Real Love

Richard Furnstein: The second "new" Beatles song released along with the Anthology multimedia blitz in 1995, "Real Love" always seemed like the undercard to "Free As A Bird." "Real Love" had already been released as a skeletal guitar demo as part of the Imagine movie in 1988. I argue that the previously released demo was superior to the overcooked Threetles version (particularly with the film's aerial footage, as if John's ghost was gliding over his sprawling Tittenhurst Park estate). It retains some of the lyrical themes of the earlier version of the song as "Real Life" and includes a middle eight pilfered from "Isolation" from the Plastic Ono Band version. Was John even aware that he was ripping himself off when he recorded this demo? Or did he just toss off this gentle fragment of a song during a lull in the Mets game or as he was waiting for his poppy French bread to rise? I imagine he was aware of the connection to one of his great solo works, but didn't want to slow down his creative process by trying to work out new chords, melodies, and words. Lazy sod.

Robert Bunter: John was indeed a lazy man, but it's unfair to pass any judgement on posthumously-unearthed song fragments exploited by the surviving Beatles in order to have a fake "single" to release as a promo hype for their half-baked television mini-series. I'm sorry Richard but the whole thing reeks. Jeff Lynne's atrocious sub-Wilburys production is the audio equivalent of a puffy acid-washed denim jacket with a Beatles logo on it. Conceived in poor taste and out-of-date the moment it was released. Basically I just deny the existence of the Anthology videos and circa-'90s "Beatles songs." I can't think of any lower moment in the group's history, and yes I'm including Gone Troppo. I love John and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit here and complain about the texture of his mind-meat after the other three picked over the carcass for saleable scraps and pressed them into a half-baked platter. Ringo should be ashamed of himself. I'd expect this from the other two but not Ringo.

Richard Furnstein: Let's get real. The remaining Beatles had plenty of blood on their hands by the time of Anthology. Paul's war crimes in Give My Regards To Broad Street are well documented, including some brutal renditions of his most tender Beatles offerings. Ringo had been sucking out the sweet marrow from the Beatbones for 25 years. He scored early and often after the breakup, delivering sentimental favorites like the 1973 Ringo LP and the "Early 1970" b-side. At the time of Anthology, Ringo was leading his All Starr Band to tertiary markets to play Beatles favorites along with hits from his hired bandmates of soggy yokels. And dignified Ol' George? The man who couldn't wait to break free from the oppression of playing lead guitar in the greatest band of all time? He was the most shameless in mining the past to push singles for the second half of his solo career, including the notalgic "This Guitar (Can't Keep From Crying)," "When We Was Fab," and "All Those Years Ago." And, golly, Jeff Lynne built his entire career on Beatles grave robbing. Spring is a nice time to start at zero. To bring back moss, then flame. 

Where will we be in another twenty years, old friend? 

So, it was hardly a surprise that they would try to pull a stunt like the "Free As A Bird" and "Real Love" recordings. The surviving Beatles reasoned that John had "gone on holiday," leaving behind only a crumbling demo cassette tape with omnipresent humming and serious tempo issues. "Enjoy your vacation, John. We'll be here in Jeff Lynne's guest house trying to make this poorly recorded Double Fantasy outtake sound like a lost masterpiece from this hypothetical fantasy album that the world has been desperate to hear for 25 years. No pressure. I hope you have a cracker of a holiday. Yeah, right."

Robert Bunter: It's a nice tune though, if you put all that aside. Classic Lennon chord moves - unorthodox yet effortless and natural. Same with the lyrics. A little half-baked but he probably would have made some refinements if he'd lived to do so. Your vision of John tossing off the lo-fi demo between innings of a ballgame is a charming one. Considered in that context, "Real Love" sounds sweet. And who are we to put the other three down for what they did? Their friend died and they wanted to do something before the reaper took any more of them away. The Anthology debacle and "Threetles" single were the end result of a complicated process of personal and legal reconciliation, a tying up of ends that had been loosened and frayed since 1970. The presence of Jeff Lynne was a counter-balancing power move to buttress George against Paul's inevitable dominance. Ringo was just happy to be there. This song is a bruised artifact of a bunch of unglamorous realities, not an extension the sweet dream that was the Beatles original career. I'm sorry but these are the facts.


Richard Furnstein: I just watched the "Real Love" music video. At the time, the emotional pull was clearly the mash of Lennon archival footage in the clip. While the rest of the boys were goofing off in the studio (watch grumpy George ham it up!), Lennon was stuck in a loop of haunted memories from the sixties and seventies. A ghost silently walking through a meeting of old friends. However, the clip now highlights the sadness of the Threetles reunion. Look at those lovely 1995 portraits of Paul, George, and Ringo. They look so damned young. Paul is particularly youthful and charged; the Lovely Linda was still by his side. There was still endless honey in his throat and his hair was tousled and rich with life vitamins. The footage of a 1995 Ringo (in his uptight Los Angeles old rich guy look) playing the drums matches well with the classic studio footage clips in the video. He's still got it! Long-haired George is all smiles and trendy flannel. It's a delight to watch him squeeze out the playful guitar leads. The Beatles were still largely on this plane of existence; they just had to fly in John's ghostly vocal to complete the illusion. They were so close to being whole, to making us whole again. It's devastating to watch this. We've lost too much already. Where will we be in another twenty years, old friend?

Robert Bunter: Well of course we'll be sad because Paul and Ringo have died too, if we're even still alive by then. :‑(

Sie Liebt Dich

The Beatles recorded German language versions of two of their biggest early hits--"She Loves You" and "I Want To Hold Your Hand." It was at once a nice look back to their roots playing dingy rock and roll in Hamburg and a globe-dominating cash grab for German listeners. It's interesting that they didn't duplicate these efforts for larger international markets (Portuguese, Spanish, Mandarin). They would soon discover that their true language--perfect and exciting songs delivered by handsome ambassadors from heaven--was spoken everywhere. The world would later push back against the global revolution provided by these men. Think of Imelda Marcos and her henchmen aggressively revolting against innocent Ringo's disparaging comments about the Philippines or angry rednecks stomping on copies of Meet The Beatles after Lennon's "more popular than Jesus" remarks. 

As a musical offering, "Sie Liebt Dich" is a fascinating document of the band at the peak of their live powers. The Beatles recorded the song from scratch due to the fact that the "She Loves You" master tapes were destroyed after mix down. As a result, Beatles scholars can enthuse at the raw ride cymbal technique and George's razor sharp guitar sound. Our resident experts, Herr Bunter and Herr Furnstein, were appropriately inspired by the exotic tongues of this crucial oddity. 

Robert Bunter: Gibt es ein wort, das nicht mehr schlüssig als "perfekte" wenn es war ich würde es ihn zu beschreiben, beschreiben dieses lied. Es fühlt sich ein wenig heruntergekommen aus, für solche eine herrliche muster auf unsere übliche pompöse bachchans schwafelei - wie eine seltene schmetterling auf der wing tötet es sie heften sie bis zu ein stück sperrholz und einen blog schreiben. Aber ich habe hier einige sachen - schlagring trug die atemberaubende Insekt kurz mit zarten hohlen handflächen vor der freigabe noch einmal zu fliegen ganz einfach und kostenlos. 

Richard Furnstein: "Sie liebt Sie" ist die einfache ihre füße ins wasser moment für die Beatles. Sie wurden ins leben gerufen in dem ganzen dreck aus Liverpool zu liefern das dvangelium von L-O-V-E auf eine sich verändernde welt. Alle, die vor dem war aber "subtle energetic bullshit." Anfang wie "P.S.  I Love You" und "Love Me Do" deutete auf die größe dieser emotion und seine fähigkeit, grundlegend verändern sie ihr Leben. "Sie liebt Sie" ist ganz in der liebe revolution. Zum ersten mal die Beatles zu begreifen scheinen ihre großartigkeit sind sie mit einem grinsen als sie zu fuß über die kohlen wenn man die verängstigten bewohner in den augen. Sie würden wahrscheinlich auf dem wasser laufen wenn nur John würde nicht in die luft sprengen die bedeutung der bewegung weg aus der anteil.

Bewohnen den moment. BLICK. Dann, wenn es vorbei ist, spielen es wieder zurück. Nichts zu danken.

Das thema des songs deuten darauf hin, dass die Beatles kennen sie ihre befugnisse. Sie sind wahnsinnig schön charmanten-reichen und talentierte aber sie sind hier, um zu deinem Freund um zu dienen als matchmakers für die schwachen sterblichen, die leiden in der liebe das grausame spiel. Wo Lennon würde normalerweise auseinander die Frau (Frauen ist als primäre quelle für seine aufgabe aengste und unsicherheiten) behandelt er die weibliche figur in "Sie liebt Sie" mit mitgefühl ("Entschuldigen Sie!").  Sie ist aus ihrem kopf und sie hat darauf vertraut, daß die Band von Superhelden, ihrer liebe. Sie machen ihren job perfekt in "Sie liebt Sie" sagt ihr freund über die frau der liebe und ihn ermutigen, den weg des lichts und der freude. Es ist ein faszinierender weg, erzählen die geschichte der liebe in einer zwei minuten pop song alle die während der Beatles zu scheinen wie bescheidene weisen freunde, die Sie einladen möchten, in das also immer wieder erneut. 

Robert Bunter: Ich möchte, dass sie gehen, um zu hören, was dieser (mono, natürlich), so laut, wie man bekommen kann es gehen. Ich weiß nicht, wenn sie bei der arbeit sind. Wie sie hören, denken sie an die alten schwarz-weiß-videos von kinder schreien, so laut sie nur können und schaukelte hin und her, wie sie durch den heiligen geist besessen. Manchmal müssen wir schritt weg von der gigantischen tier vor uns und ganz einfach, "it ain't my elephant!" Werfen sie ihre gedanken zurück in eine zeit, wenn sie in der lage, das gefühl etwas so rein waren. Bewohnen den moment. BLICK. Dann, wenn es vorbei ist, spielen es wieder zurück. Nichts zu danken. Ich akzeptiere Ihre entschuldigung.

Richard Furnstein: Ja ja ja! Ja ja ja! Unendlichkeit...

Strawberry Fields Forever

Richard Furnstein: An absolute and perfect work, “Strawberry Fields Forever” is the The Beatles at their best. It represents the peak of their songwriting craft, George Martin’s production and arrangement work, incidental and exciting floating instrumentation, and the unlimited creativity of the psychedelic era. Hell, I’d contend that it is the greatest creative work of the 20th Century. I feel weird dumping our typical giddy hyperbole on this masterpiece. Indeed, “Strawberry Fields Forever” has little connection to its only true sonic or songwriting antecedents (“Tomorrow Never Knows” and “In My Life,” respectively) as Lennon doesn’t reference or build on these prior works. Rather, he devises an entirely new language to tell the story of his brain. “Strawberry Fields Forever” is a completely unique animal; emerging tattered and strange from the ornate gardens of the mind. The song isn’t in the key of A; rather, it’s in the key of Air—a menacing and fragrant gas which disables the feeble human synapses and filters and resets the landscape below.  

Robert Bunter: Yeah. It’s an altered mental state. The unfamiliar instruments (Mellotron and some kind of zingy Indian harp), the tapes played backwards or slowed down, the improbable yet beautiful chord changes, the trick ending – they not only illustrate the lyric’s precise yet vague portrait of confused uncertainty, they evoke and induce it. The listener can’t help but viscerally inhabit Lennon’s haunted mindspace. I don’t care how mentally together and emotionally secure you are, when you hear this song, you know what it feels like to be a rich, unhappy, drug-addled human genius full of pain from the past, fears for the future and disorientation in the present. Objectivity dissolves. Lennon was able to manufacture similarly hallucinogenic effects on his other two attempts at audio drugs (“I Am The Walrus” and the aforementioned “Tomorrow Never Knows”), but what elevates “Strawberry Fields Forever” is the beauty. It shines through the confusing textures like a warm smile inside of a nightmare.

Richard Furnstein: The nightmare was certainly displayed in the promotional video for "Strawberry Fields Forever." The clip displays the band's new look--a combination of Victorian and lurid clothing, deviant facial hair, and the vacant, sad stares of internal psychedelic explorations. After an unheralded six months of creative chrysalis, they have emerged as underfed butterflies. There was nowhere to go but up: miles from the dull, patchy grass, through the pink smog, and into the pulsing light. Surprisingly, Paul McCartney is the most frightening figure in the video. His once friendly doe-eyes are lifeless (perhaps literally) and full of sorrow. Cloaked in a garish mustard-colored coat, he hops along the ground backwards and jumps into an expired oak tree. George and John have aged decades during their break from the public eye. Their gaunt bodies are hidden by technicolor fashions. Ringo looks the most familiar, but he is clearly searching for comfort in this strange world. The clip enters night during the slow, cello-drenched "no one I think is in my tree' verse. The tree is festooned with nylon spider web emerging from a piano. Is the tree fake? Is there truly nothing to get hung about in this caustic landscape? Ringo smiles with glee as they douse the piano in cans of paint. We (the viewers) are similarly baptized in these colorful new structures. Surely, everything that came before had to be scrapped as useless. This was it.

Robert Bunter: It wasn't just the video. The lyrics themselves are addressed directly and personally from the John-figure to YOU, the listener ("Let me take you down"), just like "I'd love to turn you on," "Isn't he a bit like you and me?", "Can you hear me?", "There's nothing you can do that can't be done," "You can syndicate any boat you row" and so many others, all the way back to "Oh yeah I tell you something / I think you'll understand." This approach would come off has presumptuous (at least) in the hands of a lesser artist, but John and the Beatles were confidently aware that they occupied a special place in the consciousness of their listeners. So, after a gracefully genteel Mellotron prelude, the lyric begins with our old friend John disarmingly offering to let us join him on a trip to Strawberry Fields. Informed fans know that this was the name of an orphanage just around the corner from John's childhood home in the Liverpool suburbs, where a young Lennon was fond of listening to the sprightly tubas and cymbals of the Salvation Army Band each summer at the annual garden party. One can even imagine the domineering young lad rounding up his neighborhood chums on the way to the fair by saying something like "Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Field" in a cute little British accent. But obviously John is working on a different level. He informs us that "nothing is real" and, more alarmingly, "nothing to get hung about." This casual, ho-hum attitude towards the existential riddles with which John confronts us - "It doesn't matter much to me" - is almost as terrifying as the cellos, reverse-time drum loops and old-man moustaches. 

Richard Furnstein: I beg to differ. John was not entreating the listener to take a "trip" down to the halcyon Strawberry Field. Instead, he was warning the listener that he was about to tell them the sad story of his shattered childhood ("let me take you down"). It's significant that he set this alleged idealist piece of nostalgia in an orphanage as he was finally ready to tell the story of a mother who left him (and then suddenly died in a senseless accident as she decided she was finally ready to become a stable figure in his life) and an absentee seaman father. In "Strawberry Fields Forever," John envisions himself as a ward of the orphanage rather than merely a visitor to its lush gardens with his caretaker Aunt Mimi. John realizes that he is nothing more than an unwanted child, despite the best efforts of Aunt Mimi and Uncle George to create an illusion of stability and normalcy following his primal scream trauma (the loss of his parents). Indeed, "living is easy with eyes closed" suggests both John escape from his loss as he retreats to his rich and fractured imagination and Aunt Mimi's well-meaning illusion of a normal Liverpool family. Perhaps as an orphan, John could have realized a greater sense of connection to humanity ("no one I think is in my tree") in an age when traumatized children didn't receive psychiatric care. He was hiding his internal damage caused by the loss of his parents to the world rather than wearing his injuries proudly as a state-declared orphan. The casual mention of "nothing to get hung about" suggests that suicide is the only way to really stop the bleeding. John would be more emotionally direct in revealing his pain during his raw early solo years ("Mama don't go/Daddy come home" and "One thing you can't hide is when you're crippled inside"), as he finally received the therapy and time for self reflection that he desperately needed. However, the grace and poetry of the pain in "Strawberry Fields Forever" is somehow more startling than the grotesque exposure of those later lyrics.

Robert Bunter: The shattered childhood material is all there, but it’s subtextual – indicated only by the title/refrain’s mention of an orphanage and the track’s pairing with McCartney’s “Penny Lane” as an explicitly two-sided meditation on their shared Liverpool roots. The sad little chap, squinting nearsightedly at the merry Salvation Army band and stoic war orphans of early-‘50s England is now grown up. His already hyperactive mental/emotional/spiritual Self has been rocketed to the highest levels of wealth and artistic acclaim, then magnified and distorted through his copious use of advanced pure mind drugs of the highest pedigree. The Beatles just made the decision to stop touring and John, at loose ends, decides to accept a minor movie role and spend a few weeks filming in Spain. During the interminable waiting periods between takes, he gently strums an acoustic guitar and ponders the uncertain future of his career as a Beatle, his stultifying, dead-end suburban family life with Cynthia and Julian, and, yes, the bleak reality of his broken youth. The primal, crucial questions of his life loom inescapably as he struggles to decipher their answers through a haze of THC and boutique-quality lysergic acid. Am I a madman or a genius? What is real and what is illusion? How can I maintain my integrity and awareness in the face of so much pain? It is startling to hear the John-figure -- so accustomed to delivering pronouncements from on high, flashes of righteous anger or cutting wit -- lost in melancholy confusion. Who is this politely confused old man with the granny glasses and moustache, singing “I think I know, I mean, ah yes, but”? Surely not the same confident authority figure who had (quite recently) commanded us all to turn off our minds, listen to the color of our dreams and say the Word.

The beauty shines through the confusing textures like a warm smile inside of a nightmare.

Richard Furnstein: It's easy to imagine John languidly strumming this chord progression on the set of of How I Won The War. Literally and figuratively in a foxhole during the making of Richard Lester's dark comedy, Lennon was nervously awaiting the next development in his life. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was a bold and risky direction for the songwriter: he was exposing himself (emerging from the foxhole) to the rewards and risks of its creation. The glorious demos for "Strawberry Fields Forever" reveal the endless options of this strange composition. A Beatles fan could spend a decade in the stark and gentle productions of these early versions (combined and compiled nicely as part of the Beatles Anthology). Later in his life, Lennon claimed to be unhappy with odd patchwork of lushness and strangeness that was unleashed to the world like a psychedelic Frankenstein's Monster. You can almost understand his concerns because the final product--while pure brilliance--was so unusual and seemingly incongruent with his original vision of the song.

Robert Bunter: The story of how “Strawberry Fields Forever” was pieced together from wildly different takes in the studio is one of those Beatles stories that have been re-told in every book and documentary film, but I’ll briefly summarize it here. The song was first debuted to George Martin as a solo voice and acoustic guitar demo that George Martin later said was “utterly breathtaking” even in a completely unadorned state. Since it was the height of the studio experimentation phase, however, they clearly couldn’t let it go at that. John asked Martin to score the track for cellos and trumpets, and the resulting take was utterly striking and unique. John still wasn’t satisfied, however, and suggested they start from scratch with a more ponderous, heavy rock version that emphasized Ringo’s drums. This, too, was an artistic triumph. John still felt something was missing and asked Martin to join the two takes together. The staid, conservatory-trained producer nearly fell from his velvety-cushioned rotating studio chair with incredulity at Lennon’s inexhaustible naivete. “But John! They’re in completely different keys and tempos! What you’re asking is impossible!” But John just smiled and gave him “that look” and said, “Oh, I know you can do it, George” and floated away before his very eyes (actually, this was accomplished with a simple series of ropes and hidden pulleys arranged over the studio rafters by assistant Mal Evans and Ringo). Martin, suddenly alone in the cavernous studio space, racked his brain for several hours before he thought of the (totally obvious) idea to slow down the faster one a little bit and then speed up the slower one slightly. Miraculously, it worked – the keys and tempo matched perfectly. This is the reason John’s voice sounds more druggy and strange in the later verses. It may be difficult for a non-musician to understand just how startlingly unlikely it would be for that to work.

Richard Furnstein: John's voice also sounded more druggy because he was consuming Olympian doses of d-lysergic amid at the time. Martin's role was clearly to translate a madman's babbling for the Top 40; seducing happenstance with a surgeon's steady hand. Indeed, the studio trickery of the "Strawberry Fields Forever" master is more than mere psychedelic colouring (think of the BBC airwaves captured during the chaotic "I Am The Walrus" fade or the swarming clavioline that haunts "Baby, You're A Rich Man"). It is an essential element of Lennon's storytelling. He once implored us to "Listen to the colour of your dreams"--a nice enough sentiment--before taunting "It is not leaving." In other words, we have reached the point of no return. The dripping many-eyed iguanas and undulating mindwave trails are here to stay. Are you in or are out?  

Robert Bunter: I'm out. There's too much more to say, and we've already gone on too long. Maybe we'll do part two someday. Maybe. That would be a fine place to talk about the fake ending, the Mellotron, and the fact that this and "Penny Lane" were pulled from the Sgt. Pepper lineup as originally conceived. Let's get the hell out of here.  

Richard Furnstein: Fair enough, old pal. This song is a burrito-as-big-as-your-head. Sometimes it is alright to get your fill and walk away. We're all adults here.

Original Beatles fan art by Matthew Heisler

Matchbox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey Jude

Richard Furnstein: Step inside, old friend. Let me take your coat. It's been too long. Now, where were we we? Right, I was telling you about The Beatles. I figure it's time that I told you about "Hey Jude." Sure, you think you know all there is to know about "Hey Jude." You've heard that Paul wrote it to help Julian Lennon heal from his parents' divorce. You've looked deep into Paul's tender browns in their seminal Mark Frost performance. You know that it was the first single for the band's Apple Records business enterprise/tax shelter. You know that McCartney was initially accused of antisemitism because of the title. You've got it all figured out, right? Wrong. You are dead wrong, old friend.  

Robert Bunter: Wait. Hold your tongue, dear one. Richard is right. I want you to think about everything The Beatles accomplished and all the different things they’ve meant to the world. Bold fashion, freedom of thought, cheerful questioning of authority, experimental attitudes. From dear John we learned how to look within ourselves and behold the restless horse of spirit. Paul showed us the poignant comedy and tragedy of the everyday world and we mundane clods who inhabit it. Stern, frowning George warned us of the seductive danger of materialistic illusions and selfishness. Friendly, approachable Ringo taught us to laugh. Ha ha! They taught us that album sleeve art doesn’t have to be boring, that suits don’t need to have collars, that hit singles can be seven-plus minutes long. They showed us that four humble bean-and-chippers from a stinky Northern provincial fishing town could change the world in less than ten years … in less than ten minutes! But underneath all that the Beatles did and were and are is the simple, profound certainty that We can do it. With love and understanding and communication, all things are possible. This was the foundation of everything from “She Loves You” to “The End,” but this primal message found its expression most fully within “Hey Jude.”  

Richard Furnstein: Welcome to the heart of the matter, dear friends. Paul paints a delicate portrait of personal pain (a child realizing that his world is falling apart following the separation of his parents) and slowly draws back his soft and steady lens from a child's eyes to the universal consciousness of the late 1960s. While Paul tended to trade in the small, private emotions in rumpled bedroom scenes in songs such as "Eleanor Rigby" and "For No One," this time he tries to connect personal loss with greater social fears and--more importantly--social obligations. "Why don't you try healing the lonely people instead of just looking at them, you ape?" The fate of young Julian Lennon is not dependent on the disintegrating relationship of the needy and childlike Cynthia Lennon and the sociopath tendencies of John Lennon. Young Julian is all of us. He's nothing more than a symbol of the end of the nuclear family, changing gender roles, and a movement towards inward emotional reflection. I'm not suggesting that The Beatles created divorce or the crisis of the modern family; they simply advanced realization of the self. I'm sure Paul felt somewhat responsible for the fate of all humanity. To me, the lyric "Hey Jude, you'll do" sums up Paul's hope for this new form of humanity. The old world wasn't worth saving, but it deserved a requiem. "Hey Jude" is Paul telling the world that we can heal each other.

Robert Bunter: It really is. And not just telling us – showing. The musical construction of this song is deceptively simple; steady major chords and primitive melodic movement establish the mood of universality. Paul’s message was strong and vital enough to stand unadorned, without the embellishments of harmonic cleverness or studio trickery. His plaintive vocal is recorded dry and close, as are Ringo’s drums. The unobtrusive three-part backup “aaahs” and “wooahs” are low in the mix. The pacing is relaxed and unhurried; we are seated front and center in Paul’s charming, understated personal living room as he gently plays the piano. One by one, the other Beatles gracefully walk into the room and pick up acoustic guitars and tambourines, smiles of comradeship and togetherness warming their handsome faces. As each verse slowly unfolds, the emotional intensity knob (operated by a grinning George Martin from a hidden recording console in the other room) is gently but inexorably dialed to the right. The simple living room seems to expand in size as a crowd of friends and brothers we didn’t even know we had appears without fanfare. Look to your left – is that original Beatles bassist Stuart Sutcliffe? Didn’t he die from a brain hemorrhage? Who is that attractive, smiling woman behind John? That can’t be … it’s not his mother Julia, is it? No, that’s impossible. I can’t even see her anymore in the crowd. That dapper gentleman with the clipboard nodding his head. Brian Epstein? Impossible, but there he is! He has a percussion shaker in his other hand! I think Ringo just smiled at him! Does Ringo know where we are? How can the air be so fresh in here? I can see Bettina, the voluptuous barmaid from Hamburg, dancing with Nicky Iaccono, my friend from the first grade! It’s clear to me now. We are in Heaven, and we have just reached the three minutes and three seconds point of “Hey Jude.”  

Richard Furnstein: Indeed. The spirits are comfortable in "Hey Jude." The ghostly apparitions realize that there is a common portal in this sound; a way to travel through emotions and heal with the other lost souls. I'm sure if you keep searching you will find an aged, balding Julian standing next to his moon-faced childself. "Keep on fighting, little child. Brighter days are waiting." Do you think that this kind of spirit miracle is possible through "Get Together" by The Youngbloods or "For What It's Worth" by The Buffalo Springfield?

Does Ringo know where we are? How can the air be so fresh in here?

If the final volume swells and engineered cacophony of "A Day In The Life" was an audio interpretation of Hiroshima, "Hey Jude" was indeed the sounds of Heaven. The EMI engineers had orchestrated the sonic expansion of the track in part to facilitate the song's inclusion on 45 RPM single (interestingly, George's solo single "Isn't A Pity" clocks in at almost the same length and employs a similar shift in dynamics).The drones and human excitement that underpin the second movement don't represent tension or chaos (despite some similarities to the sonic rush of contemporary epic "Revolution 9"). Instead, it's the sound of lifetime speeding up; the ascent and descent of the sun is sound tracked by the voices of aging children and passing holiday glee. It's almost as if the music is assuring us that time heals everything. Sit still for seven minutes, child. I guarantee that this will heal you.
  
Robert Bunter: John used to say that on first hearing “Hey Jude” he assumed that lines like “Go out and get her” and “You’re waiting for someone to perform with” were hidden messages encouraging him to leave the Beatles and follow his heart towards Yoko and a solo career. Paul later insisted that it actually had more to do with his own feelings. Meanwhile, Julian’s over here with a tear on his face, like “I thought it was about comforting me in the wake of my parents’ divorce!” and we’re insisting that it was actually a message of togetherness to all of humanity. It was all of these things and more, and it’s perfect. I think it makes a lot of sense as a single (it was backed with the heavy rock version of John’s “Revolution”); “Hey Jude” would have overwhelmed any album tracklist, even the sprawling “White Album,” which would be the nearest potential LP candidate. Like “Penny Lane” b/w “Strawberry Fields” (originally intended for Sgt. Pepper), it was a perfectly realized work on its own. The other nice story that circulates about this song is the one about how Paul apologized when he first sang “The movement you need is on your shoulder” to John, assuring him that this was just a first-draft line that he would revise. As Paul tells it, John insisted it should stand and declared it the best lyric of the song. Paul says that even now, when he plays that song in concert and gets to that line, he tears up a little at the memory of his departed friend. So what you should do is go to the Paul McCartney concert like we did and pay extra attention to the Jumbotron at that exact moment to see if he was telling the truth.  

Richard Furnstein: Paul tells that story every single time he steadies himself at the piano for another bombastic "Hey Jude" performance. The Ghost of John Lennon has usually already been conjured during Paul's solo acoustic performance of the beautiful death lament "Here Today," so he's available for that magic moment. To be fair, Paul's shoulders are usually full of spirits at that point, including his beloved Linda Eastman, his little friend George Harrison, the troubled-yet-well-meaning Mal Evans, and whatever specters float around a sports arena's emotional connection to these songs. He's the keeper of souls. It must be exhausting.

The Inner Light

Ravi Shankar: April 7, 1920-December 11, 2012

Robert Bunter: After George went to India and became obsessed with Eastern music and spiritual thought, he found a few different ways to integrate these sounds and ideas into his work with the Beatles. Sometimes, as on “Norwegian Wood,” “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” and “Getting Better,” he would incorporate a subtle whiff of curry-flavored instrumental sounds into stellar Lennon/McCartney tracks. This was the most successful approach, in this listener’s opinion. The zangy, tangy, boingy sounds of sitars and sarods colored the canvas with shades of freaky novelty, as well as the solemn dignity of cultural traditions that are thousands of millions (?) of years old, without overwhelming the freshness and accessibility of the material. On other songs, George would use regular rock instrumentation (or at least regular for the Beatles – mellotrons, tape loops and session players) on songs that had an Indian influence in their songwriting aesthetic. I’m thinking of “Blue Jay Way,” “Long Long Long” and “It’s All Too Much” with their lengthy running times, static chord drones and non-Western melodic intervals. Great stuff, love it, yes please … though few would rank them among the group’s best. Finally, there are “Love You To,” “Within You Without You” and “The Inner Light,” where George dropped all the subtlety and went for full-tilt Indian ragatude. With the same clownish minstrel-show flatulence of Alvin Lee “singing the blues” or McCartney “getting into a bit of a reggae area” with “C-Moon,” George dons an imported peasant monk’s robe that probably cost a million pounds at Gloanburg’s Exotic Boutique on Carnaby Street, paints a dot on his head (not even correct, they actually do that in Indonesia, not India), and embarrasses himself and everyone else with a bunch of trite, fortune cookie platitudes and blatant cultural appropriation. The real guys study for thousands of years to write and play this music and this simple Liverpool bus-driver’s son thinks he can grasp the essence after a few sessions with Ravi in the Kinfauns drawing room? Get the hell out of here.

Richard Furnstein: "The Inner Light" is truly one of the most delightful and unexpected treasures in The Beatles catalog. Like finding a cardamom pod nestled in the pillowy saffron rice of your grandmother's kheer, George's solemn treatise provides some necessary mindthought to the light (Paul) and dark (John) forces of the world. Realizing his own limitations at the raga craft, George enlisted some of India's finest session musicians to lay down the track for "The Inner Light" along with much of the "world music" filler on the Wonderwall soundtrack. As a result, the familiar tones of John, Paul, George, and Ringo were replaced with the expert, rich flavors of new faces Aashish, Mahapurush, Hanuman, Hariprasad, and Rijram. Oh, how they probably laughed at George's novelty explorations of their music and culture. They probably plunked the elementary riff from "Norwegian Wood" every time he left the studio. Yet, they had a clear mission that day: to restore the Western man's spiritual balance and to illuminate the limitless possibilities of the human mind. The traditional Indian instruments (sarod, pakhavaj, shehani, bansuri, and harmonium) were merely a conduit to reach the inner peace suggested at George's optimistic prose.

Robert Bunter: Who would have thought that a Beatle could enter Nirvana? Let me tell you about Eastern thought. All the great texts, scriptures, sutras, koans, hymns and verses say the same thing, over and over again – the Ultimate Truth lies beyond mere words and rational thought, so you’re not going to find the answer in any text, scripture, sutra, koan, hymn or verse. I’ll tell you another place you’re not going to find it: on the flipside of “Lady Madonna” or, god help us, on the putrid monument to missed opportunity that is the 1980 Capitol “Rarities” compilation. This song exemplifies the phony, holier-than-thou ego-tripping that lay behind so much of the Me Generation’s pathetic spiritual dabbling. “Isn’t it great how I have transcended the Ego? If only you could be like ME and become enlightened. It’s so great to be egoless and serve the Lord. What a shame you have yet to reach MY level of mental development.” Lao Tze was the one who said, “He who knows does not say, and he who says does not know.” So why did he say it? If only there was a time machine and I could be present at that wonderful session. Surely Rijram and I would have shared a hearty chortle at the misguided floundering of “The Inner Light” because he would recognize that I, Robert Bunter, truly understand what the Indian mindspace is all about. Then we could have convinced them to scrap the whole session and put “What’s The New Mary Jane” on the “Lady Madonna” b-side. Let’s get OUT there and do something really experimental, Beatles. Outside the damn box. Yeah! Whooo-whee! SHAKE IT!

George dons an imported peasant monk’s robe that probably cost a million pounds at Gloanburg’s Exotic Boutique on Carnaby Street, paints a dot on his head, and embarrasses himself and everyone else with a bunch of trite, fortune cookie platitudes and blatant cultural appropriation.

Richard Furnstein: I'm confused. Are you using the time machine to stop by The White Album mixing sessions to grab the acetate for "What's The New Mary Jane" before you visit Rijram & Company at EMI Studios in Bombay? I hope you filled up the time machine with fuel, pal.

Surely you are right about the privileged escapism of George's initial hollow explorations into India's music, fashion, culture, and religion. George's attempts to fuse his love of Carl Perkins (the Brahma to a young George Harrison) with his new sensation were obviously clumsy (although I would argue that "Love You To" is a brilliant blend). I think he was successful in his overall goals. The "arrive without traveling" referenced in "The Inner Light" could have pointed to a progression to global concerns. This may be empty hope that The Beatles did more than just introduce nag champa, loose fitting white collarless shirts, and complicated sex positions to their gullible audience. George later proved himself to the doubting Rijrams of the world through the Bangladesh fundraiser, a lifelong friendship with his spirit guide Ravi Shankar, and his brilliant b-side for the Ronnie Spector/Phil Spector/George Harrison one off single "Try Some, Buy Some" b/w "Tandoori Chicken." I'm sure those jaded and flatulent session musicians later looked at George not as a cultural invader but as a bridge between their honored traditions and the gaudy and godless Western world. Indeed, the oft referenced Rijram Desad would later provide percussion and strings on George Harrison and Ravi Shankar's 1974 tour for the Dark Horse album. Can you imagine the wild times that this traveling circus had touring under-attended hockey stadiums throughout North America?

Robert Bunter: Yes, I can imagine it: backstage at Madison Square Garden, 1974. You can lightly hear the strains of Splinter’s debut album (produced by George and released on his then-new Dark Horse vanity label) over the PA system in the half-empty stadium; the confused fans are wondering why George’s new album doesn’t sound anywhere near this good. The dhorkti paste and naan crisps are starting to congeal on the hospitality tray as Rijram and the other Indian musicians attempt to meditate and practice their scales. They’re not having much luck, however, because here comes Billy Preston! He’s dressed outrageously in a sequined jumpsuit and his million-watt smile beams infectiously under his broad Afro-natural hairstyle. He’s dancing and clapping his hands in a merry dance but all of a sudden he slips on a plate of ghoon cubes and tumbles face-first into the lap of Ghovanda’s sari and the whole hospitality tray comes crashing down. George, who is pale, underweight and yellow with jaundice looks up from his diseased black Stratocaster and tries to lighten the mood with a pun (“I guess love means never having to save your sari”) but no one can hear him because his voice is utterly destroyed. No wonder the reviewers called this album and tour “Dark Hoarse.”

Richard Furnstein: Happier times, to be sure. Let's all send our love emotions out to the dear departed Ravi Shankar and his friends and family. He is now in a better place, visiting with all of his dear friends: George Harrison, John Lennon, Brian Epstein, Linda McCartney, Mal Evans, Klaus Vormann, Stuart Sutcliffe, Neil Aspinall, and, yes, even the exuberant Billy Preston. Remember this ancient mantra, friends:

If you believe in forever 
Then life is just a one-night stand 
If there's a rock and roll heaven 
Well you know they've got a hell of a band, band, band. 

Robert Bunter: What a beautiful vision. I'm sure they are all together in Heaven. Or else they all were reincarnated into snakes, common baboons, or other land beasts.

She's A Woman

Robert Bunter: This song stinks.

Richard Furnstein: Certainly. Can we leave it there? We can't? Alright, "She's A Woman" finds Paul once again favoring his tender throat over actual songwriting. Songs like "She's A Woman," "The Night Before," and "I'm Down" provided nice little rock showcases in the late period Beatles live shows, replacing a string of dusty Little Richard covers. These sloppy half songs find Paul making up the recipe as he goes along ("My love don't give me presents") and the resulting dishes are soggy and uninspired. They are lucky that Gordon Ramsey was either unborn or just a stupid child because he would probably raid their kitchen and throw out their moldy steamer trays of Little Richards and Larry Williams covers and make Ringo scrub the Hobart with his toothbrush.

Robert Bunter: Wait, what? “Soggy and uninspired?” Something must be wrong with your speakers, man. Knock the wax out of your ears. Maybe you’re not hearing the Beatles primal explorations of raw funk. Paul is at the top of his game. The vocal reeks of conviction, and the bassline struts and bobs and weaves through the iron-clanking rhythm guitar, percussion shaker, and funky little old-lady piano part like Deion Sanders charging up the court to sink a three-point shot in the paint at the bottom of the fourth quarter! Sure, it’s no “Yesterday” or side two of Abbey Road, but that wasn’t the necessary function here. This was a 1964 b-side, my friend. These four lads were rushing around the globe, inspiring hearts, minds and crotches … not necessarily in that order! Then they strode into the studio and cut a brainless, snappy track that would liven up any sock party or weenie roast when some shaggy youngster gives it a spin on the old brown GloanTone phonograph. Quit carping about soggy lyrics and bang your head to this electrifying early masterpiece!

Richard Furnstein: The Beatles For Sale/Help! period found The Beatles struggling to determine what kind of band they were. They needed to be prolific and road ready while slowly giving into the marijuana haze forming in their minds. The tracks from the "Fat Elvis" period can only really be grouped by their inconsistency and apparent resistance-to-growth after the fertile A Hard Day's Night album. Sure, you can point out the raw crunchy genius of John's guitar intro or George's playful lead rolling around like hyenas in post-kill euphoria. But really, that's like saying that a rusty, broken down car has "character." I'm not buying it, friend. This song is fatally flawed, even for a McCartney howler. I'm putting it at the bottom of a dank pile of shredders, including "Why Don't We Do It On The Road" and "Mumbo."

Let's sum up--this song stinks.

Robert Bunter: I’m not going to argue with you, man. Paul and the Beatles were capable of so much more. This is possibly the most awkward 12-bar-blues I’ve ever heard. “I know that she’s no peasant” is such a dopey lyric that it’s like an insult to the listener. Paul is laughing, secure in the knowledge that this track alone will earn enough future royalties to buy the rights to “Annie” and “A Chorus Line,” which in turn will make him another fortune. So why bother to waste the effort on lyrics? When you come right down to it, Beatles analysis is really just a matter of dollars and cents. Why waste the output effort resources when the time-adjusted anticipated returns are so massive? Considered in that light, even the feeblest Beatles efforts (“She’s A Woman,” “Matchbox”) start to seem like very generous gifts. They could have quit after the “Hard Day’s Night” film and still come out ahead. I, for one, am glad that they didn’t.

Richard Furnstein: We haven't even discussed the stupid guitar solo on this thing. George probably had the most difficulty during this transition period. His spurting, aggressive, and unfocused solo is the sound of puberty derailing his once promising mind. He'd experience a strong recovery in the coming fertile years ("Old Brown Shoe"), so let's not judge him too harshly for that that awful solo. At least he wasn't responsible for writing this jar of crap.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s pretty grim. So, let’s sum up – this song stinks. There were far greater achievements ahead for the Beatles, but back in 1964 nobody could be certain about that. I know of at least one fan who became very nervous after hearing this track for the first time. Would they be able to recover? Was the sweet promise of “If I Fell” and “It Won’t Be Long” illusory? Tomorrow never knew, but now it does. Stay tuned, young lad. I have a feeling it’s going to be a hell of a summer.

We Can Work It Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get Back

Robert Bunter: There’s something strange about this one. A galloping McCartney rocker with naughty lyrics and a title that referenced the new “back to basics” ethos the Beatles were trying to champion, “Get Back” nonetheless feels oddly flat and thin with a noodly guitar tone, roots-only bassline, dead-sounding drums and Billy Preston’s gently funking electric piano shuffling along in the background. Maybe it’s just something that got lost in the recording – if you were actually sitting there on the Apple rooftop watching them brace themselves against the London wind and shake their hair out of their eyes, it was electrifying. Reservations aside though, this is a great song. Along with “Dig A Pony” and “I’ve Got A Feeling” it exemplifies a certain mood or feeling that I like to call “The Let It Be Mood Or Feeling.” And Richard? I like it.  

Richard Furnstein: Paul populates this snaky roots rocker with the usual gang of misfits, transvestites, and cocaine-toothed miscreants. The same kind of slice of life sketches that defined his earlier non-love songs ("Eleanor Rigby," "Paperback Writer," "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da"), except "Get Back" features a distinctly American cast. Kids with opium eyes, perfect teeth, and shaggy coats covering their frail bodies. Ringo's gallop is the sound of manifest destiny; the iron horse making its way across the great rectangular states. It's a coast to coast love happening. Hitch a ride. Tucson may be out of your way, but you should stay awhile.  

Robert Bunter: Well that’s an attractive vision to be sure, but the Yankee freakshow lyrics were actually hasty revisions to the original version, which was a parody of the right wing anti-immigrant rants of British politician Enoch Powell. Paul was singing lyrics like, “Don’t dig no Pakistanis / taking all the people’s jobs.” It’s a good thing they changed it, although I personally would like to own some alternate-universe Beatle records where they used all the original lyric drafts. “Scrambled Eggs,” the original Tom Tancredo hate speech version of “Get Back,” “He Said He Said” … with the butcher sleeve as cover art and Pete Best on drums. I’m telling you, when it comes to thinking up nonexistent Beatles products I’d like to buy, I’ve got some solid ideas.  

Richard Furnstein: I was hoping to avoid the "Paki" angle, as it makes me uncomfortable (just imagine how George felt: he owned a sitar!). Paul and John had a habit of slipping into "native tongues" for comical effect ("C Moon," ""You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)," "Borrowed Time," "Rocky Raccoon," "Dark Room"). Perhaps this was part of their continued exploration outside of the Liverpool/American rock comfort zone--dip some "chips" into the global stew--but it sometimes feels at odds with the posthumous world peace packaging of The Beatles.

Honestly, I'd rather discuss the naked sound of this recording. It never quite "rocks," there is a hollow quality to the verse after the Billy Preston-fueled introduction. You can almost hear the rock escape into the London air of the rooftop performance. This recording sorely misses The Room (the real fifth Beatle), the best friend that Ringo's drums and Paul's melodic bass lines ever had. We're left with mid range confusion. I'm just going to say it: this is one of the few poorly produced Beatles recordings. No wonder the Ike and Tina and Shirley Scott and the Soul Saxes versions bury the original; you can't say that about many Beatles covers!  

Robert Bunter: You’re right. The low-gloss production style of “Let It Be” (I am resisting the temptation to call it “Get Back With Don’t Let Me Down and 14 Other Songs,” the title of the original, aborted release) adds a very nice feeling to tracks like “Two Of Us” and “Dig A Pony” but leaves “Get Back” feeling a little undernourished. OK, Richard, here it comes: which version do you consider definitive? The Glyn Johns single mix or the Phil Spector album cut?

I’ll tell you what I do buy, though – the warm, inviting funk of ace keyboard player Billy Preston.

Richard Furnstein: I'm going single mix if those are my only options. Paul's vocal has a light airy quality in the mono mix (check Mono Masters, Volume 2) that seems to settle nicely in the steady pulse of Ringo's westward locomotive. My true choice would be the Let It Be...Naked version, which seems to have a much improved mix (despite its unfortunate fade-out). Paul's vocal has a touch more urgency and there is a nice separation on the simple guitar tracks. It's still clearly a final sprint around the track for this aging horse, but it has a nice balance of live energy and late twenties restraint from our heroes.  

Robert Bunter: You are absolutely right. Pop quiz part two: what artist released the “Get Back” single on Apple Records on April 11, 1969? I’ll give you a hint – it wasn’t the Beatles.  

Richard Furnstein: Ha, I love it! The answer is clearly The Beatles With Billy Preston! That's a round one of Beatles trivia night question. A fun warm up! Do you buy John's allegation that Paul was directing some of the xenophobia of "Get Back" at Yoko? John says that Paul eyed up his wife every time he sang the "Get back to where you once belonged" line.  

Robert Bunter: I don’t know, man. John could be paranoid, but Paul could certainly be passive-aggressive. I’ll tell you what I do buy, though – the warm, inviting funk of ace keyboard player Billy Preston. I remember being transfixed by his interview segment in the wonderful documentary film “The Compleat Beatles” where he bashfully describes his role on this primal, crucial Beatles cut. He’s sitting there at the piano in a funky suit and he smiles winningly and says, “My solo on Get Back was … basically my creation! They just let me do whatever I wanted, and that made it nice.” I’d like to dedicate this post to the memory of William Campbell Preston and his warm, inviting funk.

Original Beatles fan art by Jeffrey Alan Love (http://www.jeffreyalanlove.com)

Free As A Bird

Richard Furnstein: Here's a fun one. Yoko Ono hands over some scratchy John Lennon cassette demos to Paul, George, Ringo, and Jeff Lynne for a Beatles "reunion" track. George Martin wasn't involved in the recording (he must have been too busy making the horrific In My Life album with Jim Carrey, Goldie Hawn, and the Scottish teacher from the final season of Head Of The Class). Fair enough, George Martin would have been confused by the mid-1990s computer programs required to synchronize Lennon's ghostly crackly demos with Tom Petty backing tracks. It's like a Hiroshima of Dad Rock, and I for one am all for it! The time was right for The Beatles to do something like this: the Anthology series was about to give the world a new case of Beatles fever; Oasis made people believe in Beatles haircuts again; compact discs were a hot business so Apple was set to make a ton of money; and George was not dead. Gimme!

Robert Bunter: George Martin wasn’t involved because Harrison didn’t want him to be involved. Paul would have preferred Martin but George wasn’t willing to go along with the whole charade unless the deck was stacked heavily in his Traveling Wilburys favor by the presence of Jeff Lynne. Paul was leery about this (too much slide guitar, crappy drum sound, Jeff's legendary halitosis) but willing to do whatever it took to accommodate his grouchy former bandmate, since it was important to Paul to reunite the Beatles over John’s dead body and make a bunch of money. Ringo’s over here wearing two different color jackets, looking at the other two like “What?” And that’s just the beginning of all the mind games, ego trips, blatant profit grabs and crass exploitation that combined to ignite the “Hiroshima” that this hideous mockery represents. Get the hell out of here with this unlistenable %&@*!

Richard Furnstein: You are right, they did fly too close to the sun with "Free As A Bird." The song presented a glimpse into an alternate universe where John never died. I imagine The Beatles did a lame surprise reunion set at Live Aid and then a Fall tour across America and Europe. They probably put out a reunion LP in the late 1980s that was comprised of some choice cuts from Cloud Nine and Flowers In The Dirt as well as some progressive Lennon material. "Free As A Bird" would have been from the second LP, which boasted Jeff Lynne production and a return to the songwriting focus of Abbey Road. Maybe they'd make a couple more albums before George was taken by cancer. They'd briefly consider bringing in Eric Clapton as lead guitarist, but Ringo would call the whole thing off. You know what? I would have embraced this phase.

Robert Bunter: Haunting, ghostly voices … alternate universes … flying too close to the sun. The Threetles managed to confront the spectre of their past, the eternal presence of the present and the unknowable void of the future with uncanny grace. Back in the fragrant ’60s, the Beatles somehow managed to conquer show business, art and human culture. Who would have thought that in the barren, arid ‘90s, they would conquer death itself with this striking evocation of a togetherness so powerful that not even Mark Chapman’s foul, cursed bullets could tear it apart? In a way, this is the perfect Beatles track – John’s greatest gift was always the flash of immediate inspiration, never mind the tedious follow-through. He left behind some unfinished yet promising ideas, and his wonderful buddies managed to create an utterly inspired work of art that stands with the highest achievements of their golden years. It’s like John is singing from beyond the grave about the beautiful freedom that awaits beyond this vale of tears. Meanwhile, the ones left behind (it’s Paul, George and Ringo, but really it represents all of humanity, as the best Beatlemusic always has) cast a tear-filled eye back to their common past and wonder if they really can live without each other. It is George’s voice (right before the heartbreaking guitar solo with Because-style backup vocals) which delivers the devastating insight that the heavenly freedom within which John now abides consists entirely of the same universal love force that the Beatles managed to create every time they recorded a new song. It is easy to imagine Lennon sitting on a cloud, looking down with a tender smile at his aging comrades in the studio while they recorded this. “Keep the fire, boys. The world still needs its light and warmth. Keep the fire.”

Ringo’s over here wearing two different color jackets, looking at George and Paul like “What?”

Richard Furnstein: Do you think Cloud John winked and gave a hearty ghostman laugh when he heard Paul nick his bridges from "Remember (Walking In The Sand)" by The Shangri-La's? It's the perfect circle of musical love. Paul conjuring the soft cornered memories of sitting with his teenaged best friend, listening to girl group singles. It's a little infusion of the "old sound," mindful of the past yet looking to the future. "Put on some old records, Johnny! Wait, you don't have one of those little doo-hickeys to make the big 45 hole work with this non-jukebox player? Let's just put on the radio. It's all coming back to me now."

Tell me your thoughts on the "Strawberry" style fake on this one, Robert.

Robert Bunter: I’ll tell you my thoughts, Richard. The fake ending was a cheap gimmick. You can imagine the four of them (Paul, George, Ringo and Jeff) sitting around the studio, chortling, in their weird suits: “So, we’re doing a ‘Beatles’ track … we’ve got to put on one of those fake endings, eh? Ha ha ho. Let’s put in a backwards track with a secret message! It wouldn’t be the Fabs without some gooey harmonies and a striking introduction. John always liked effects on his voice, this cheap cassette has a thin tone that would have appealed to him.” The startling innovations of the ‘60s have become tired cliches, delivered with a smarmy, nostalgic wink from the droopy eyes of three very rich men trying to milk a few more dollars from the wrinkled, weary udders of the Beatle cow. I guess I’d have to say I’m of two minds on this track.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, The Beatles took us to the glorious milking barn with the Anthology blitz. I'm writing this mere feet away from my collection of compact discs, book, and DVD set. I'm even considering ordering the Apple logo denim jacket from the Anthology 1 compact disc liner notes ($125.00 in 1995 dollars, plus sales tax and parcel and postage). Do you think that offer is still valid? Still, give me endless repackaging, re-releases, lost tracks, and digital remasters. I don't want to think of a world without new Beatles merchandise. At least "Free As A Bird" and the (frequently excellent) Anthology releases shifted some focus away from Beatles beach towels and other pointless cash-ins towards actual music. We were clearly being manipulated with "Free As A Bird" (or FAAB, as I like to call it), it's simultaneously a really emotionally blank and charged song. I'll take it, though. Thanks for thinking of my needs, Threetles.

Robert Bunter: The Apple denim jacket will be a key part of your Neil Aspinall Halloween costume this year. Of course, I’ll be Mal Evans (with horn-rimmed glasses and overcoat). We’re going to Gina and Mark’s again this year, right?

Richard Furnstein: I'll pick you up at eight.

I Want To Hold Your Hand

Richard Furnstein: I'm not even sure how I should analyze this song. It's a powerhouse tornado storm locomotive sent from heavenly angels to demolish the stale mediocrity of pre-Beatles rock and roll. It's not the greatest song that The Beatles wrote but it may be the greatest song ever written. No, that doesn't make sense. It doesn't matter. Put on the mono version (clearly) and spazz out. Good luck to your floorboards. Hide your valuables, because I may start stealing things.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that's some assault, pal! I think there's a real violence implied here: the insistent throb of the bass frequencies, the pounding drums, the handclaps like slaps in the face. These surging mopheads represented a threat to the conformist social order, not to mention YOU, the listener. If you're a boy person, you'd better watch out or get with the program because these fresh-fangled supermen are about to take all the girls. If you're a girl person, the raw sexual energy is so powerful that all you can do is rock back and forth in your seat and scream at the top of your lungs. Look at the old footage. Do those girls look happy to you? They have tears streaming down their faces and their eyes are wide with terror. They pull their hair and screech and probably they wet their pants. I don't envy the poor custodian who was in charge of seat wipe-downs in the upper decks of Shea Stadium in 1965, that's for sure. They were screaming in ecstasy, but it was ecstasy of a very edgy sort. They were driven straight out of their heads. Meanwhile, mom and dad are scared, but for different reasons. The last time Father saw anything like this was on the beachhead at Normandy. Mother sees something in Daughter's eyes that is chillingly familiar; remember, she was the one who had to do all the laundry. And young Robert was looking straight at the Sunday night Ed Sullivan TV set with glazed eyes, possibly the most terrified of all. Nothing will ever be the same now; these four lads are miles ahead of him in a race that he didn't even realize was being run. Lots of catching up to do, son. You might want to cancel baseball practice.

Richard Furnstein: All this from a song about HOLDING HANDS. It's an innocent act, like millions of color tinted photographs of little kids wearing oversized adult-styled clothes while holding hands. Aw, how cute. It's not cute, this is how trouble starts. A gentle touch of hands after you move closer to her after coming back to the couch after a "get psyched" trip to the bathroom. An exploratory fondle underneath the booth at a bar. This is how babies are made and diseases are spread and hearts are broken. The Rolling Stones would take it much further in mere months, but they were probably satanists and ate venereal diseases for breakfast. The Beatles were just well meaning boys who were a touch overdue at the barber's. Or were they? Man this song does it all!

I don't envy the poor custodian who was in charge of seat wipe-downs in the upper decks of Shea Stadium in 1965, that's for sure.

Robert Bunter: When things soften up during the middle eight ("And when I touch you I feel happy / inside"), it doesn't really soften up at all. It's an obscene mockery of a tender moment, like a guy whispering "Here, kitty kitty" to a frightened cat in a dark alley that he's about to bludgeon to death with a cat hammer. The confident singer has been screaming in your face about his wants and needs; then all of a sudden the bottom drops out and he's sweetly cooing for just a few seconds, until he can't contain himself any more and starts screaming "I CAN'T HIDE! I CAN'T HIDE!" in a moment of such primal intensity that it wouldn't be out of place on a Stooges or MC5 record. The vocal harmony is in fifths, with no major third to smooth out the sharpness. I'll say it again: this record takes us to unsettling places usually obscured from sight during sane, daylight hours. The Beatles? Innocent young boys looking for a snog on the naugahyde love seat? Richard, these are four violent monsters. John was like one of those Aztec chieftans you see in the crude paintings at Mexican restaurants, with an ornate Eagle beak mask attached to his head, leading a young virgin up the steps of a hideous temple to have her heart cut out to appease Xpoctxzl, the Mushroom God. Paul is a mother snake, eating her own writhing young, still clicking and shiny with the glistening secretions of snake birth. George is one of Alex's droogs from "Clockwork Orange," ripping the doors off suburban homes and violating their screeching inhabitants. And Ringo? He was like a cross between Pennywise the Clown, Alfred E. Newman performing impossible violations of physical laws on the cover of Mad Magazine and one of the unspeakable malevolent forces in H. P. Lovecraft stories.

Richard Furnstein: Okay, point taken. "I Want To Hold Your Hand" is like a prequel to one of The Beatles' greatest accomplishments: "She's Leaving Home." John and Paul had the nerve to rip apart our social structure with their incredible music and bold new approaches to hygiene and causal sex. The world had to change with them; it took real balls to write a tragic song about the changes that they forced on the globe. The past was boring and typically in black and white. Then, after the dust settled, the full prism of deviance, addiction, and rot was exposed. That old drunk in the park was no longer a touch of local color, he was now a shifty eyed speed freak who rubbed his sagging torso against the jungle gym. Your cousin decided that her dream to become a stenographer was boring and now lives with an old biker in a rat infested city. You don't even want to know how she makes money now. The Beatles surveyed the land and realized that they created this technicolor fallout: broken homes and an insurmountable generation gap. Then they wrote "She's Leaving Home" as an olive branch to the world. "Sorry I wanted to hold your comely daughter's hand, I didn't realize that it would destroy your narrow dreams."

Robert Bunter: That's exactly what happened. Did you ever notice that this song doesn't even seem to have distinct instruments? Sure, there's guitars and basses and drums and voices, but they all seem to blend together into one big rumble. The effect was heightened when the song came out in 1964, before the era of high fidelity audio reproduction systems. Back then, the only places to hear this song were on portable record players, AM radio, or the laughable speaker cone on your parents' TV when the Ed Sullivan show was on.

Richard Furnstein: "Ladies and gentlemen, The Four Sexual Aliens Who Will Reconfigure Our Minds And Create Uncomfortable Distance Between You And Your Children!" (APPLAUSE.)

Christmas Time (Is Here Again)

Richard Furnstein: The secret is O-U-T spells out: this is a top tier Christmas song of all time, up there with "Wonderful Christmastime," "Merry Christmas, Darling," and "Christmas Don't Be Late." Would you expect any less from The Beatles? They practically invented the modern Christmas with their regular winter album releases and continued new product for the holiday season. I sure hope the George Harrison Living In The Material World book is sitting under my tree this year! But yeah, this song includes the best elements of that magical period after Sgt Pepper's and before The White Album. Ringo's drums sound huge, the band seems to be having fun (even George!), the lyrics are a fun mess. I'm feeling the spirit, heavenly angels.

Robert Bunter: Me, too! The Beatles observed Christmas just about every year of their career, with the charming fan club flexidiscs as well as their wonderful Christmas albums, like "A Collection Of Beatle Oldies" and "1962-1966." I wouldn't expect any less from them - after all, Christmas represents an utterly primal, crucial aspect of human existence. Long before Christ, we have annually celebrated rebirth and renewal during the bleakest, coldest part of the year. Naturally, The Beatles, which represent the finest aspects of the spirit of the Universe, aren't going to play it cool like other famous beat groups and let the celebration pass unremarked. Lift up your hearts and give thanks and praise. Yeah yeah yeah!

Richard Furnstein: The Christmas singles are an interesting listen this time of year. John's usually impersonating mentally handicapped Scottish people. Paul genuinely hopes you have a wondrous day and all your wishes for the new year come true. Ringo is usually confused by something in the recording studio, but manages to say something witty. George surprisingly played the droll card. "Christmas Time (Is Here Again)" is the only real song on these discs, but what did you expect? They were busy writing like 35 great songs a year. They didn't have time to actually try to write carols in their downtime. There were drugs to take and islands to buy. Let's all give thanks for these supermen

Robert Bunter: There would be plenty of time for that when they got to the solo years. Let's consider that output. Lennon managed the best hook, I think, on "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)." It's kind of wonderful that he would even make an attempt. Paul's "Wonderful Christmastime" is catchy but it reminds me of stores. Stores like Bamberger's and the long-gone House of Bargains in Springfield. That is not a good association. C-minus. George whipped out his "Ding Dong Ding Dong" in 1974. It's pretty weak, frankly. The Roy Wood-esque arrangement is welcome, but he was capable of much more. Ringo was "wrong-o" when he allowed "I Wanna Be Santa Claus" to reach the marketplace. It's awfully repetitive and nobody's ever going to like it. 

I'm feeling the spirit, heavenly angels.

Richard Furnstein: I think you are wrong. I love those songs, except for Ringo's song because it is garbage. I can probably do without hearing "Happy Xmas" ever again. Melissa Ethridge and her Ovation 12-string may have ruined that song forever. "Wonderful Christmastime" and "Ding Dong" are personal favorites. Sometimes I want to be reminded of going to Amesway with my mother, man. And George had the nerve to write a New Year's song.

Robert Bunter: I'd like to say "Happy Christmas" to all the people, everywhere. I hope you find a copy of the 2009 remastered mono box under your tree, and that it's not counterfeit like THIS GUY'S was.

Richard Furnstein: Happy Christmas, everybody and I hope you're having a lovely time and all the best for the New Year, peace and prosperity and all that. And much love (kissing noises).