Sexy Sadie

Robert Bunter: The White Album is in large part about The Beatles themselves (as indicated by the record's actual title, which is The Beatles). Previous efforts certainly dealt with aspects of the group's real lives, leavened to a greater or lesser degree by poetic lyricism - "Taxman," "I'm Only Sleeping," "Fixing A Hole," even "Penny Lane" and "Strawberry Fields Forever." Still, the two LP's previous to this (Sgt. Pepper's and Magical Mystery Tour) both explored far-fetched alternate identities and messages of universal cosmic significance set in a colorful fantasy world populated by rocking-horse people and marshmallow pies. Now it's 1968 and all of a sudden we've got a stark view of these hairy men's real life backstage after the curtains fall. Plugged-in fans were startled to realize that these songs were about Paul's sheepdog, John's mom, Mia Farrow's sister, Eric Clapton's sweet tooth, and meanwhile Yoko's over here in the corner staring at me. The stripped-down production and minimalist greyscale cover text added to the dour mood. "Sexy Sadie," while graced with an utterly beguiling melody and emotionally affecting Lennon falsetto, remains at its core an airing of dirty, personal laundry.  

Richard Furnstein: Lennon is certainly more direct here than he was in the Technicolor swirl of the 1967 offerings. The stripped-down approach of the Esher Demos provided a dramatic shift from the Eggman filtration system of the psychedelic era. Break out the 120-grit and strip the careless swirls from your instruments. You were resplendent in that madcap frock, but the loose sand-colored hemp shirt and leather necklace suits you well in this new age. The change was welcomed by our beloved Walrus, as he produced his strongest and most unique batch of songs yet for The Beatles. You get the sense that John's songwriting explosion in Rishikesh was his attempt to refocus his creativity to become (if needed) a singular light for the group. All could drink and eat from his expanding mind and desperate claws. He found his muse in Yoko and finally had his fragile ego confirmed in a helicopter ride with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. To think, mankind was given the pure beauty of "Julia” (pay no mind to the creeping figures of Polythene Pam and Mr. Mustard) from fever dreams on a hard Indian cot. Take this brother, may it serve you well.  

 

Robert Bunter: That's a totally accurate description. I'm going to provide a bit of backstory at this point. The Beatles went off to India to study with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, a giggling guru preaching a Westernized, user-friendly form of spiritual meditation for dilettantes and businessmen looking for shortcuts. Typically, John was the most ardent convert of the four, sitting cross-legged in his little hut for hours a day in a fugue state which he later described as a mental breakdown. Of course, being John, that was just his idea of a great time - remember, he'd spent most of the previous two years paralyzed by nightmarish acid-fueled visions. But as hard as he fell for Maharishi's line, it was only a matter of time before the bloom was off the rose for John, who spent most of his too-short life flitting from one God-figure to another (Presley, McCartney, Dylan, Leary, Maharishi, Janov, Rubin), only to renounce them after they failed to deliver what he really needed, which was his parents' love (I left Ono off that list, because that's a more complicated deal). There is no fiercer critic than a former apostle stung by betrayal, and when John got word that Maharishi might not be as high-minded as his sermons had implied (despite vows of celibacy, he was apparently making it with various female students during private "advanced meditation sessions"), he decided to pack up his trunk and storm out. On the car ride back to the airport with George he began to compose a stinging song in his head called "Maharishi," which George persuaded him to re-title "Sexy Sadie."

 

Richard Furnstein: "Sexy Sadie" is a surprisingly tame lyrical put down from the prickly one in the Beatles. Consider the misogynistic and seething tone directed at lovers on Rubber Soul, the contempt directed at the idiotic common people of "Good Morning, Good Morning" nervously scattering the streets playing their miserable roles as workers, and the more pointed loathing featured in the darker rooms in the Imagine LP. It's clear in each of the songs that Lennon was filtering his own self-loathing into a sarcastic and often times cruel view of others. The transgressions of the Maharishi are dismissed as mere technicalities ("you broke the rules" and "how did you know?") and the punishment for his actions are vague and inconsequential ("you'll get yours yet"). It's a much softer view than the arson-as-revenge fantasy interpretation of "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)."

 

The "one sunny day the world was waiting for a lover" part is the only time that Lennon really reflects on his own insecurity and his never-ending search for a guru who can show him the light. This songwriting trick was first mined in Lennon’s first golden period, the soundtrack to A Hard Day’s Night. As you ably tracked, Lennon was an orphaned soul searching for parental approval. Lennon is uncharacteristically guarded when he reflects on his pull to the Maharishi and his teachings, summarizing the arrival of the guru into his shattered world as an inevitability. An upper on a sunny day, ensuring all were sufficiently turned on. Who could resist the pull of this force? Lennon suggests they were all playing fools. He clearly hasn't learned a damned thing. 

 

Robert Bunter: Well I'll tell you one thing he'd learned - how to use the basic building blocks of the primal/crucial 1950s rock and roll chord changes which had ignited his childhood to construct something menacing and strange enough to suit the dark and complex man he'd grown into by 1968. The most obvious example is the terrifying "Bang-bang, shoot-shoot" coda on "Happiness Is A Warm Gun," but harmonically, "Sexy Sadie" is cut from the same cloth as "I'm So Tired." In both cases the chord changes are close enough to evoke the familiar, comforting yearning of straight doo wop, but John adds interest and malice with descending chromatic movements. Have you ever listened to Ronettes 45s while under the influence of mind-altering drugs? Well, John probably did, and "Sexy Sadie" is probably what they sounded like. 

 

Richard Furnstein: It’s interesting that John seemed most comfortable when he could lean on this teddy boy origins and toss a few joker chords around a well-worn Spector skeleton. Maybe he wasn’t the towering genius with clouds in his eyes and a blueprint for eternal peace. Perhaps he was nothing more than a wiry fiend, knocking out piles of amazing songs in the lingering flatulence of his Rishikesh tent because he couldn’t just goof out on zonk pills and stare at a television. Of course, Beatles experts (like me!) will tell you he was somewhere between the two extremes. Those same experts will then play you a demo version of “Out The Blue” from the Mind Games album and tell you it’s a disgrace that the Lennon Trust hasn’t released every second of music that this Godhead has created. Seriously, that tune could be on the White Album, Bunter!

Robert Bunter: The only "Lennon Trust" that I recognize is my trust that you will inevitably bring the conversation back to that soggy Lennon solo offering. Of course it sounds like it could have been on the White Album, poor John was reworking the moves he stole from Donovan. I've had to listen to you babble about that sadsack blues sludge for decades now. Welcome back to the blog, dear readers. I'm already tired of talking to this guy. 

Honey Pie

Richard Furnstein: Oof. Get a load of this shiny turd bouncing around with a top hat and cane. How did Paul McCartney find the nerve to unleash this stench in the hallowed halls of Abbey Road? At best, he should have dropped this stinker in the comfort of his own home, never to be revealed to the world. Close the lid, flush, and walk away. "Honey Pie" should be nothing more than a scratchy demo created on his Brunnell tape deck: a holy grail for the many McCartney Cold Cuts devotees. As it stands, The Beatles should have provided a barf bag with The White Album instead of that collage poster. At least then unsuspecting rock and roll fans would have someplace to deposit their chunky mouth waste after hearing this awful song. I mean, COME ON.

Robert Bunter: Listen more deeply, friend. “Honey Pie” is indeed the third installment of what was to become a long line of McCartney’s affectionate tributes to the prewar music hall supper-club standards that he so admired (“When I’m 64,” “Your Mother Should Know,” and certainly many more in the solo years – a process that culminated in 2013’s geriatric Kisses On The Bottom standards album, a brilliant late-career masterpiece which will one day receive the same critical re-evaluation that belatedly dawned on McCartney II and Wild Life). You would be correct to turn up your nose at Paulie’s smirking, saccharine platter (or at least as correct as you are about anything else to do with McCartney, which is hardly at all). “Honey Pie” is elevated by its context. Alongside the sour, dark and frightening moods of much of the accompanying material, Paul’s soft-shoe shuffle seems less like a carefree romp through a rose-colored yesteryear and more like a grown man wearing a tiny little boy’s sailor suit and holding a balloon and lollipop on the outskirts of some nightmarish construction site where three other men are grimly setting about the business of tearing down your fondest illusions with poisonous tools and jagged vehicles. The man-child hugs his balloon tightly to his chest and closes his eyes. His face is covered with stubble and the sailor suit needs washing. He hums a happy little song to himself and tries to ignore the stench of death but it creeps in. Listen to that chord on the word “crazy.” This song is every bit as heavy as “Glass Onion” or “Revolution 9” for them that have ears to hear. Listen … listen.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, this malformed batch of rock candy makes some sense sitting next to the sleaze boogies of "Revolution 1" and "Savoy Truffle." We have George Martin to thank for his wise sequencing choices for The Beatles.* Indeed, The White Album may be his greatest track listing accomplishment.

Okay, let's find something to like about this track. George Martin's arrangement connects the rooty-tooty tin pan alley sound with black and white movie schmaltz. The clarinets make the song. Paul does a great Ringo impersonation with his delivery of the line "in the U.S.A." In fact, I always hope that it is Ringo, straw boater clutched to his chest as he passionately delivers that lyric. I was shocked to read that John even bothered to play anything on this cloud of granny flatulence, but there he is poking out that jolly guitar solo. It truly was a team effort to make something this rotten. The Beatles didn't polish the turd, they just wiped a tea towel over it and got human waste all over their hands. Wash up, boys.

Robert Bunter: If you’re willing to acknowledge that the song makes some sense in context, I’ll meet you halfway and admit that there are some cringe-worthy moments. Paul’s falsetto warbling of “oooh … hah … I like this kinda hot kinda music, hot kinda music, play it to me, play it to me honey with blues” is really goony, and you can just tell that he thinks he’s kidding around, but you know deep down that he meant it. Let’s face it, this kind of music is at the primal core of McCartney’s soul. When you hear Paul slip into that debonair crooner mode (from “Besame Mucho” on the Beatles’ earliest crude EMI demo acetates to the aforementioned recent Kisses On The Bottom digital download disc file), you’re really listening to the deepest soul of the man. He can’t help it, and it’s beautiful.

Richard Furnstein: It's true. The gentle shuffle and swing of the music hall was in young James Paul McCartney's bloodstream. His father Jim was a trumpet player and pianist in Jim Mac's Jazz Band in the careless twenties. I've always heard Paul's granny music tendencies as his attempt to connect with the frivolous age of his parents, before the gloom and urban decay of war took over sooty England. In a way, it's easy to hear these songs as Paul's primal scream: the harrowing echoes of childhood. The lost promise of the youthful smile in photos of a mother that died when was 14 years old. While John drained his gleets all over the studio floor during his punishing exorcisms on Plastic Ono Band and the "Cold Turkey" single, Paul chose to channel his loss and anger into levity, thrown voices, and bubbling trumpet lines. "My Mummy's Dead" b/w "Daddy Won't Buy Me A Bow Wow." I guess we all have to face our demons on our own terms, Robert.

You’re really listening to the deepest soul of the man. He can’t help it, and it’s beautiful.

Robert Bunter: I really agree with everything you’ve written there, Richard. The reason Paul’s granny material is so vexing is that he was quite evidently capable of crafting extraordinary work in any style of music he put his hand to. C’mon, man! How about another “Penny Lane,” another “Helter Skelter,” another “Blackbird,” another “Maybe I’m Amazed”? Quit ladling out tepid bowls of Uncle Swabson’s Olde-Time Buttercreamed Oaty Meal when we know you’ve got a perfectly divine spiced crown roast of premium-grade top loin there in the kitchen, just waiting to be served! Well, I’m afraid that’s not always how it works. Stop being a pig. He’s provided you with plenty of nourishment over the years, thank you very much. I’d like you to take a little mind-journey with me here, OK? You’re a kid and you’re Paul McCartney’s nephew. He gives you wonderful presents and you love him very much but you don’t get to see him often because he’s still quite busy. A visit with “Uncle Jimmy” (as you call him) is a rare treat. But then there was this one time when you got to spend a whole weekend there. Mum and Pap dropped you off at his Scottish farmhouse for some quality time and it just so happened that his then-wife Heather Mills was away that weekend and none of the other family were visiting. Just you and him. He is charming, doting and attentive. Fixing breakfast, taking a walk by the lamb pasture, watching a little TV. Then, in the cool September evening as the sun is starting to set, he sits down at the piano in the parlour. He’s going to sing you a few songs! Even as a young child, you’re aware that a private musical performance by Paul McCartney is a rare treasure. So what’s he going to play? “C Moon”? The middle part of “A Day In The Life?” “Kreen-Akore?” Get the hell out of here! He’s going to play the simple, beautiful music that lies closest to his heart. “Stardust.” “It’s A Sin To Tell A Lie.” “September In The Rain.” “My Funny Valentine.” He’s going to look you right in the eyes and smile. The two of you have never been closer. With songs like “Honey Pie,” we all have a chance to be that nephew. His name is Bobby. Little Bobby Bunter McCartney. If you want to turn your nose up at that and quarrel about tracklists and guitar solos, that’s fine. Me and Uncle Jimmy …. uh, I mean … hypothetical nephew Bobby McCartney and James Paul McCartney … will be right here in the front parlour. We’re doing just fine.


*Two crucial clunkers in Martin's album sequencing for the band are the brutal side closing covers on Beatles For Sale ("Kansas City/Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey" and "Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby"). However, this was probably due to lack of quality material for the album.

Savoy Truffle

Richard Furnstein: "Savoy Truffle" was George Harrison's attempt to create a world of psychedelic colors. A fantasy land intended to rival the dripping funscapes established in "Strawberry Fields Forever," "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds," and "Glass Onion." Yet, where John Lennon's landscapes were created out of manic fury, terrifying childhood nostalgia, and a steady hand for Jabberwocky, Harrison's fantastical lyrics were a droll recitation of weird British candy bars. It's a long way down from the startling lysergic visions of tangerine trees in marmalade skies to the turd-shaped creme tangerine and coconut fudge bars in the window of an old time sweets shop. George never really advances the metaphor or changes the lyrical focus of the song (unlike the preachy undertones of the contemporaneous "Piggies"). As a result, we're left alone in the sweets shop as George continues to pile the disgusting fudge bricks on top of the shop's rusty old scale. Quantity over quality. "Let's be freaks and sing the candy catalog over some scuzz rock." Thanks, but no thanks.

Robert Bunter: Naw. It’s not on that plane! You’re looking at a tuxedo and complaining because it’s not a linen jumpsuit. The lyrics of “Savoy Truffle” don’t seem to amount to much because they don’t need to. Sometimes a few funny words and long vowel syllables are all you need, especially when they’re chosen to adorn a steaming, sizzling pile of greasy funk that sticks out from the rest of the decidedly un-funky “White Album” like a sore thumb. The deeper meanings are there if you want them – George’s bhagavad-inspired assertion that momentary pleasures of the flesh (maya, chocolate lumps) will surely bring toothaches and the inevitable dentist’s drill of karma. But that’s really beside the point. This track is all about the funky clavichord, brisk snare rolls and sassy horn charts. The whole thing simmers and bubbles like a stockpot full of pungent soup. I, for one, am eager to dip in and ladle myself out a hot meal.

Eric Clapton eventually reveals his true self to be nothing more than impatient desire as he opens the wrapper (Pattie Boyd's multi-colored micro mini skirt) and takes a bite of coconut candy bar covered in buttery white chocolate with 2 large almonds on top.

Richard Furnstein: Your point about the karmic implications of the momentary sweet desires aligns nicely with the true subject of the song: Eric Clapton. George wrote the song about his old pal's sweet tooth, but it's easy to connect the refrain to Eric's future betrayal of The Beatle in his successful pursuit of Mrs. Harrison. The "Savoy Truffle" is presented as the original sin--a tempting indulgence which carries significant risk. George seems all too sure that his friend will ultimately reach for the ultimate sweet treat. He is after all an out-of-control junkie with crooked teeth. All is revealed in the sturdy bridge as "what is sweet now turns so sour." Eric eventually reveals his true self to be nothing more than impatient desire as he opens the wrapper (Pattie Boyd's multi-colored micro mini skirt) and takes a bite of coconut candy bar covered in buttery white chocolate with 2 large almonds on top.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, the relationships were pretty tangled and complex. George clearly looked up to Clapton as a virtuoso “real” musician and treated him with respect; he was drafted into the “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” sessions as a premier figure on the London blues scene, a “heavy.” At the same time, Eric “God” Clapton was naturally star-struck to be in the presence of a Beatle, even one as phlegmy and sanctimonious as George “Dark Horse” Harrison. Affairs were further complicated (as you’ve noted) by Clapton’s tumescent desire to bed and wed George’s toothsome wife, Patti “Layla” Harrison. The nicknames flowed as freely as the wine and joss sticks in the elite echelons of the 1968 pop scene – even also-rans like Mary "The Cushion" Hopkin and Jackie "Burgertime" Lomax got into the act.  

Richard Furnstein: I'm glad you mentioned Jackie Lomax. "Savoy Truffle" is clearly related "Sour Milk Sea," Harrison's White Album-era composition which was later recorded by throaty bluesman Lomax with assistance from Harrison, Clapton, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, and famed sideman Nicky Hopkins. I'd argue that "Sour Milk Sea" is superior song to the leaden "Savoy Truffle," although much of that can be credited to Lomax's hair on fire delivery.

Robert, what's your take on the dismissive "Ob-La-Di" reference in "Savoy Truffle"?  

Robert Bunter: It’s bad, man. Real bad. George was starting to hate Paul’s smiley-face songwriting persona and his growing assertiveness meant that he was willing to insert a dig at “Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da” right there on the same album. He even contemptuously gets the title wrong (“We all know Ob-La-Di Bla-Da”) because he can’t be bothered. It’s not the only self-referential moment on the White Album, either. John places his own turd into the punchbowl with “Glass Onion.” Earlier manifestations of the Beatles’ psychedelic period playfully altered the group’s image – the brightly-costumed fairground musicians of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band or the wizards and walruses of Magical Mystery Tour. By the White Album, however, the self-awareness just hangs in the atmosphere like a sour cloud. George and John take potshots at Paul in their sardonic lyrics while Ringo’s over here cowering in the corner with his can of goddamn beans. And where is Paul? He’s with George Martin in a completely different part of the studio (THEY WERE RECORDING IN SEPARATE STUDIOS BY THIS TIME) supervising the sublime French horn overdubs on “Mother Nature’s Son,” one of the finest moments in human history. The whole thing is disgusting.

Blackbird

Richard Furnstein: It's a quiet night in for Paul. He pads around his London flat in his woven khussas. Time for a little tea and breeze. A lonely bird called from beyond the black, sharp images dancing across his window glass. "You and me, pal. You and me." Then he grabbed his standard D-28 (strung backwards, of course), sat on a helpful beanbag chair, and joined the lonely bird in a song. Whip-poor-will and wait. Keep waiting. The night will burn off eventually.

Robert Bunter: To me, this is the most beautiful song Paul ever wrote. I think it's better than "Yesterday," "You Won't See Me" and "You Never Give Me Your Money," or "the three second-most-beautiful McCartney songs that all start with 'Y'" as I call them. I will admit that I was surprised, after many years of listening to this song, to hear Paul explain that it was written as an oblique statement of support for the civil rights movement. For me, it was always a song about his own sublimated yearning for independence from the stifling confines of the Beatles' insectoid chrysalis to the free-flying avian future of mature development that was Wings. But the subtexts are really beside the point. It's a beautiful melody and lyric. A baby could understand it. Purity. Simplicity. Unadorned acoustic fingerpicking, no effects on the vocal, don't be afraid to let the mic pick up the sound of your foot tapping on the floor. It's a natural affair. There's a goddamn bird with a broken wing hopping around on sad little bird feet and this earnest, beautiful man is encouraging it to muster its resources and take flight. Are you telling me you wish the other Beatles had been in the studio for this session? You want 1968-era Ringo tom-tom plodding and Lennon's tortured falsetto? Maybe we'll have George add some of the beefy horn sections he was experimenting with on "Savoy Truffle." Yeah, that would be a GREAT idea. Get the hell out of here.

"Blackbird" was always about Paul's sublimated yearning for independence from the stifling confines of the Beatles' insectoid chrysalis to the free-flying avian future of mature development that was Wings.

Richard Furnstein: Hey, great point. Much as been made of the solo recordings aspect of The White Album, but I can only think of one of the songs that would have benefited from the full band arrangement ("Why Don't We Do It In The Road"). The sparse and solo-focused songs are some of the most effective on the album (think "Blackbird," "Julia," and "Martha My Dear"). There is a confidence in the individual pieces of The White Album; it's as if The Beatles were asserting that they were more than the raucous backbeat or the distinctive harmonies. They were producing pure musical love. Is that Clapton on guitar? Is Yoko singing backup? Is John making the pig noises? It doesn't matter, simp. Focus on Paul's voice here--a single beam of light in a pristine clearing. Nothing else matters.

Robert Bunter: Much has been made (by me, here) about the way Paul’s tendency towards crowd-pleasing, eager-to-delight showmanship can serve to obscure the primal essence of the man. I would submit that “Blackbird” actually exemplifies that phenomenon, even though it seems like an exception to the rule. The sparse production and intimate setting seem to be at pains to cue the listener that, hey, this is the real McCartney, caught in a personal moment, behind the curtains – as you evoked so beautifully in your opening statement about the pajamas and the beanbag chair.

Richard Furnstein: Thank you, kind friend.

Robert Bunter: As we listen, our mind’s eye conjures these fantasies. A little too readily, if you ask me. Paul paints a self-portrait of a wistful dreamer cradling his backwards-strung guitar and whistling a little tune for his own personal amusement, and maybe that of the injured crow hobbling around his windowsill. Finally. The man behind the eyebrows. I love you, Paul. Yeah, well, keep your powder dry, Kemosabe. The whole thing is just as much of a contrivance as “Your Mother Should Know” or “She’s Leaving Home.” I’m sorry, but there is only one Paul song that allows us to glimpse the reality of its composer, and that song is “Fixing A Hole.” There’s a lot to unpack there, but we don’t have time right now. We’re talking about “Blackbird.”

Richard Furnstein: Thanks for the reminder. "Blackbird" is the first in Paul's esteemed bird series. The later installments ("Bluebird" from Band On The Run, "Single Pigeon" from Red Rose Speedway, and "Jenny Wren" from Chaos And Creation In The Backyard) share the fragile beauty and reflective tone of "Blackbird" but never reach its wondrous heights. I could write pages about Paul's oaky voice and his absolutely perfect guitar part (still the only part to play when testing out a acoustic). I'll tell you what absolutely slays me, though: the gentle tapping on the body of the guitar. The organic rhythm box would also help define "I Will," but it's almost more effective here. Again, we're down to just Paul. A man with a guitar in a room surrounded by lovely Disney birds. The pulse you hear isn't brutish Ringo and his unforgiving stickplay; it's simply Paul tapping the box. Flesh hitting wood. All come free.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s a light moment on a record that doesn’t have too many of them. Only McCartney’s very similar “Mother Nature’s Son” and Lennon’s pastoral “Dear Prudence” are in the same room of the crazy, endless house that is the White Album (Lennon’s “Child Of Nature,” an outtake that was cut from the White Album lineup and later repurposed as “Jealous Guy” on Imagine, was cut from the same lovely cloth). Otherwise it’s just a nightmarish collage of tiger hunts, oedipal love ballads, cannibalistic swine, unabashed monkeys, terrifying playground equipment, wounded bloody raccoon cowboys, soiled sheepdogs rolling around in their own filth, hairless car crash victims, insomnia, guru betrayal, lizards crawling on windowpanes, violent revolution and toothaches.

Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey

Richard Furnstein: The winter's almost over, dear friend. Come inside, we've been expecting you. A wild man with fangs and lady hair will take your coat at the door. Don't mind those STAB-STAB-STAB guitars, things will settle into a fun groove. There are plenty of girls here. Have a look around. Hot with ten T's, pal. "HOTTTTTTTTTT." Look at them. They are smoking cigarettes and are dressed like beautiful women from another age. Skin and teeth and caring eyes. Sensitive pulsing. Comeoncomeoncomeon, let's keep moving. What's that sound? Is that a cowbell? Christ, that's a cowbell! Anything goes!

Robert Bunter: We have all been invited to John Lennon’s terrifying 1968 party. His childhood was difficult, his early adulthood was consumed with inhuman fame and creative development, and he’s spent the past year or two in a weird haze of drugs and mantra chanting. But don’t worry, he’s met a strange Japanese artist and now we can all join in the celebration! “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except For Me And My Monkey”’s stabbing guitars, cowbell clanks, exuberant lyrics (and the bevy of attractive ladies which you seem to have conjured up in your overheated mind-dreams) seem to offer the promise of a raucous party, but as usual with John Lennon, everything is terrifying. What a celebration! Some freak is screaming a bunch of incomprehensible riddles in my face and yelling about monkeys … the imaginary attractive teeth ladies look like they don’t want to have anything to do with me … the punch has been laced with Purple Segments and the deli meats on the hospitality tray have long since spoiled. I don’t want to spoil the party, but please excuse me while I curl into the fetal position and silently cry while I wait for this thing to be over. The drumbeat is damaging my mind.

Richard Furnstein: The drumbeat is damaging the drums! It's a physical affair. I'm sure lowly assistant Mal Evans was calling the local Ludwig rep to get a line on some replacement heads after this session. It's even more devastating in the sequence of The White Album. Paul just delivered the soothing cradle cap massage that is "Mother Nature's Son," and then John creeps into the room like a crocodile arriving late to a picnic. All purpose and desire.

The monkey of the song is typically Lennon symbolism: the slow-eyed and mysterious creature hiding behind his flaking facade. This inner-self provides the wisdom to adjust to the challenges of a world full of evil. The symbol of the  monkey is not quite as simple as a reference to Lennon's junior varsity heroin addiction or even the rhesus monkeys that would steal food from the Maharishi's camp and defecate in the cabins. "Monkey" hints at a common Lennon theme: the renewal of self and the redemption of love. Indeed, it's almost a first draft of "God" from the Plastic Ono Band LP. The heights suggested in the lyrics are about emotional connection to the self (and the angelic saving presence of Mother Yoko Ono). It's a notable progression from The Beatles equating emotional heights with common drug use in their early recordings. George Harrison would often equate this feeling with spiritual enlightenment, but John just embraced the hollow perfection that is The John Figure.

John creeps into the room like a crocodile arriving late to a picnic. All purpose and desire.

Robert Bunter: On another level, this is an extension of the sort of throwaway-rock-and-raver-with-a-cool-guitar-lick that John had pioneered on earlier tracks like “I Feel Fine” and “Day Tripper.” But so much had changed in the brief few years that separated them. At the time of their unveiling, “Fine” and “Tripper” (as I call them) seemed a bit ominous and intimidating in their own right – creepy feedback and cryptic lyrics. Yet, they were hit singles that fit comfortably into the nascent development arc of their Merseybeat sound. Nobody is likely to have nightmares or bad trips inspired by “I Feel Fine,” even though it has those unsettling barking dogs tacked onto the end during the fadeout. The same cannot be said of “Monkey.” Lennon’s trademark acidhead optimism (“The Word,” “All You Need Is Love,” “Baby You’re A Rich Man”) seems to be operational with lyrics about flying high, going deep, ease and joyfulness. Yet, they have been warped and distorted into what I would argue is a just as much of a bared-fangs horrorshow as “Glass Onion” or “I Am The Walrus.” Lennon was in the middle of a really dark period (by the way, here are the periods of Lennon’s life: birth to 1956, happy; 1956-1963, dark; 1963-1968, happy; 1968-1972, oh my God, so unbelievably dark and terrifying; 1972 – 1980 relatively OK with a few cloudy patches) in 1968, and you can hear it on this track. The peppy hippie slogans have soured into bizarre riddles and monkey dreams. During that breakdown section where the drums dissolve and the babbling cacophony of voices is temporarily faded down, the collapsing walls of the party you initially described start to leak onto themselves and the monkey bites its own head off.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon often finds comfort between two states, suggesting severe depression. Lennon muses, "Your inside is out/And your outside is in/Your outside is in/And your inside is out." Sure, it may initially seem like instructions for a fun new dance. However, it was no longer about innocent fun for John Lennon. This was the same man who also switched in and out in the lyrics for "Revolution" and called the suicide hotline in "Yer Blues." Somehow, much like on "Yer Blues," Lennon corrals this isolation and fear, delivering a powerhouse rock band performance on the fractured White Album. Listen to Paul yelping helplessly in the background (at the 1:40 mark). He's deep in the moment. You imagine the four men locking into place, finding a way to shoot electrical salvation into each other's hearts. I imagine the ceiling of the studio was dripping with the sweat of millionaire geniuses. Catch a drop on your tongue and you may find your way back to Hamburg or Julia Lennon's loving arms. Heavy stuff for two minutes and twenty five seconds of pop music. "Brother, can you take me back?" 

Yer Blues

Richard Furnstein: A cry from the bottom of a well. John set "Yer Blues"--his exorcism of the unholy spirits that were increasingly consuming his hairy figure--in the leaking swamps of the Mississippi Delta. Sure, he could downplay this brutal testament of self-loathing and suicidal thoughts as nothing more than a Clapton-infused bit of searing blues, but the truth was closer to a drooling hellhound that greeted Lennon in each of his junkie dreams. John and the boys ambled into the closet-sized EMI Studio 2 Annexe to record "Yer Blues." While it's easy to construe this as an effort to instill unity into the fractured and independent White Album sessions, I think the Annexe was chosen to limit the external energy in the recording session. The Devil can't sit in on mouth harp if he can't fit in the room. Barghest himself can't beg for the crumbs of Lennon's shattered soul in such conditions.

The listener conjures a mental image of a wracked, tortured man writhing on the floor while his erstwhile buddies stare blankly ahead and plod their way through this ponderous dirge, not even acknowledging the situation.

Robert Bunter: If you look at the rapid arc of the Beatles’ career with hindsight, their startlingly accelerated rate of development seems obvious. In a mere two years they’d taken the quantum leap from “I’m Happy Just To Dance With You” to “Tomorrow Never Knows,” for example. A closer look, however, reveals an unsettling parallel side development: the harrowing, rapid descent of the John-figure into hell. Recall that “Yer Blues” appeared in 1968, a mere four years after most of the world had met the man. He’d always seemed kind of intense; even his early love songs were uncomfortably raw. Seemingly seconds later, his insecurities were illustrated more vividly during his 1965 Dylan phase as he sings about being a loser with “a chip on my shoulder that’s bigger than my feet.” During the psychedelic period his demons seemed to have been temporarily stoned into submission by the shifting perspectives and blurry colors of chemically-expanded mind-dreams, but even here, the despair and dementia were never far from the surface on tracks like “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “A Day In The Life.” A year later, we’re confronted with lyrics like “The eagle picks my eye / the worm he licks my bone” and “black cloud crossed my mind / blue mist surrounds my soul.” Makes Robert Johnson sound like Keanu Reaves!

 Richard Furnstein: Great point. Lennon went from harmless self-pity ("I'm A Loser") to actually admitting suicidal thought. It's just startling that Lennon would sink to the worm-lickin' depths of loneliness in the lilac gardens of India after finding his true love. His gentle moping on Beatles For Sale or Help! suggested a sensitive man going through an identity crisis--caught between the boredom of his house husband phase and the relentless mania of The Beatles' touring life. As usual, Lennon blames his dark mental state on childhood woes. He presents his parents as the angel and devil on his shoulders. His mother was an angelic spirit "of the sky" while his loathsome father, hapless seaman Freddie Lennon, was vulnerable to earthly temptations and sins. Lennon cast himself, the product of this failed union, as "of the universe." Where he once lamented that no one was in his tree, now John is floating alone in the cosmos. But wait, John realized that his best friends in the world were there with him. Lovable and shouty Paul, reliable and handsome George, and loyal and funny Ringo were there to help him through this rough patch. That's the beauty of "Yer Blues." John assembled his best friends in the world into a tiny closet to grunt out a searing rock number. Maybe he even fit a stool into the room for pie-faced friend Mal Evans! Do you guys want to grab a pint and some chips after this one? It's like the old days. Woops, sorry I bumped your ride cymbal, Ringo. It's like being back in the Cavern!  

Robert Bunter: Yeah, you’d think so. But that’s what makes the line “Feel so suicidal / even hate my rock and roll” so devastating. The cathartic, soul-cleansing power of music which was once redemptive for John has soured; he looks at the three other faces in the cramped studio closet and tries to see his rockin’ buddies from the leather jacket days, but his fevered mind can’t focus the image. There’s Paul with his dumb eyebrows and stupid Ob-La-Di song, George’s pocked skin and offensive moustache stinking up the room with curry breath; even Ringo’s hangdog mug seems distorted and offensive. The tiny recording space mirrors the desperate psychic box that John finds himself in; there’s no escape. The effect is heightened when he screeches the reprise of the verse off-mic; the listener conjures a mental image of a wracked, tortured man writhing on the floor while his erstwhile buddies stare blankly ahead and plod their way through this ponderous dirge, not even acknowledging the situation. This is the moment where the Beatles broke up. Finally, the gentle, fresh acoustic breeze of Paul’s “Mother Nature’s Son” wafts softly in as the cramped, stinky room of “Yer Blues” fades into silence. Abbey Road boasts a similar moment, when George’s airy “Here Comes The Sun” warms the horrifying frozen tundra wind-blast of the “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” fade at the end of side one.  

Richard Furnstein: You caught me. I was trying to put on a brave face. Of course, it was all over. The Hand of Death had long guided The Beatles, providing closure to their early scrappy days with the passing of Stu Sutclliffe in April 1962 and closing out their identity as comfortable idols with Brian Epstein's death in August 1967. Perhaps Lennon was trying to coax the reaper into his life once again with "Yer Blues." Take another soul, dear reaper. Let us run wild into the world without the burden of The Beatles. Lennon didn't have the guts to follow through on the threat of suicide, much like he could never effectively put an end to his rock group. His frequent calls to action (romanticized in his posthumous image as a peace merchant) never overcame his drug-addled daydreams.

Robert Bunter: It's bad, man. Real bad. How the hell are we going to break the news to Ringo?

I'm So Tired

Richard Furnstein: The post-witching hour blues. John Lennon contemplates the state of his life after meeting Yoko Ono. It's hard to imagine this was written in an Indian bungalow on a Maharishi Mahesh Yogi retreat. The song's mood is both claustrophobic and familiar; the dwindling cigarette smoke climbs stark bedroom walls and the consistent ticking of the clock seems louder than it has before. This is not the sleepwalker's dreamland of "I'm Only Sleeping." There is no sense of escape in "I'm So Tired," only the pulsing inevitability of the next day.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, I can hear all that, but the melody is so lovely. It's quintessentially Lennonesque - a chord progression that could almost have been written in the '50s, but with just enough trickiness to save it from sounding like American Graffiti or Grease. This was John's default mode - even some of his farthest-out work ("Happiness Is A Warm Gun," "Strawberry Fields Forever") contains a noticeable whiff of doo-wop. True to form, he unleashes his deadly falsetto. I defy you to find me an example of John singing falsetto that doesn't send shivers right down to the bottom of your spine. Yeah, the lyrics are a neurotic junkie's insomniac lament, but this particular neurotic junkie insomniac had a preternatural gift for sweet songs. This is one of my favorite White Album tracks, actually.

The lyrics are a neurotic junkie's insomniac lament, but this particular neurotic junkie insomniac had a preternatural gift for sweet songs.

Richard Furnstein: Great point. Lennon certainly had trouble escaping his roots during his experimental efforts: think of Yoko struggling to escape a plastic bag while John leads a group of mustached session hacks in a Chuck Berry groover. That was his idea of the summit of freak. "I'm So Tired" has no such pretenses, instead it presents the solemn self-reflection and internal paranoia as "the edge." Here was a naked man standing in the rich tamarind forests, attempting to explore the questions in his shattered subconscious. Yet, this great dreamer was left with some pilfered fifties chords and some lonely pining for female comforts and the comforting tug of his ciggies. In a way, "I'm So Tired" is John admitting that the great transcendental experiment couldn't ease his long-standing pain. He's all too aware of the time passing by and the limitations of the late hour. The poor man.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. He was carrying a heavy torch for Yoko during the trip to India (when "Tired" was written), though they hadn't consummated their relationship yet. She was just a sort of weirdo pen-pal who'd been flitting around the periphery of his life for the past year or two. He's over there in India on his mediation trip with his wife Cynthia, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. It's been noted (by John himself, actually) that during the supposedly blissful retreat, he was coughing up songs about suicide and insomnia. He certainly wasn't the first man to get upset over a woman, but his natural gifts allowed him to express his pain in beautiful melodies. We are lucky to have these gifts. Of course, the other three Beatles and George Martin stepped up to the plate and knocked the whole thing out of the park. Ringo's drums come thudding down on your skull with the weight of a thousand sorrows; Paul's macho man backing vocals provide necessary heft to the choruses; George contributes his characteristic stinging lead guitar. The White Album is widely recognized as the point of divergence for the Beatles' personal friendships, but I like to imagine the "Tired" sessions as a heartwarming moment. "Hey, lads, John seems to be feeling a little blue. Let's give him a bit of a lift! Ringo, get yer drooms! George, grab your guitar!" And then George frowns at Paul. "You're not the boss of me," he thinks to himself but doesn't say. He just glowers and sulks while the engineers turn on his amplifier. Hmmmm. I guess you can start to see the cracks in the foundation, after all. It's not pretty, but those are the facts.

Richard Furnstein: Another important fact is that John and Yoko certainly consummated their relationship by the time of the "I'm So Tired" recording sessions. All of the sexual tension and emotional insecurities of John's delicate India composition have been replaced by the bulbous emotions that come along with the physical act of love with a mysterious Japanese conceptual artist. Listen to the sweet late night restraint that haunts Lennon's vocal performance on this one. Heck, look at the collage poster that came with the White Album. It includes a photo of a naked John Lennon talking on the phone (presumably to Mal Evans). Yoko is sleeping by his side. John looks particularly well rested (ahem). The poster also includes several sleepy photos of Paul (making his classic dreamy genius expression and his "deep in thought while composing another masterpiece" face). It sure is nice to see these increasingly distant friends brought together by their sleepiness. Although on second thought, maybe Paul was just really stoned...

Robert Bunter: Yeah, every time I look at that photo, I assume he's talking to Mal Evans, too. 

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Robert Bunter: Sometimes it seems like George's default songwriting position was perched on his high horse, sorrowfully lamenting the shortcomings of the rest of the world. Listen to "Think For Yourself," "Within You Without You," "The Inner Light," "I Me Mine" (as well as most of All Things Must Pass and lots of subsequent solo records) for the characteristic message - the world could be a beautiful place if the rest of you would just open your eyes and transcend the artificial boundaries of ego, like I, George Harrison, have already done. Isn't it a pity? Even his early efforts ("Don't Bother Me," "You Like Me Too Much," "If I Needed Someone") betray a thinly-veiled sense of superiority. This tendency could be grating, especially coming from a smug multimillionaire who had his own personal shortcomings (greedy with money, boned Ringo's wife in the '70s, didn't return phone calls, thick phlegmy voice, questionable facial hair), but "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" is a great song despite its arch, judgmental tone.

Richard Furnstein: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" presented a new side to George's hectoring. Previous efforts had focused on putting down a lady or moaning about having to do a press junket in Central Florida; "Gently Weeps" finds him judging his aimless bandmates and their self-destructive egos.¹ It's a theme that would serve him well during the solo years. I do find that the grumpy George vibe seems a bit easier to take on this one. First off, it's a lovely melody, taking the descending guitar line trick that George loved and pairing it with simple action-based rhyme. The arrangement has a lot of great moments, particularly Paul's bass and his opening piano riff (which always seemed to me to be linked to the flamenco guitar that prefaces "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill"). Perhaps most importantly, "Weeps" connects with the listener, despite relying on a series of loose metaphors. We want to take George's side in the slowly evaporating friendships of The Beatles. Like an adult child feeling sympathy for a parent who gave their life to supporting a crumbling marriage, the listener believes that George is on the losing side of the divorce of his childhood gang. I'm not sure they could say that George gave his best years of his life ("You Like Me Too Much"), but he certainly deserved better than to have this number--his best offering yet--dismissed due to an album real estate turf battle between Paul and John. "Sorry, Georgie, no time for your guitar song. We've got to record stupid 'Glass Onion.'"

You could play every blues from "Drivin' That Thing" to "Death Bell Blues" with the same spider fingered finesse, milking the willing prostate of your white Stratocaster.

Robert Bunter: You've got a point there, except for the part about it being George's "best offering yet." Perhaps you've forgotten a little number that I like to call "I Want To Tell You" from an album which I like to call Revolver? Remember my electrifying fantasy sequence about the "Swinging London" undertrousers and the sweet-smelling girl from Stockholm? Although "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" is often cited as an example of George's second-class status in the group (John, Paul and George Martin "could hardly be bothered with it" according to most re-tellings), the first-class contributions of the others belie such pat analysis. Paul's bracing Morse code piano intro and characteristically inventive bass playing don't sound like the products of a disinterested participant. Ringo's drums are better than perfect, understated yet powerful; plus there's that funny galloping percussion noise on the verses, and his crucial tambourine, whcih punches up the second half of Clapton's guitar solo quite nicely. Oh, did we mention the Clapton thing? Less-knowledgeable readers may not be aware that George drafted hotshot Yardbirds/Bluesbreakers/Cream axeman Eric Clapton to sit in on "Weeps" and stink it up with his second-rate Stratocaster noodling; one can only imagine the pursed grimaces, rapidly-shifting eyebrows and other shameless poochy guitar-face mugging that "God" Clapton probably indulged in while the tapes rolled. According to the history books, when Crapton (as I call him) showed up to the previously acrimonious White Album sessions, the others were instantly on their best behavior, not unlike the function Billy Preston would serve during the latter half of the Get Back project. Maybe so, but I'll tell you one thing, I'd rather he'd stayed home, even if it meant John would have pushed this track off the album in favor of "What's The New Mary Jane." If I want to listen to a British guy play shitty blues guitar riffs over a melancholy acoustic guitar strum underneath a set of pretentious "meaningful" lyrics, I'm going to just go ahead and fetch my copy of Ten Years After's "A Space In Time" and cue up "I'd Love To Change The World." It's track three, right after the trippy space alien invasion fantasy "Here They Come." Meanwhile, if everyone is taking my advice all of a sudden, let's just go ahead and make the White Album a four-record set featuring the full "Revolution 1-9" suite, the 27-minute "Helter Skelter," the Anthology acoustic version of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" and the blurry "Not Guilty" mix from the Peter Sellers tape. Wait, where am I?

Richard Furnstein: I'll tell you where you are. You are in London, England so it is raining. It's 1968 and you are wearing finely a tailored white pirate shirt and cavernous sunglasses to hide your junkie gaze. Your best friend invited you to guest with his band The Beatles to "blues up" a number that he had been nursing over the last few months. You heard the song once. George played it for you on his back patio in Kinfauns, fixing his eyes on yours as he bared his soul with a series of awkward and pedestrian rhymes. Ha, he even had a line about humans as actors in the play of life or some dumb shit like that. Luckily he later scrapped that verse. You tried to break away from his gaze--his famous eyebrows tense with concentration while his curry-stained spindly fingers plodded out the song's progression on an old Martin. To be honest, you only wanted to come over to George's house to be closer to his nubile young wife, Patti. Bugger that, because Patti was off shopping for wide-legged pants and now you were stuck with George's thin voice and his lentil-infused flatulence. He finally finished the song. You lit a Chesterfield and sat back in the recliner, "I could do something with that one." Of course you could. You could play every blues from "Drivin' That Thing" to "Death Bell Blues" with the same spider fingered finesse, milking the willing prostate of your white Stratocaster.

Months later it was go time. You almost forgot about the song (George called it "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" while you liked to call it "Willing Wife Blues"), but you ambled into Abbey Road Studio anyway. "Ricky, what are you doing here?" John asked. "Great to see you, lad," offered Paul. Ringo didn't say anything, he was too busy eating a can of beans that Mal Evans had prepared. "He's here to play on my new song," George said blankly. So you played the song. You could feel the distance between them at the beginning of the session, yet the recording came together perfectly. Like a tray of Walkers' Nonsuch Toffee from God's own oven. You are Eric Clapton. And you stink.

Robert Bunter: Oof, that really hits home. I can almost smell the Chesterfields and lentils. Hey, what was John doing on this song? No backup vocals, no noticeable guitar contributions ... maybe that was the source of George's irritation. Lennon couldn't be bothered because he was cueing up tape loops for "Revolution 9" with Yoko. I think you're right, this song is addressed to the other Beatles as much as it is to the inhabitants of the larger outside world. Still, we can all learn some lessons from Harrison's lyric: wake up your sleeping love, sweep the floor, unfold your love, learn from your mistakes, don't be perverted. Keep this advice in mind and remember not to let Eric Clapton anywhere near your wife. Thanks, Dark Horse. We miss you.




¹"Only A Northern Song" is clearly an antecedent, but George's fury was directed at the music business in general. 

Revolution 1

Robert Bunter: This is one of many examples of a Beatles song that seems to invent a singular and charming musical world that could have set the template for an entire career. The texture of the whole thing is just gorgeous - bleary guitars and dreamy vocal tracks are further softened by mellow horns and hint of distant psychedelic sound effects. Meanwhile, some stinging lead guitar and the bracingly direct political sentiments of the lyric keep the whole thing from sliding into a goo-puddle.

Richard Furnstein: "Revolution 1" finds our heroes stumbling out of beds on a Sunday morning. A snippet of a boogie woogie acoustic guitar is picked up off of the studio floor, John nervously asks "Okay?" as the band kicks into a fresh take. It's a little studio vérité, a humbling back-to-basics approach for a band that once wanted their bass guitars to sound like acid raindrops sliding down a stained glass window and their vocals to sound like the Dalai Lama transmitting across the peaks and valleys surrounding Tibet. "Revolution 1" is John's original vision for his indecisive musical call to arms, where the state of being "in" or "out" is equally "alright." And we almost can't blame him for indecision with a heroin drip this slow.

Robert Bunter: It's not really kosher to dwell on Lennon's alleged heroin use (which is said to have started around this time), but it's difficult to listen and not detect the seductive opiated mood that permeates this track. Everything is slow and dreamy and languorous; after thoughtfully examining the age-old political question of whether the ends justify the means, the smiling stoned singer ultimately has nothing to say but "Don't you know it's gonna be alright?" The sinister undertones of heroin use are also audible,  just below the surface of the Beatles' catalog as officially released. The blissful dope nod of "Revolution 1" originally functioned as but the introductory segment of the harrowing bad trip that is "Revolution 9." This connection has been known to fans for years; John discussed how the two songs fit together in published interviews. For a long time, however, the only hint of how they might fit together was the nearly-unlistenable "From Kinfauns To Chaos" bootleg, which features about 40 minutes of Yoko mumbling into a tape recorder while sitting in the corner of the Abbey Road control room. In the background, you can hear several segments of "Revolution 1" merging into "Revolution 9," but you have to sit there and listen to Yoko's self-involved navel-gazing monologue, which is at times quite gross. Luckily, that's not the end of the story. A few years ago, the Beatle fan world (or what I like to call just my regular daily life) was rocked by the unexpected release of "Revolution 1 (Take 20)" in pristine stereo. I have lots more to say but I'm rambling over here. Richard?

Richard Furnstein: I'm right here, and I'm with you. "Take 20" essentially writes a new White Album tracklist in my mind: side four of the double album should have been largely committed to the full "Revolution 1/9 Suite." As currently constructed, we suffer through a premature fade on "Revolution 1" and are shaken out of this gentle dope protest into McCartney's gooey soft shoe routine in "Honey Pie." Sure, "Revolution 9" appears later in the track listing after some more helpings of light fare, but by then we've written off the side opener as throwback pop music and not a precursor to the sonic overload and icy depths of "Revolution 9." The use of "Revolution 9" as a separate track, positioned late in the double album's running order, seems like an unnecessarily apologetic move from The Beatles. These geniuses didn't have to tiptoe around our blissfully sleeping heads on their way to the revolution. It was their responsibility to jostle us awake and drag us into the horrifying unknown. As it stands, "Revolution 1" can be easily misinterpreted as a throwaway track (the cloying "shoobedoowop" backing vocals are the biggest offender of the realized version).

There is thunder and lightning but no rain. Everything is purple and yellow, but it’s dark. Wait a minute, that’s not moonlight – there are UFO’s up there!

Robert Bunter: Cloying? I disagree, I think this is another example of the White Album’s tendency to use ‘50s rock cliches to add an ironic detachment to the material (see “Back In The USSR” and “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”), as well as their intrinsic usefulness for musical effect. Paul and George’s doo-wop harmonies, in addition to being groovy, are a big part of the unique texture of this crucial track. Visualize a street-corner R&B vocal group in 1959, except they’re being heard in crystal-clear high fidelity instead of the opacity of scratchy 45’s or AM radio. They’re laying down mellow harmonies in the moonlight urban alleyway, but instead of stupid saxophones, they are surrounded by gentle acoustic guitars and distant French horn chords. The lead singer’s voice is double-tracked (BUT THIS IS HAPPENING IN REAL TIME) and he’s singing about Mao Tse-tung and he wants to “change your head.” There is thunder and lightning but no rain. Everything is purple and yellow, but it’s dark. Wait a minute, that’s not moonlight – there are UFO’s up there! Do you hear those sound effects? I smell laser beams, plus there are street gangs … bloodshot youths rising up against the oppressors, thirsty for violence. But just as they move to unsheathe their weapons, their hands are stilled by this weird celestial doo-wop group and their consciousness-expanding French horns. Get your head out of your butt, Richard. Those “shoobedoowops” pack more of a wallop then “Tomorrow Never Knows” and “She Loves You” put together, if you just have ears to hear.

Richard Furnstein: Hey man, don't blame me. I'm just a field correspondent reporting from the war. Many interpret the doo-wop backing vocals as overly playful, making the track seem like more milky nostalgia ("Back In The U.S.S.R."). It significantly distorts the message of the song for many. I love it, and I am totally into your version of the street corner apocalypse. I just think most people are seduced by the scuzz rock single version, so the original White Album arrangement seems a little too light and unfocused. The rhythm's in the guitars, but the destruction is in the mind. John's retreat to the loud rock ("single ready") arrangement leaves "Revolution 1" in a confusing, pencil sketch state. I don't think that was the intention, as "Take 20" demonstrates in vivid blood-red tones.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, the stark, high-energy single version of “Revolution” is the polar opposite of the breezy, slow-motion doo-wop of “Revolution 1.” The slow version was the original recording, but the heavy rock single was the first to be released. Listeners who hear “Revolution 1” as a rough demo can be forgiven (the introductory studio chatter heightens the effect), but not after they’ve read this blog. Now they know that the slow version of “Revolution” is John’s otherworldly doo-wop heroin masterpiece and the fast version is a sportswear commercial. In my fantasy world, the Beatles released at least three more albums in this vein – slow acoustic political songs with sweet harmonies, gentle production touches, French horns and sound effects. That would be a recipe for some platters that would certainly get plenty of “revolutions” on my Dual 1229 hi-fi phonograph machine!

Original Beatles fan art by Andrew Jones

Wild Honey Pie

Robert Bunter: Most people hear this baffling, one-minute track when they’re listening to the White Album and reach for the fast-forward button on their cassette deck. It’s not difficult to discern why – Paul probably thought this was a delightfully madcap bit of fun which would aerate side one of the Beatles most diverse, wide-ranging grab bag of an album. Unfortunately, he missed the mark. “Wild Honey Pie” is a terrifying, boingy nightmare which sheds an unsettling light on the darker shades and melancholy moods of the White Album. Although I have no independent confirmation of this, intuition tells me that this song originated as a campfire singalong during the meditation retreat in India (not unlike “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill,” which follows). After a day of silent reflection and a meal of dhakti paste and vhan ghundi crumbles, it was time to cut loose. The faces of the white-robed Beatles and Mike Love glow eerily in the firelight as “Jazz Woodbine” cigarettes were passed surreptitiously around. George peers disapprovingly from his chalet while Paul strums his boingy guitar and John begins to moan and screech in his British old-lady voice. This went on for hours and the natives were terrified. “Let’s remember that for the next LP then, eh?”

George peers disapprovingly from his chalet while Paul strums his boingy guitar and John begins to moan and screech in his British old-lady voice.

Richard Furnstein: They must have looked like real vindaloons! Sure, "Wild Honey Pie" has a heavy dose of the special magic from the jasmine forests of Risikesh. The moment that you described is a huge part of the legend around that fractured recording. To be fair, I imagine all of The White Album's material to take the same path: a song is hurriedly dashed off in a tent or around a campfire. John and Paul delight in playing hooky from the Maharishi's spiritual agenda. A few tugs on a biri laced with organic South Indian cheeb brings on a wave of inspiration. Later, Mike Love pokes his head into the tent to offer some words of advice on the song. Paul nods and gently thanks him for his wisdom, but secretly worries that Love will take credit for the song's composition.

Robert Bunter: You're on the right track, keep going.

Richard Furnstein: Wait, WILD HONEY PIE. I get it. I think Love does deserve a hand on this one. He also encouraged The Beatles to cut the track, saving it from the inevitable dustbin or a b-side for The Grapefruit or Badfinger. You win again, Mike Love. Thank you for the "good night, baby" part on "Wouldn't It Be Nice." Thank you for the achingly beautiful verses of "Don't Got Near The Water. You really set the table for Al Jardine to have a feast on the chorus! Bless you, Mr. Mike Love, for the original Landlocked (non--country rock) version of "Big Sur." It's my favorite Beach Boys recording. And--of course--the role that you played in "Wild Honey Pie," the most uninspired/unlistenable/inconsequential Beatles track of them all.

Robert Bunter: I knew you'd figure it out. That's why God made the Beach Boys!

Helter Skelter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Don't We Do It In The Road?

Richard Furnstein: Paul gets downright frisky in this offering for The White Album's "zoo side." Paul was inspired to write "Why Don't We Do It In The Road" after watching monkeys copulate on the road in India. Most people would just stash that story away and bring it out for emergency filler at a dinner party, but Paul was driven to write one of his most boring songs after the incident. Like many of the songs on The White Album, the simplicity of "WDWDIITR" seems to be a response to the ornate and meticulous production of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The Beatles' bare boned production works best with the emotionally direct ("Julia," "I Will") and lacerating ("Helter Skelter," "Yer Blues") numbers, but makes the thinner material feel even more underfed and unloved. It is is hard to find much to dig on this one. Ths song goes on way too long (for a song clocking in at 102 seconds) and feels like it is in sharp decline after the thinly recorded power fills in the song's introduction.


Robert Bunter: The key word here is filler. McCartney, the most naturally gifted of the Beatles, was always more than willing to include something half-baked or tossed off. Go dig up any interview where he discusses his solo debut McCartney and you'll find a rather convincing defense of this type of padding. Sticks-in-the-mud see laziness and the need for a harsh editor (like staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin or the brisk impatience and short attention span of a John Lennon), but Paul says, "Hey, don't be so dismissive. Have a second look at this funny little ditty. Sure, it's no 'Hey Jude' or 'Yesterday,' but what do you want? A whole album full of unassailable brilliance? We already did that three times (A Collection of Beatle Oldies, Beatles '65, Revolver). Why don't you enjoy this sprawling two-disc set in all its incohate glory?" I would say he's got a point. I'll take "That Would Be Something," "Wild Honey Pie," "WDWDIITR" and "Smile Away," thank you. I hope you enjoy your golden platter consisting entirely of lobster, caviar, truffles and wagyu Kobe beef. It's a little rich, don't you think? I've got potatoes and some sardines over here. They get the job done.


Richard Furnstein: I see what you mean, Paulheads have to accept that he's going to throw up some lightweight material at times. You can't have a "Nineteen Hundred Eighty Five" without taking on some "Zoo Gang." Like "Take It Away"? Great, but don't forget to nosh on some "Ode To A Koala Bear" for fiber. This is the man facing the great unknown with the tape rolling. It's almost as if Paul has to shake loose the fragments and ditties to get to the tender meat stuff that will make grown men weep. What are the alternatives? Dealing with George Harrison and his lyrical hysterics and swampy major sevenths? Listen, I get the process, but "Do It Road" kind of stinks.

Robert Bunter: Your honor, I object. Robert Bunter for the defense: if you're willing to grant the acceptiblity and necessity of McCartney's throwaway material, I think you've got a real gem here. Exhibit A: a glorious, throat-shredding vocal performance like only Paul can deliver. Exhibit B: a great extraneous noise (the off-mike "hah?" at :16). The Beatles were geniuses when it came to extraneous noises ("Lovely Rita," for example) and this is a great one. Exhibit C: the lyric. It's Paul showing off his bad-boy side (he would do it again with "Hi Hi Hi" and the likes). It's also strange: why doesn't he talk about doing it on the road? It's because "in the road" sounds more cryptic and unsettling, and the White Album is nothing if not cryptic and unsettling. I'm going to stop numbering the exhibits now - I'd just like to add that it makes a nice contrast with "I Will" which follows and the bass line is totally ill.

Thank God for the wonderful Beatles and their interminable, ponderous White Album and the stupid piece of unpalatable swill that is "Why Don't We Do It In The Road."

Richard Furnstein: Listen, I hear you. I get the "cryptic and unsettling" bit; "WDWDIITR" fits in nicely with the sinewy weeds that reach into the windows of "Cry Baby Cry," "Everybody's Got Something To Hide," and "Long Long Long." I'll take McCartney filler all day, sir. I just don't think I can comfortably swallow this plate of cold, dry spaghetti. Sure, the real meat is right around the corner. Want beauty and depth? Dig into "I Will" and "Julia." "WDWDIITR" is just another station on the weird roadway of The White Album. It is ultimately vulnerable to the "what if" debate that has always followed this double album. But Gosh, let's just give it a pass. It's The Beatles Bloody White Album, ferchrissake.


Robert Bunter: Right, that's what I'm saying. If the Beatles and George Martin had trimmed the double-LP fat to leave behind "a really super single album" (Martin's phrase), they would have lessened the White Album's considerable impact. It's dense and difficult, with sinister undercurrents, bizarre non-sequiturs and melancholy moods. Think of it this way: the Martin-approved single LP White Album (my guess: Back In The USSR / While My Guitar Gently Weeps / Dear Prudence / Mother Nature's Son / Revolution 1 / Martha My Dear / Sexy Sadie / Helter Skelter / I'm So Tired / Blackbird / Ob-La-Di / Julia / Cry Baby Cry / I Will) would have been a widely-acknowledged masterpiece, and the leftovers would have emerged as a fascinating collection of bootleg tracks. But they made the right choice. Thank God for the wonderful Beatles and their interminable, ponderous White Album and the stupid piece of unpalatable swill that is "Why Don't We Do It In The Road." [claps hands slowly in disgusted, sarcastic applause]

Dear Prudence

Robert Bunter: "Dear Prudence" is the Lennon songwriting persona at his most loveable. He's not bewildering, demented, or sardonic, or violent, or self-important (he'll give us a dose of all that soon enough on the White Album's next track, "Glass Onion"). The ultimate central message of the Beatles to Earth (awaken from the slumber of ego and everyday life to the universal spirit of peace and love that fills and surrounds us all) is delivered in simple human terms. No grand pronouncements or political slogans; just the infectious joy of a young child asking his female friend to come and play outside. The whole thing is so lovely that I can feel my heart swelling up now as I write this. Songs like this are why so many people feel an almost religious sense of awe about the Beatles in general and Lennon in particular. It's perfect because it embodies the always-valid artistic adage "Show, don't tell." Even without the lyrics, the gorgeous melody evokes sunsets, ocean waves, swirling galaxies, smiling babies, infinite skies and capital-L Love. I'll tell you what, if I was Prudence Farrow I would have crawled right the hell out of that goddamn meditation chalet and gone outside to play with my friend John Lennon. Oh look, there's Ringo! Let's all have some rice. My heart is exploding.

Richard Furnstein: Bingo. Childhood memories would guide many of John's most successful and endearing songs, but "Dear Prudence" brings John's childlike view of the world (read: emotionally stunted and extremely stoned) to adult human relationships. And it doesn't get any more adult than a spiritual vacation in India with Mike Love, Mia Farrow's dumpy sister, helicopter rides with the Maharishi, and (presumably) sexual escapades in the jasmine and sandlewood mist. So, while John pleas for Prudence to "Come out and play" seem sweet, keep in mind that the landscape was terrifying (elephants) and John was probably trying to push some blue windowpane on the poor girl. "I'd love to turn you on," he once told the world. "Dear Prudence" seems to be a mission statement to turn on one person at a time. It's hard to deny John this time, this song is surely one of his greatest.

Robert Bunter: I see what you mean, Richard. There are lots of adult complexities here. After all, joyful children don't write brilliant melancholy pop anthems to express themselves, they just run around and smile. We're listening to a grown man, perhaps mourning what is lost by attempting to recapture it. Lennon later admitted that he was almost suicidally depressed during the seemingly happy and mellow Rishikesh retreat. By so beautifully evoking the ecstasy of childhood, John leaves an overwhelming impression of sadness. I think this may be one of the saddest songs the Beatles ever wrote (up there with "You Never Give Me Your Money," "For No One," "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," "A Day In The Life" and "Junk," if we're counting outtakes). I'm eager to start discussing the musical brilliance of this track, but as I listen repeatedly, I keep filling up with tears. I remember my black and gold bicycle, the creek at the corner of Elm Creek and Ewing, a pretty girl who just moved into town, a pocketful of promises. Facebook just showed me photos of her son's third birthday party. How the hell am I supposed to write about bass lines and tom-tom fills? Jesus Christ. I'm crying.

Richard Furnstein: I'm right there with you. The lyric "The clouds will be a daisy chain so let me see you smile again" suggest the clear air and direction of a child's summer morning. John knocks us over the head with that lyric and then the angelic voices of George and Paul lift the trees and poppy from the Easter fields, suspending the season's bliss in a perfectly blue sky. No wonder you are feeling the feminine drops on your face, my dear friend.

I'll say this: the arrangement on this song is perhaps the greatest in the entire Beatles catalog. John holds steady with his delicate appregi, a figure that would haunt later compositions "Look At Me" and "Out The Blue." George is all quicksilver beauty on the lead guitar. And Paul? Well, Paul's bassline is perfect in every way and he delivers my single favorite drum part on any Beatles song. I'm sorry, Ringo. I will always love you, but I'm sure the Heinz and toast felt heavy in your stomach when you heard Paul's prizefighting rope-a-dope from 2:50 to 3:32. That's 42 seconds of complete destruction on Ringo's drum kit! I've played that part back a million times in my life and I'll never understand how he did that. It's one killer roll and then a triumphant pulse past the finish line, into the collapsing leaves of the willow tree in your mind.

John knocks us over the head with that lyric and then the angelic voices of George and Paul lift the trees and poppy from the Easter fields, suspending the season's bliss in a perfectly blue sky.

Robert Bunter: Ha! That really hits home. I'm just going to toss out a few insights here and hopefully curb my impulse to rhapsodize about this amazing song for hours on end. Okay: that fingerpicking pattern was taught to John in India by Donovan. Here's how that little episode went down:

Donovan is lightly tickling a clumsy melody by the banks of the Ganges. "Wot's that, then, Don?" "Well, Johnny, they call it 'fingerpicking.' You just take yer plectrum and throw it away! The fingers do the work. Put your thumb here, then do a little diddle-de-de with your other two phalanges, ey wot? There, that's the trick, isn't it? Now you've got the hang. Isn't this a beautiful day?" And then John was like, "Thanks, Donovan. You'll have to excuse me, I'm going to go write "Julia" and "Dear Prudence" and "Look At Me." It's a shame about your lack of talent; so utterly inferior. What's that tune you were working on? The one about pooping in space?" And then Paul was like, "Fingerpicking, huh? Listen to this!" and he plays "Blackbird." The score? Beatles infinity, Donovan zero. Sorry. I guess you should have kept the secret of fingerpicking to yourself, you scurvy Scottish freak.

Okay, a few more quick things: the background vocals don't even sound like the Beatles. Listen to those "round round rounds" and "ahhhhhs" on the bridge. It's creepy, they sound like weird old men. Next: this song has the best slow burn of any Beatles track, and that includes "Hey Jude." It starts out like delicate sun-pillows but in the space of three and a half minutes it transforms into a total headbanger, then gently touches down right where it started, just like "Back In The USSR" before it. Finally, I'd just like to add that I'm plagued by doubts and terrified of the future.

Richard Furnstein: We'll get through this together, pal. I just wanted to add that this may be the best production on any Beatles song. Sure, George Martin treated the mustache and epaulettes era with more care and gadgetry, but I really love the full and direct approach on "Prudence." The White Album was intended to be rough and ready, but "Dear Prudence" seems like a different type of beast. The song's beautiful production matches the sunlit and freckled faces that pepper its lyric. I'm not sure if The White Album ever quite matches this perfect combination of song, performance, and recording. And, you know what? That's alright with me.

Robert Bunter: [silence]