richard Furnstein: This one is special. The sun rises in Paul's heart and he wants to tell everyone about a beautiful parking authority girl. New love is in the air and Paul digs out some neat car metaphors (barely dusty from the previous year's Rubber Soul).

Robert Bunter: One of the worst ragtime piano solos the Beatles ever recorded. Their career was littered with them, unfortunately. Rocky Raccoon is the only other example.

Richard Furnstein: It's dire, sure, but let's focus on the JOY in this track. Lots of fun was had in the raucous vocal overdub session, including George wearing a flaming ashtray on his head, Ringo preparing cucumber sandwiches in the Abbey Road echo chamber, and John making racist jokes about the mentally challenged. The offensive humor is barely audible on the audio version (he was underwater).

Robert Bunter: Ha, is that a dog howling at the end?

Richard Furnstein: Possibly. The barnyard was getting ready for "Good Morning."