I Wanna Be Your Man

Richard Furnstein: "I Wanna Be Your Man" is a sub-ape of a song with few redeeming qualities. It's a simple Ringo shouter in the vein of "Boys" and "Matchbox." The primal bashing and overworked cymbals can't make up for it's lack of depth and sonic shortcomings. The Lennon/McCartney composition was originally released by The Rolling Stones as their second single. It sure was nice of John and Paul to offer those illiterate hairdos some scraps as they were finishing another songwriting genius buffet. "Oh, you lippy chaps are hungry for some material? Why, have this throwaway tune that we were going to give to our tone deaf, childlike drummer." I guess Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were scared of being left behind in the new age of original rock compositions because they gratefully scarfed up that lean meal.

John and Paul later disagreed on the origins of the tune. Paul claimed that they worked it up from a Paul snippet with the purpose of providing a song for Ringo to sing on the second Beatles album. The song was the provided to The Rolling Stones when they requested a Lennon/McCartney composition to release as a single. John claims that "I Wanna Be Your Man" was written in front of the Stones. Imagine the look of humiliation on Mick's face when John and Paul were squeezing out this one in five minutes. "Wanna learn how to write songs? GRUNT, SPLASH, FLUSH." This is a better story and it seems like a classic Lennon ego trip. As a result, I'm more inclined to believe Paul's tale.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, Lennon was often inclined to embellish his memories so as to cast himself and The Beatles in a more flattering light. Furthermore, he seems to have had a real chip on his shoulder about the way The Rolling Stones were cleverly marketed by funnily-named Svengali Andrew Loog Oldham as the raw, bad-boy alternative to the squeaky-clean Beatles. The public image of the Beatles was drinking tea in genteel train cars with grandfathers and warbling “Til There Was You,” while the ‘Stones were getting arrested for urinating on gas station pumps when the attendant wouldn’t let them use the facilities. John resented manager Brian Epstein’s attempt to clean up The Beatles’ raucous leather jacket and hair grease image with collarless suits and bouncy smiles, and there were multiple times through the years where John took the opportunity to damn the Stones with faint praise, or even slag them off outright, as in the infamous 1971 Jann Wenner confessional. I’m not going to repeat what he said about Jagger’s dancing here because it was so mean. Paul was not above the same shenanigans. I seem to recall reading about a special listening party organized by The Rolling Stones to debut their latest release before an intimate crowd of beautiful rich hippie socialites and music industry cognoscenti. Of course, Paul comes walking in with an acetate of The Beatles’ latest single and he just happens to slip it to the paisley-eyed dandy who was operating the DJ station. “Oh, here’s our latest, maybe give it a spin and see what you think, wot?” and it was all seven minutes and eleven seconds of “Hey Jude.” We can only imagine how sour Mick’s roast mutton platter tasted after THAT humiliation. He sulked and pouted but no one could tell because who can tell if Mick Jagger is pouting? Meanwhile, Brian Jones went right home and almost drowned in his swimming pool. I’m sorry but these are the specific true facts.

Richard Furnstein: The Stones really did an excellent job on "I Wanna Be Your Man." It's got a great runaway motor take on the familiar Chuck Berry putt-putt. Brian Jones sounds very much alive on this track, harnessing some harrowing voodoo visions from his slide guitar. Mick Jagger's got a great rough presence on this. He may be pretty, but he's all man. Charlie Watts is reliable and steady in the back as usual. I imagine he smiled once during the recording and the rest of the Stones were relieved to see their elderly friend have some loose boogie fun. "Lookie Watts, e's 'alving a lark!" Bill Wyman sits back in the mix and just paddles swamp water everywhere. Sure, the guy was a Grade A dirtbag IRL, but he sure knew how to have fun on stage. Five stars. They totally make up for the crash and clamor of The Beatles' version.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, when you think about it, it’s funny that the Beatles had this muscular helping of Bo Diddley garage punk earmarked for droopy, short Ringo. He was the Beatles’ obligatory man-child, the template for every subsequent boy-band aimed at the screaming pre-teen demographic. These eleven-year-olds need a Davy Jones or a Joey McIntyre on which to focus the nascent storm of primal energy aroused by the driving rhythms and sweet sugar melodies without the threatening manic patter of a Mickey Dolenz or the broody, simian sulk of a Danny Wood. The more obvious physical appeal of dominant John, matinee idol Paul and sullen George were too frightening; Ringo presented the safe alternative of the runt. He was a full two feet shorter than the other Beatles and his droopy facial features and enormous nose suggested nothing so much as a damp, castrated Saint Bernard. The surging confidence of “I Wanna Be Your Man” would have worn poorly on any of the other three. Ringo was able to deliver the lyric like a cute kid reciting the lurid lyrics to  his favorite song on YouTube. How funny that in real life, he was guzzling Scotch and shaving four times daily just to beat back the beard.

Brian Jones went right home and almost drowned in his swimming pool. I’m sorry but these are the specific true facts.

Richard Furnstein: You can definitely see why The Beatles were determined to showcase their precious little sideshow attraction. You have to give the people a show: a little song, a little dance, and a little humor. Ringo was a flawed goofball there to lighten the mood. Even the name Ringo appeals to children while giving something for the older generation to lampoon. Listen to the broadcasters on The Beatles Live At The BBC collections treat him like a child. It's like Bring Your Ringo To Work Day. Sit in the corner and don't make too much noise, Young Richard.

Robert Bunter: He was game. Ringo went along with the program and played the fool. The Ringo showcase slot would remain a charming feature on almost every subsequent Beatle record. The high point was “With A Little Help From My Friends” on Sgt. Pepper, a fine song in its own right and a perfect complement for the hapless drummer’s irresistible charm. The nadir, of course, was “Yellow Submarine,” which stinks up the otherwise sublime Revolver LP with his tuneless ode to an improbable contraption and the worst sound effects since Mel Blanc tripped on a duck and fell into a pile of bicycle horns. Honk honk! “I Wanna Be Your Man” is a bad deal and just barely warrants its inclusion in the Beatles’ catalog. No doubt it will be included in some future irreverent “Worst Of The Beatles” bootleg, along with “All Together Now,” “Don’t Pass Me By” and “Meat City (original 1966 demo).”

Richard Furnstein: Lo! I would still cherish that turd vessel and file it gently next to my copies of Press, Ringo's Rotogravure, and the John Lennon acoustic collection that has him playing a stupid Ovation Guitar on the cover.

All My Loving

Robert Bunter: To this day, I can't tell the story without getting emotional. Furnstein and I went to the Paul McCartney concert together. He opened the set with some Wings stuff, to build the tension ("Venus And Mars / Rock Show" into "Jet"), then launched into "All My Loving." The video screen lit up with iconic black and white footage of screaming girls and the smiling young Beatles. In an instant, every one of the thousands in attendance had the exact same thought: "Mother of God, that is really him. He's from the Beatles and HE'S RIGHT HERE WITH ME NOW." It was like getting punched in the soul. Tears rolled down my face and I was far from the only one. It was a cheap showbiz trick, in a way; the kind of contrived, premeditated dazzlement that has long been Paul's primary approach (in stark contrast to Lennon's raw, in-the-moment inspiration). But how else could he have handled it? That moment needed to happen and Paul deployed it with the confident touch of a master. "All My Loving" was the perfect song choice. It stands tall among the very best of their earlier work, yet it never really garnered the reputation as a cultural milestone assigned to "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and "She Loves You." It almost managed to feel like an obscure album cut, even though it was probably the first Beatles song most Americans ever heard.

Richard Furnstein: What a great moment in our lives together as Beatles fans and friends. I wish I scooped up one of your careless tears and captured the shimmering drop in clear perspex: a testament to the power of time, love, and memory. What a feeling! I wanted to stomp my feet on the ground like those reckless teenaged girls in grainy black and white clips, but I was worried about crushing my nacho tray purchased before the show.

I always considered it a bold choice to kick off their first Ed Sullivan appearance with "All My Loving." It's a cracker to be sure, but it's a Paul song in an era where John was clearly being presented as the closest thing to a front man of the group. John, the group's primary songwriter during that period and the throat shredder who lead most of their songs, stood tall in the center of the pack: legs boldly parted as he strummed his custom Jet Glo Rickenbacker, smacking bubblegum, and his pointy nose acting as a divining rod to the teenaged American moistness ahead.. Paul was merely the side attraction during this era: the loose balloon-eyed, soft cheeked romancer who didn't even warrant his own microphone. Yet, there he was, leading the charge of The Beatles into foreign shores. "All My Loving" was the perfect choice. It's essentially a sequel to previous triumphs, building on the letter within a song format of "P.S. I Love You" and "From Me To You." This conceit managed to touch on both the innocence of young love and the hopeful correspondence of lovers in the previous wartime generation. "All My Loving" also suggests the day after the initial fumblings detailed in "I Want To Hold Your Hand." Nighttime was the right time. Now we have to figure out where we stand, babe.

Paul was merely the side attraction during this era: the loose balloon-eyed, soft cheeked romancer who didn't even warrant his own microphone.

Robert Bunter: The surging chord progression and irresistible triplet rhythm make the song throb with tumescent, propulsive inevitability. The genteel, politely romantic sentiments of Paul’s epistle are belied by the jackhammer pant-grind of the music track. The mental image is a young man seated at a constrictive desk composing a letter to his beloved in cursive script with a quill pen, but meanwhile he is bouncing up and down violently and pawing uncontrollably at himself with the other hand. His hair is disheveled and his face glistens with sweat. His eyes betray the brittle intensity of a madman. More ape than human, he nearly knocks over the inkwell as he stumbles around looking for envelopes and a book of stamps. The demented, hollering 13-year-olds who dampened the seats of every concert hall the Beatles ever played understood that rhythm in their bones. The four young men on the TV screen were wearing fresh-pressed tailored suits and had their hair washed squeaky-clean, but that was just a subterfuge to sneak the primal sex rhythm onto the staid airwaves of a repressed nation. The children understood.

Richard Furnstein: Paul was seen as the romantic of the band, but there's a sleazy quality to the lyrics that suggests that the heart and groin can't quite meet up. "I'll pretend that I'm kissing the lips that I'm missing." Love the one you're with, indeed. Imagine Paul sending that dedication out to his girlfriend from a pungent, tossed Manhattan hotel room. A cigarette dangles from his chapped bottom lip as he dampens the envelope on the cream colored top sheet. "Fly away little bird" he says as he slides the letter to grotesque errand boy Mal Evans at the hotel restaurant. Then it's a quick adjustment of his trousers as he heads out into the brisk February night. It's a disgusting cycle, but we're all just animals. The Ouroboros can't eat itself forever.

Robert Bunter: Ew gross. How about the U.S. stereo mix on this one? Right channel is all vocals, left is all music! Isolate the right channel and you can really pick out some fascinating details, like Paul’s huffing for breath at 1:52. Meanwhile on the left channel, I think Paul hits a wrong note on his little bass at 1:19. That bass line is nuts … as Carol Kaye said in that Beach Boys documentary, “That’s a JAZZ FEEL, man!” George takes the guitar to some nice places on his little solo segment. Speaking of “solo segments,” you’ve got Paul’s voice double-tracked in unison on the first two verses, then in harmony later. Why didn’t John or George jump in there? I’ll tell you why: because Paul cut the damn track perfectly. It didn’t need any other voices on that lead, and the others were cool enough to recognize that and not make a big fuss about it.

Richard Furnstein: "How about the U.S. stereo mix on this one?" Did you honestly ask me that question? Put that mix in the garbage can with the rotting banana peels and used adhesive bandages. It's not even on my radar, man. You know my original issue Parlophone mono is one of my prized possessions. Do I look like some stupid slack jawed teen buying Meet The Beatles! at a Woolworth's in Baraboo, Wisconsin? "All My Loving" as a side closer? No thank you, sir. Please get yourself the hell out of here already. There's the door, you monster.

Robert Bunter: Ha! Great! Terrific!

Little Child

Robert Bunter: I think there are really a lot of important things we can say about "Little Child," the primal crucial track on With The Beatles. It was on this song that the Liverpool foursome was finally able to shed their happy-go-lucky image and grapple with the darker side of the '60s revolution and changing social mores. Despite its early vintage, "Little Child" represents the ritualistic transformation of the John-figure from innocence to maturity. We all must understand this.

Richard Furnstein: Listen, I'm going to be honest with you on this one. I've got nothing to say about "Little Child." I couldn't care less about John's mocking pleas for physical love, the reckless harmonica tracking, and the motorisch refrain in the fade out. We've been there before. This guy had issues with women and a tendency towards self pity when he didn't get his way. Let's do something useful with this forum. Think outside the box. Actually, do you want to talk about "Listen To What The Man Said" from Paul's 1975 solo effort "Venus And Mars"? It's been on my mind lately.

Robert Bunter: Ahem. I think there are really a lot of important things to be said about "Listen To What The Man Said," the primal crucial track on Venus And Mars. The story of Paul McCartney is the story of a guy who could write the greatest songs in human history ("Penny Lane," "You Won't See Me," "Maybe I'm Amazed"), but his real pleasure was writing catchy throwaways that played to his natural strengths in the realms of melody and personal charm ("C Moon," "When I'm 64"). It was a source of real struggle for him. The intense, committed fans were wracked with desperate thirst for more life-sustaining liquid from the same deep, profound well from whence came "You Never Give Me Your Money," but the keeper of  the keys to the bucket was just as happy doling out paper cups of brightly-colored Kool-Aid like "All Together Now" or "Your Mother Should Know" to the ignorant slack-jawed masses. For Paul, it was not about providing the deepest artistic fulfillment to the most discerning of die-hards but reaching the widest possible audience and making them smile as much as possible. At times Paul seemed to struggle with the burden of being the goose that laid the golden eggs and strive for works of elevated merit, but then he might be just as likely to turn around and unleash a defiant piece of fluff like "Silly Love Songs" or "Her Majesty." You can see where I'm going with this, right? The final mind-bending truth is that Paul's throwaway fluff was in fact the High Art all along. His true medium was AM radio and magazine clippings, not 180-gram sealed audiophile deep-groove vinyl artifacts and gilded oil paintings. "Yesterday" and "Hey Jude" were the real fluff, the second-rate album filler. The Truth was hidden in plain sight on tracks like "All My Loving" and "Listen To What The Man Said" all along.

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney fully embraced the stadium pop leanings of Wings on the Venus And Mars album. Sure, there were sugary pop moments all over the two previous Wings albums (Band On The Run and Red Rose Speedway) and on the overblown "Live and Let Die" single, but they were tempered by the low-key experimentation of the fledgling band. Even the easy listening pop of "My Love" seemed somewhat lo-fi and weedy rather than glossy and smooth. Venus and Mars found Paul McCartney in full-on mega pop monster mode (look no further than the opening number "Venus and Mars/Rock Show," a "Band On The Run" style suite that paid tribute to the stoned masses who would come out to see Wings in American stadiums). "Listen To What The Man Said" is the only pop hit on Venus And Mars, and it was strong enough to provide all the support that was needed for the Wings Over The World mega-tour. Wings had become the well-tuned/profitable/muscularly musical machine that The Beatles never were.

Robert Bunter: John Lennon did more than his share of singing about how the world needed more peace, love and understanding, but it was McCartney who actually delivered the goods. Lennon's latter-day Beatles and solo output ranged from turgid to terrifying, with stops in-between for political harangues and trite sloganeering. Albums like Plastic Ono Band invite the listener to curl up in a fetal ball under a set of headphones and painfully absorb the heavy vibes. Nightmares, tears and perhaps, by the end, redemption. But meanwhile, if you were to just take off those dusty, stinky headphones and look out the window of your darkened teenage bedroom, you might see that the whole rest of the family is outside near the swimming pool, laughing and belly-flopping while a platter of freshly-grilled hamburgers and fruit punch sits expectantly in the July sunshine. And what's on the AM radio? I'll give you one guess: it's Paul McCartney singing "Listen To What The Man Said." Listen to that clarinet happily tooting along! Lennon's tortured, epic Statements bemoaned the walls that separate us and the lack of human communication, but Paul was content to provide the soundtrack to our lives and brighten up the air with a tune so sweet it might make your teeth fall out.

Here is one anonymous listener in a comment posted under the "Listen To What The Man Said" YouTube video clip: "Ten seconds into the song tears flowed down my face, hurting/longing for the days of this songs era, and the flood of happy childhood memories the song suddenly brought to me. I would do anything to go back to that time for just a little while." Here is another: "1975 - 7 yrs old, back seat of Mom's Plymouth Valiant, headed to the beach. God, I miss those days..." And another: "This song reminds me of Summer picnics by Lake Michigan...yes, the 1970's was a great era in music!"  One more: "When this song came out in 1975, My girlfriend and I loved to sing this song together in the car at the top of our lungs. We would then laugh until our sides hurt." Check the page yourself - there are dozens of them, each more heartbreaking than the last. Paul touched the hearts of a generation and brought real love and happiness into the world at a level that scary John, sanctimonious George and drunken clown Ringo could only dream of.

Don’t read too much into it, mate, it’s just a pleasant boogie that is guaranteed to shoot straight up to the top of the charts. You’re getting into a weird area.

Richard Furnstein: For all of their hair and blood, Lennon's most grotesque demonstrations couldn't match the brutal reality portrayed in this happy-go-lucky pop song. The scene is set early: "Soldier boy kisses girl, leaves behind a tragic world." It's a fun image: horny, stupid kids having drunk fun during liberty. However, we can interpret this deceptively simple lyric two different ways. One interpretation is the act of physical love gives the man and woman a temporary escape from the horrors of war and tedium of life. The other interpretation is that the tragic world is the result of their regrettable romantic encounter. That innocent kiss lead to the conception of new life. Unfortunately, human beings are inherently evil, resulting in a lifetime of damage, wreckage, and misery. I'm inclined to take the latter interpretation of this key lyric. Indeed, the intent of that line would be the first question that I would ask Sir Paul if I ever had the chance to meet him.Remember that The Beatles were a product of post-war Europe, much like the fine-tuned pop machine of Wings was fully realized following the Vietnam War. Paul certainly knows how to bring us into his tale of passion and tragedy.

Paul lets a little light into the house with the next line. The soldier is ambivalent to the tragedy surrounding his love: "But he won't mind. He's in love and he says love is fine." It's a classic call back to the monosyllabic word play of early Beatles, including the jumbled use of the word "love" which recalls classics such as "Things We Said Today." Paul seems to be saying that we're already stuck in this world, taking our slow steps towards death. We may as well make the most of our time here. Love is a simple fix, but it will still do the trick.

Robert Bunter: That’s all as valid an interpretation as any, but I think this is one of those cases where Paul is using the lyrics as a simple decorative vehicle for his intoxicating melody, performance and production. He did the same thing on “Jet,” “C Moon,” “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey,” “Hello Goodbye,” “Come And Get It” and so many others. To quote my beloved Nicholas Schaffner, “[Paul’s solo work] brings to mind a chocolate egg – tasty, if just this side of sickly sweet, but it crumbles when you try to sink your teeth in.” The soldier boy, “the people,” “the Man” – these are all just syllables for Paul to croon while those tasty bongos, lovely Linda harmonies, funky clavinet and sprightly Dixieland clarinets do their thing. “Don’t read too much into it, mate, it’s just a pleasant boogie that is guaranteed to shoot straight up to the top of the charts. You’re getting into a weird area.” But here’s the twist: Paul’s hasty lyrical sketches may have unwittingly pulled back the curtain on Paul’s true nature far more than any of John’s nude confessionals or childhood exorcisms. Who is the titular “man”? Maybe he is Paul himself, beholding his own reflection in an infinitely-regressive funhouse mirror. What did the man say, Paul? Tell us. We are you.

Richard Furnstein: Paul is certainly no stranger to phonetic scoot babbles--especially during some of the feel good/free and easy Wings period. Think of his wordless exultation that concludes "Powercut" from the Red Rose Speedway album. I think there is more to the story here. You are right that the secret lies with uncovering the mysterious "man" in the title. I think there are a few intriguing possibilities in Advanced Man Theory:

1. Paul McCartney-Wings was Paul's show: a fully realized but necessarily loose outfit that Paul could manipulate to knock out some loose rock ("Soily") or mechanized pop sheen ("With A Little Luck"). Remember back to a haggard George battling Paul in the Let It Be movie about doubling a rote bass guitar line. George was right to fight back on the condescending Paul ("I'm only trying to help you."), and certainly used this moment to help realize the majesty of All Things Must Pass. Now Paul was reminding the record buying public that he was still the one to "listen to." His pop vision was true, steady, and--most importantly--financially sound.
2. John Lennon-It's easy to imagine a dialogue between Lennon and McCartney during their solo years. The world was hoping that these long lost brothers would be drawn back together; following a string of clues and gentle winks in their assorted solo catalogs. This theory is garbage, however. Paul was singing about Linda or marijuana-induced wordplay. John was singing about himself or Yoko. It's sad, really.
3. Brian Epstein-Paul was no stranger to looking back with love. The death of Brian Epstein signified the end of the brotherhood of The Beatles so it is easy to view him as this symbol of creative control and focus. There never was a "Man" for The Beatles. Politicians and police officers had little impact on the sheltered lives of geniuses and the gurus were quickly exposed and discarded. Brian remains as the only real position of authority who could advise these egomaniacs. 
4. The Saxophone-My favorite theory. The Man is nothing more than the dancing, exuberant specter of the saxophone that runs throughout the song. The saxophone represents the loose and free sway of music on human beings. Paul is simply requesting that his listeners sit back and give in to the dancing spirit of this wild and gentle instrument as it scales the trees, giggles on the mantle, and peeks at us through an open window.

Robert Bunter: Now you’ve got the idea. The Man is all of these and more. Paul’s breezy lightweight lyrics are a blank page that listeners can fill with all sorts of heavy interpretations, or just take them as they are. Ob-la-di Ob-la-da and all that. Paul never lost sight of the true nature of his gifts, even while the rest of us kept waiting for him to mine a deeper vein. This song is a cheeseburger. Who is “the Man?” He is Ronald McDonald, doling out infinite billions of warm round brown patties to a drooling populace lined up hundreds deep at the front counter. It ain’t filet mingon, but nobody’s leaving with an empty stomach, either. Did you know that Tom Scott was the only person to play on all four Beatles’ solo albums? It’s true! At least, I think it might be true.

Richard Furnstein: You are right, although he just did some stage work with Lennon. In a way, Tom Scott was the life glue that held this disgraced band of brothers together through the rocky (and rocking) 1970s. His expert gut control and breath force rocketed him to the top of the Los Angeles session men: a scene that the solo Beatles would rely on to anchor their temperamental solo recordings. Long gone were the glory days of "Little Child" and other carefree rockers. The only wind blowing in that time was from Lennon's primitive mouth harp. Friends supported friends, not a L.A. coke-twonker in sight.

Robert Bunter: Well that was an exhaustive analysis.

Money

Robert Bunter: The first two UK Beatles records (which I like to call “Please Please Me With Love Me Do And 12 Other Songs” and “With The Beatles”) were obviously derived from the brutal, punishing live sets they’d been perfecting for years in a series of foul, damp basements, crime-infested German beer parlors and smoky dance halls. Cover versions of American R&B rarities cribbed from scarce imported 45’s dominated the proceedings, with the balance gradually tipping toward John and Paul’s original compositions. They’d toss in a show tune or ballad for effect, but for the most part the setlists were designed to keep a bunch of sweaty black-and-white film footage teenagers in Elvis Costello glasses and bobby socks jumping up and down for hours at a time. The first two albums were crafted from the same template – start out with a lot of energy, whip up the pace with a few rest stops along the way, then sprint over the finish line with a barnburner. On the first record it was “Twist And Shout,” on the second album, “Money.” As great as these tracks are to listen to, I can’t help but feel a strong sense of “you had to be there.” Sure, there’s menacing piano riffs, pounding rhythms, throat-shredding vocals and a general sense of frenetic abandon, but what I hear more than anything else is the echo of a moment that had already come and gone by 1963 when this was released. The dank basement crowds hopping up and down for a stageful of leather-clad bruisers were already pretty much a thing of the past, replaced by packaged variety shows and established theatres within which collarless suit-clad teen idols bobbed their heads politely for crowds of pants-bedampened 12-year-olds.

Richard Furnstein: It saddens me to admit that you are right, sir. The magic was in the moment: a drunk George stumbling into his shaking Vox Amplifier; Ringo's sweat bouncing off of his pleading floor tom; Paul with both the angel and the devil on his shoulders, with his predator vision searching for this evening's beauty queen; and John's razor and bile voice projecting onto the loose stone walls, affixing to the crumbling structure like evil moss. George Martin tried his best to capture the magic. Indeed, his thick piano work is one of the greatest elements of the recorded version. However, it's easy to feel that something is missing in the final recording. Perhaps it is the result of the strict recording standards of Abbey Road. Maybe it was difficulty for The Beatles to become truly engorged in the sterile atmosphere of the studio--where George Martin's tea cozy was dampened, not the pants of innocent young adults. I posit that we perhaps are bringing unrealistic expectations to this recording. Sure, it's the final track on The Greatest Beatles Album (AKA, With The Beatles). As such, it has to both serve as a closing argument for an incredible set of primal rock songs and match the majesty of Please Please Me's final shredder "Twist And Shout." "Money" has everything, it's just that we have an odd feeling that we were here before.

Robert Bunter: The subsequent Beatles LP and single releases, from A Hard Day’s Night onward, were the event; the screaming stadium gigs were merely the shadow. The post-With The Beatles primal moments all happened on vinyl, over radio and television airwaves and in the ears/hearts/minds of a new generation. The global phenomenon was communal, shared across space and time. The callow, sweaty youth clutching his shoddy Capital stereo mix “Beatles VI” LP in the cashier line at Gloanburg’s Record Mart at the Springfield Mall in 1985; a wise old Japanese man chuckling softly at a re-run Beatles cartoon on satellite television in a dank Osaka noodle house; the pretty young office girl who was lucky enough to personally witness the Apple rooftop concert in 1969 from across the street; even the post-modern, decontextualized young lad with the Justin Beiber haircut, meaninglessly streaming rare bit torrent Get Back outtakes onto his web cloud mp3 accumulator and asking for a 180-gram vinyl copy of the Sgt. Pepper 2012 remaster for Christmas – they are all equal participants in a transcendent cultural experience. The primal, pre-Beatlemania dance hall rave-ups, unfortunately, were only for there and then. You blinked and you missed it. Listening to “Money” is no substitute. Frankly, other than the great Beatles shows, life was probably pretty lousy for those long-forgotten participants. Everything was in black and white, the air was briny with decomposing fish and all they ate was beans and “crisps.” Jitterbugging wildly to primitive beat groups was their only chance for emotional release; before long they grew up to be snaggle-toothed housewives or German gangsters, like their parents.

The dank basement crowds hopping up and down for a stageful of leather-clad bruisers were already pretty much a thing of the past, replaced by packaged variety shows and established theatres within which collarless suit-clad teen idols bobbed their heads politely for crowds of pants-bedampened 12-year-olds.

Richard Furnstein: Think about it: The Beatles represented the Allies, returning to Germany to check on a defeated nation. They found a generation of reckless degenerates, wallowing in their life mistakes and burning through stolen Jewish gold. The Beatles were swept up by this world of "no tomorrow" sleaze: living in a porn theater, swallowing dusty pharmaceuticals, and hobnobbing with beautiful hipsters named Klaus and Astrid. The best things in life were indeed free for these charming Brits: unprotected sex, mystery pills, misguided "happenings," and delicious weisswurst sandwiches from the club's canteen. They would later attempt to bring the excitement of Hamburg back to Liverpool (and then the world) but the vibe was shattered. Sure, the casual sex, drugs, and sandwiches would grow along with their fame, but The Beatles soon became a tedious job. Their version of "Money" came at the right time; they knew they had made their choice and were willing to accept everything that came along with it.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s clear they were making a deeper point with this particular song choice, not unlike “Everybody’s Trying To Be My Baby” on Beatles For Sale. The group’s relationship with money evolved over their career. From a group of showbiz phenoms on the make (Reporter at press conference: “Will you sing something for us?” Beatles, in unison: “We need money first.” Reporter: “What are you going to do with all the money?” Beatles, in unison: “What money?”), by Revolver they had matured to complaining about Her Majesty’s 95-percent tax rate for their income bracket. During their spiritual phase, they shunned the material world, asserting (incorrectly) that “fun is the one thing that money can’t buy” and spitting contempt at materialistic “Piggies.” By the time of Abbey Road’s elegiac “You Never Give Me Your Money,” the same economic windfall that had been the source of so much gleeful celebration in 1964 (“Let’s write ourselves another swimming pool!”) had soured the relationships at the heart of the band and dissolved the very Love which they’d evoked so convincingly in song. John’s harsh delivery of “Money” in 1963 reflects these budding ambiguities. One the one hand, the song is a sarcastic, ironic lampoon of crass materialism; yet one simultaneously gets the distinct impression that they meant it.

Richard Furnstein: They definitely meant it. "Money" represents the vikings at the start of their voyage: The Beatles are full of ambition and ready to feast on the world. Compare the verve of this recording to the resigned millionaire sign-off of the previously mentioned "You Never Give Me Your Money." Better yet, put on John Lennon's crass lurch through the song on the Live Peace In Toronto 1969 album. Lennon can barely stay awake in this bloated version. His white suit on his ghostly frame, expensive habit in his arms, and late period Howard Hughes beard make him seem like a terrifying hippie dream of the monopoly man. Eric Clapton adds some professional solo work. High dollar to be sure, but lacking the heart and craft of Harrison. Yoko is dancing in a bag. Does anything scream "money" more than performance art? And who's that on bass? The very embodiment of the artistic and intellectual freedoms of those German salad days: Klaus Voormann. 

Robert Bunter: Klaus. Hip German existentialist friend from the early days. Drew the cover of Revolver. Played bass on many solo records. A total key influence and behind-the-scenes buddy. Klaus. Never wrote a cash-in tell-all book; always playing it close to the chest in his cordial appearances in Beatles documentaries. Solid dude. Voormann. Call him up if you need a favor, or just to talk about the old days. A knowing nod, a whispered word, a hand on the shoulder. Don’t worry, it’s all been taken care of. It’s good to hear from you, Klaus. A friend. Klaus.

Klaus.

Til There Was You

Richard Furnstein: The emergence of doe-eyed Paul McCartney: the ladies' choice. Paul graced the world with his manboy presence, with a quiet sparkle in his doll-like face and a jutty rhythm that worked through his broad shoulders and confident knees. John was the leader and--at the time of With The Beatles--the primary songwriter of The Beatles. Paul was merely a nice accent piece; he'd provide gentle relief from John's frequent misogynistic breakdowns as well as a solid Little Richard impersonation. It always seemed unusual that Paul's "All My Loving" kicked off their Ed Sullivan appearance. I'm not saying was suffering in the George sub-basement, but he really wouldn't emerge as a true counterpart to Lennon until possibly "Yesterday" or Rubber Soul. "Til There Was You" was essentially a showcase of this limited concept of Paul's role in the band: a rough balladeer who sang as much with his large eyes as his honey throat. Is there any real difference between this and similar showcases for Ringo as the C&W goofball?

Robert Bunter: Of course there’s a “real difference,” Richard. Remember, this elegant show tune was part of the group’s repertoire since the rough-and-ready days of Hamburg 1962 at least, if not the mythical Liverpool Cavern itself. This wasn’t some light-in-the-loafers smoochery tacked on for sales appeal by “fancy” manager Brian Epstein or staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin. This song is part of the underground root-ball from which the whole Beatle plant would eventually grow – the budding sprouts of emotional directness and harmonic sophistication that define the Paul-stalk of this magnificent plant are audible here. If the Beatles had consisted entirely of Lennon’s ferocious moods and angular artistic sensibility, their sublime balance of forces would have been disturbed. Paul warbles a bit of sweet poetry with disarming sincerity and the ladies swoon, but behind the sweet fragrant meadows and winging birds there is a terrifying emptiness. We’re not getting any of Paul’s real emotions, just a nicely crafted bit of Tin Pan Alley doggerel and a lovely melody. This may be the ultimate McCartney song, not despite but because of the fact that he didn’t write it.

Richard Furnstein: It certainly has the vital life-stuff of later sophisticants like "Things We Said Today" and "Yesterday." "Til There Was You" finds a man lightened by love embracing the bustling life and activity that surrounds him. Every step along the noise, warmth, and light of the waking world is a pure delight. While The Beatles would fully mine this territory in the psychedelic years (the cartoonish "tangerine trees and marmalade skies" representing heightened senses), Paul's childlike wonder truly sells this song. Does he pronounce the word "saw" as "sawr"? That's adorable.

"Til There Was You" is so exaggeratedly mawkish you could imagine The Beatles making goony faces and miming spastic convulsions at the kids when the mums, dads and Mr. Epstein were looking the other way.

Robert Bunter: This track also represents the first hints of self-conscious parody and pastiche in the group’s catalogue. “Til There Was You” seems to be delivered with a bit of an ironic wink; on the one hand, it seems to say “Look at us! A gang of drunken provincial teds with loud guitars, but we can play standards, too. A little something for everybody, ‘ey wot?” At the same time, the song is so exaggeratedly mawkish you could imagine them making goony faces and miming spastic convulsions at the kids when the mums, dads and Mr. Epstein were looking the other way, not unlike Eddie Haskell charming Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver with a little soft-shoe dancing but meanwhile he just dared Beaver and Whitey to climb up onto the billboard and fall into the ersatz soup bowl and the firemen have to come and get them down. This mischeivious, parodic approach would become a career staple, especially for McCartney: “When I’m 64,” “Your Mother Should Know,” “Honey Pie” and “Gotta Sing, Gotta Dance,” to name just four.

Richard Furnstein: "Til There Was You" should be nothing more than a sweet contrast on With The Beatles, their greatest (and most rocking) LP. However, the performance of the song at the Royal Variety Performance would elevate the song in the story of The Beatles. In this performance, Paul plays the sweet bard singing into the deep eyes and hallowed loins of the busty young Queen Elizabeth II. It was a huge moment as this group of rough lads with dead mothers from Liverpool were introduced to the ruling class that they would soon replace in terms of wealth, social culture, and national pride. Lennon later let tried to assert The Beatles (or rock and roll culture) had surpassed Jesus Christ and a host of associated angels. Bold, to be sure. I'd say the America-baiting "sacrilegious" comments and the burning of Beatles records by cross-eyed American rednecks had their origins in the ego trip that was the performance of this gentle number from The Music Man.

Robert Bunter: I would say that, too. And that’s why I would say you were wrong at the outset when you tried to tell me this crucial landmark was in the same ballpark as Ringo warbling his way through “Act Naturally” or “Honey Don’t.” When you look under the surface, you’ll find that there’s a lot more going on than meets the eye, not unlike the episode of ALF where bumbling paterfamilias Willie Tanner reads an accidentally-discovered space diary and learns that the wisecracking, happy-go-lucky orange Muppet he calls “Alf” is in fact Gordon Shumway, a highly-advanced space traveler who spends sleepless nights in the garage brooding over the fate of his doomed romance with sweet Rhonda and the countless melancholy light years which preclude the redemptive return to his primal home on the planet Melmac.

Richard Furnstein: Ha!

Roll Over Beethoven

Richard Furnstein: "Roll Over Beethoven" was a bold mission statement when Chuck Berry recorded the song in 1956. "Hey, Mr. DJ, stop playing that boring dead person music and put on this exciting blues-cum-redneck monstrosity that will surely impregnate your daughter." The dead composers in the lyrics were just symbols for the conservative European conception of music/art/lifestyle/existence. "Dig to these rhythm and blues" wasn't an invitation to enjoy this new brand of music, it was a request to dig your own grave because your world was over. "Time's up!" said Chuck, and the old white people clapped and went on with their boring racist lives. These same morons later made a movie about a clumsy dog named Beethoven tormenting Charles (Chuck?) Grodin. Get it? Dogs roll over.

Anyway, mild-mannered and gentle voiced George Harrison took this stomping declaration of cultural awakenings and turned it into a nostalgic stomp about rockings past. Beethoven and Tschaikowsky were completely dead at this point. America was advancing toward civil rights, but little George Harrison genuinely wanted to write a letter to his local disc jockey to hear his favorite rock n' roll record and that is that. I'm certainly not implying that George was misguided to sing "Roll Over Beethoven." I actually consider it a sweet reminder of the changes that took place in eight years.

Robert Bunter: That's right, jack. Roll over, Chuck Berry. The Beatles probably considered this song as a great, inspirational rocker that they were comfortable with from their live set so why not use it to pad out the album? They probably weren't aware that they were actually heralding the dawn of another revolutionary moment. Forget about the sexually-threatening duck-walker in the black-and-white TV footage. George and the boys are unwittingly sounding the alarm about a group of four colorful young lads who will preach the gospel of love, independent thought, honesty and optimism to a generation of blank-minded kids in coonskin caps and 3-D glasses. Those kids internalized the message and proceeded to recklessly abuse narcotics and cluster together in squalid "crash pads" with infested mattresses and bloodshot eyes. The 1950s squares who were upset about Chuck Berry didn't know how good they had it; in retrospect, they would be happy to have their daughters impregnated by this stylish hipster with his energetic take on T-Bone Walker's innovations from the '40s and songs about snappy automobiles and hamburgers. The moptops delivered something far more harmful.

Richard Furnstein: Now you got my attention! Chuck Berry was only hinting at one night's revolution: pitching a ball and driving fast cars. The Beatles helped introduce the world to cosmic seers, the thick hairy ropes inside high grade lysergic, and regressive psychotherapy. Greasers popping wheelies and speed in the malt shop parking lot don't sound so bad after that, eh?

George and the boys are unwittingly sounding the alarm about a group of four colorful young lads who will preach the gospel of love, independent thought, honesty and optimism to a generation of blank-minded kids in coonskin caps and 3-D glasses.

"Roll Over" also suggested that the return to Year Zero was upon us again. We were ready to turn the page on the roots of rock and roll, as we came to know and love this group of shape-shifting Brits that would continually renew our collective culture. Roll over, Ludwig and Elvis and Chuck and Herman's. You are all useless now. The Beatles would later prove that their earlier selves were useless as they burned through a series of drugs, shirt patterns, intellectual foundations, and mustaches. The Inferiors would try to stumble in their wake, buying Beatle boots and letting their sideburns tickle their ears. It would be a futile exercise as The Beatles kept advancing, ripping the calendar off the wall with every new release/promotional appearance/publicity stunt. What day is it today? It's the birth of a new age, Scrooge. Put your new flavored trousers on, stroll down to the group sex demonstration in Trafalgar and smoke angel dust with some Pakistani prophets.

Robert Bunter: OK, stop belaboring the point! Ha, just kidding. Let's take a listen to the music. The boys do a credible job on this one; none of the whitewashed antiseptic blandness that all too often was the result when black '50s rock legends were subjected to cover versions. George pays respectful homage to the master's licks, but the Beatles unashamedly put their own stamp on this one with the trademark Merseybeat sound: double-tracked vocals, Ringo's unrelenting drum hurricane, special studio effects (handclaps). At the beginning it sounds like George actually says "WE," as in, "We're gonna write a little letter / gonna mail it to my local DJ." He subsequently reverts to the first person, but the point had been made.

Richard Furnstein: He definitely says "we." I'm not sure how to take that. Most likely George was just wrapped up in the moment (that guitar lick sure is exciting), pushed by adrenalin and Ringo's dopecruncher beat. However, I like to imagine George is fantasizing writing a joint letter with the one and only Chuck Berry to their mutual local DJ. It's an impossible dream, but still exciting. George hunched over his father Harold's drafting table, while Chuck dictates the letter to him. Chuck is probably duck walking as he tries to finish his carefully crafted sentences. George made samosas for this crucial summit but Chuck declines. Politely.

Robert Bunter: Ah, I see. The two representatives of the new world order drafting a progressive charter that would forever change history. Mindful of the past, looking toward the future. Beautiful!

Not A Second Time

Robert Bunter: The black-and-white Beatles. Four young men re-writing the rules and laughing every step of the way. Dark overcoats, gloomy London fog and minor-key tonalities somehow seemed bright and joyous when the moptops did it. “Not A Second Time,” like all of the other songs on With The Beatles, finds our heroes on the glorious cusp of much greater things – so much so that it’s difficult not to see these early triumphs as little more than appetizers for impending glorious entrees (like the bathtub scene in Hard Day’s Night, “I Don’t Want To Spoil The Party,” the Sgt. Pepper's insert badges, Rubber Soul, the picture on the back of the Revolver sleeve,  the Penny Lane promo film, the Maureen Cleave interviews, “Hey Bulldog,” the White Album, the Apple boutique, Paul-Is-Dead rumors and, lord help us, “Old Brown Shoe”). But the wonderful “Not A Second Time” deserves to be appreciated on its own terms.

Richard Furnstein: I'll tell you what, I would run a "Great Lost Beatles Songs!" feature if I was a British music magazine editor. And you know what would be at the top of the list? Well, probably "Woman," a McCartney composition for Peter and Gordon (under the pseudonym Bernard Webb). Number two would definitely be "Not A Second Time." It takes a little digging to get to this one. It's buried deep in the With The Beatles tracklist and initially appears like a minor composition next to George's hair shaking reading of "Devil In Her Heart" and John ripping the house apart with "Money." "Not A Second Time" is John in a familiar early setting: perfect girl group melodies devoted to how women are the source of all of his pain. It's a reliable formula, and I think "Not A Second Time" is the best of the John songs about weeping. "My cry is through/Oh whoa oh!" might be my favorite couplet in all of Lennonland.

I’ll tell you what: I’d be bobbing my head up and down really hard and asking George for a cigarette. I don’t even smoke!

Robert Bunter: Yeah, all the usual ingredients are here – the lurching beat, piano embellishments, clever chord movement, tearful lyrics, double-tracked Lennon-moans. The thing is, those “usual ingredients” are “delicious” and I would love to “eat” them at every single “meal.” You can really hear the studio ambience on this recording, which makes it easy to picture yourself there with them, in the room. I’ll tell you what: I’d be bobbing my head up and down really hard and asking George for a cigarette. I don’t even smoke! Here’s something that’s great about this song: the fade-out. John has already served us a fully satisfying dish, and we’re ready to call for the check and gather our cloak from the lobby hangers. But what’s this? Dessert! An extra little section that evokes the rest of the song without repeating it. Thank you so much, Mr. Lennon. I plan to tip handsomely.

Richard Furnstein: It's all in the spirit of the season, my old friend. Lennon is breaking bread with us. He was a fool. Hell, he is the first to admit it! But let's realize that he's learned his lesson. Oh wait, now he's crying again in the outro. Listen, John. We're here if you need us. Forget about your girl troubles and pass the gravy.

Robert Bunter: Sorry guys. I've already eaten all the gravy.

All I've Got To Do

Robert Bunter: This great song seems to perfectly sum up the vibe of the Beatles' second album. Which is not The Beatles Second Album, of course. We're talking about With The Beatles. Get with the program! The show starts with a perplexing augmented chord. Then the song moves to a minor, with a herky-jerky stop-start drum beat that seems to burst with hesitant tension. John's voice is husky and emotional. The tension is broken when the drum beat normalizes for a few bars, then the whole thing repeats. The excitement builds on the bridge. Another verse, another chorus, fade to black. This song packs more of an emotional punch than a lot of the early rockers.

Richard Furnstein: The slow drag on that augmented chord is one of my favorite Beatles moments. The boys just got done rearranging your pubescent brain with "It Won't Be Long," and that funny chord helps you settle into one of a few primal steamers on With The Beatles (their best album). Lennon keeps it minor, but Ringo's sloppy gallop gives this song plenty of rock and roll push. There are few progressions prettier than that F#m-Am-E resolution in the verses. Mercy!

Robert Bunter: Yep.

The skeleton of all that was potent and groovy about these alien geniuses.

Richard Furnstein: "Yep." That's all the second song on the best album by the greatest musical group in world history gets me? From a supposed Beatlemaniacal expert? Disappointing. This is the second song on the album that saw The Beatles in the international spotlight. The hitter before the knockout "All My Loving" (the crucial All Corridor). A song that linked The Beatles' love of primal girl group sounds (dig those distorted drums and simple soaring backups) to their sweaty testosterone filled stage show. The skeleton of all that was potent and groovy about these alien geniuses. A song that fades away like a late summer's day, all still air and content sighs. "Yep." That and a plate of meatballs gets you a greasy handshake in Little Italy, my friend.

Robert Bunter: Yep.

Devil In Her Heart

Richard Furnstein: I can't even begin to tell you how much I love this one. George stands on his tippy toes and pretends he is John. It's so sweet and charming that I could puke. Little kid brother does his cool brother proud. This is the George that could have been; a light headed rock machine that makes the most mundane passages sound a bit off (ethnic?) because of his weird shaped mouth. It's a George without creative insecurities or half-baked Eastern philosophies. The Beatles just dress him up with an oversized Gretsch and point him to the microphone. "You sing this one, Georgie! Wait until you get a load of this, Little George is just like a big bad rocker!"

Robert Bunter: What I really like about this one is the vocal harmonies. The blend is thick and syrupy, with melancholy jazz chords flowing like molten brown cocoa butter from the mouths of three hard-rockin' British lads. It must have taken a lot of practice to get those parts right. I would have really enjoyed the chance to sit in on those rehearsal sessions. 

What's that, ma? No, I don't think I'm going to get that haircut we were planning on.

Richard Furnstein: When people ask me why With The Beatles is the greatest Beatles album, I just give the four word answer "Devil In Her Heart." It provides endless excitement, in part because you are bound to forget about this song and its perfect sound and performance. It's up there with "Little Child" and "Chains" as the most forgettable Beatles songs. And, you know what? Shame on you, brain. It's an album track like "Devil In Her Heart" that turns a great album into the best album possible. The performance shows the boys providing plenty of restraint. They may have been wild dogs trained in the depths of Germany's rock and roll toilets, but you wouldn't know if from the gentle push of this song.

Robert Bunter: So much of the early Beatles repertoire was aimed at the screaming nubile ladypersons who made up more than half of their audience in those days, but this is a song for the boys. The lyric is addressed to a male listener, of course, but I'm talking about the overall sound. This is something you could put on the plastic record player in your green 1964 adolescent room after you've just come home from riding your bike through the woods trails behind old man Gruber's vacant lot. Go ahead and take off your baseball cap, wipe the sweat from your brow and let the masculine yet sensitive sounds of this strange new band take your mind away. Maybe it's time to start saving the paper route money for that aqua-colored Harmony plug-in guitar you saw last week in the window at Gloanburg's. What's that, ma? No, I don't think I'm going to get that haircut we were planning on.

Till There Was You

Robert Bunter: Okay, I guess we've got to deal with this one now. Paul puts on his cutie-pie mask for pretty much the first time here. The Beatles were a gang of rough-and-rowdy Liverpool street toughs, swigging ale and pep pills as they slugged their way to the toppermost of the poppermost. But at least one of them was eager to make sure every listener knew that they were all-round family entertainers. Four charming lads who could schmaltz it up with the best of the smarmy lounge lizards. That one was Paul McCartney.

Richard Furnstein: Yeah, thank goddess for the sweet puppy breathed Paul. Don't get me wrong, I love the rock n' roll side of things. I want the Beatles to be a street gang, cutting throats of promoters and catching exotic sexual diseases from foreign prostitutes. I'm sure Paul had his fair share of uncomfortable drips.

But listen: this song plays a crucial role on the Beatles' finest album. It's the moment in Act II where Paul opens a door in the back of the Cavern Club. Instead of a utility closet or another dank passageway, he is suddenly in a world of beautiful music, fragrant meadows (!), and gentle bongos. Imagine light, jasmine, and butterflies entering the staid (yet iconic) cover shoot for With The Beatles. Don't look at "Till There Was You" as drippy soft serve in a land of rock perfection. Instead, view it as a necessary palette cleanser in the most delicious multiple-course meal. Thank you for the relief and sweet gentle tones, Paul.

Robert Bunter: "Hey, fellas, let's do this saccharine pop tune from 'The Music Man'! It'll be a hilarious goof! Plus, we've got to show that we're versatile entertainers! Won't it be great to mix this one in with all the Little Richard screamers? Plus, the moms will love it! This will be a great chance to win their hearts, right! Plus ..."

Richard Furnstein: "Great idea, Paul. George, Ringo, and I agree that you are the greatest Beatle and you come up with great ideas for our rock albums. Maybe someday we should try that quiet storm classic that you've been kicking around for years, 'I'll Follow The Sun.' It can play the same role on a future triumph, smoothing out our rockin' bandit facial acne and inviting a blizzard of panties on stage. Thanks for everything you do, Paul."

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it's pretty gross. Even if you're inclined to cut Paul some slack and enjoy this one on its own terms, it's hard not to puke a little bit from his affected cuteness. The one redeeming factor is a completely advanced guitar solo. Who taught George how to play like that? He didn't learn those riffs at the Reeperbahn, I'll wager! Not bad, man.

Richard Furnstein: Good point, George gets credit for roughly 43% of those tossed panties.

Please Mister Postman

Richard Furnstein: John Lennon pleads with a common civil servant for a letter from his distant girlfriend. He's sure that something should be arriving; hell, he's been waiting for such a long time. The song was originally written for a woman to sing, and the long distance love angle at that time makes the most sense as a soldier writing home to his sweetheart. However, John's appeal to the postman just makes it seem like his high school girlfriend went off to college while he stayed in their hometown to work in a drug store. Settle down, John. She's probably grinding to some Shabba Ranks at a freshman mixer at Delta Omega. See, you should have tried harder in high school. You just played your guitar, listened to girl group singles, and acted bummed out about your dead mom. Now you are stuck at home with no real future, counting the days until winter break so you can officially get your dumb heart broken. Stupid.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, what a sad state of affairs for our downtrodden Liverpudlian hero. I guess all he can do now is leave the goddamn mailbox behind and mope over to Pete Best's house (his mom lets the boys use the front room for rock and roll practice) to meet his friends. Before you know it, they're smoking fags (effeminate British cigarettes), trading smutty jokes and laughing uproariously. Now it's time to plug in the cheap guitars and have band practice. While Ms. Best smiles indulgently over the whistling teapot in the nearby kitchen, four young lads are crafting the big beat sound that will soon seduce the entire planet. Pretty soon they'll be rich and famous with more girls than they know what to do with. Some other sad adolescent will be left to mope in his stinky bedroom while his beloved is off getting shagged by Mal Evans in the hospitality suite at the Beatles' plush hotel in the city. What can he do? Nothing but pick up a guitar and wail away the pain, in the process creating a new rock and roll sound that will soon set the world on its ear. That young man's name? Declan Patrick MacManus ... perhaps you know him as ELVIS COSTELLO. The cycle of life continues.

Richard Furnstein: Get ready for this, readers. This is the best John Lennon vocal track in his entire recorded output. Good lord, it rips me open. "Please Mister Postman" also has one of my favorite Beatles moments: Listen for John's vocal on "Deliver the letta, the sooner the bet...You gotta wait a minute, wait a minute..." He's so full of pure passion and anxiety that he can't even finish his simple rhyme, "better" is clipped to become "bet" and he is left screaming at the hapless postman.

Robert Bunter: I can't argue with you, man.

Richard Furnstein: Extra credit goes to the Carpenters for their completely neutered version. Where John seems like he'll kill himself if another afternoon goes by without this crucial letter, Karen gently reminds the postman that she should probably receive some kind of correspondence. "Oh, nothing? Sorry, sir. I'll continue to wait patiently. Have a great day!"

It Won't Be Long

Richard Furnstein: My stock answer to the common question "What's the best Beatles album lead-off track?" Simpletons tend to say "Come Together" or "Taxman," but I come in with "It Won't Be Long" and their world just collapses under the weight of my utter brilliance. Feel free to use that, it's my gift to you.

Robert Bunter: This was the first Beatle track that really crystallized their many strengths. The infectious excitement, innovative composition/arrangement and flawless performance are all present and accounted for. The world was about to fall in love, and songs like this explain why.

The end of this song adds the perfect note of melancholy resignation to an otherwise supernaturally peppy rocker. Leave it to the Fabs to know just when to pull a stunt like that! Did I mention this was a
great band? Why did they have to break up? I tell you one thing: the '70s, '80s and '90s would have been so much better if they'd kept going. It is completely inconceivable to me that they wouldn't be able keep up similarly superhuman levels of achievement for another 30 years. I'm sure they wouldn't have put out any bad songs or albums in years like 1974 or 1981 or 1993.

Richard Furnstein: I've had endless daydreams about that 1993 album. Don Fleming produced it, so it's got that bright grunge sheen. John is still dead in this scenario, but George picks up his slack nicely. Features some ace guest percussion from Porno For Pyros' sticksman Stephen Perkins.

Wait, why am I wasting time on this hair brained fantasy. Leave that filler for our write-ups on "A Taste Of Honey" or "Boys." This song is the real deal. The Beatles distill their rock and girl group roots and write one of their greatest songs. Lennon talks about crying over a girl again, and it doesn't matter if it is his dead mama or some local cutie pie. He's gotta make this happen, and he's excited about the prospects (probably not his dead mama, then).

Hand it to the Beatles on this one. They took their early "yeah yeah yeah yeah" trademark and beat it into the ground in the greatest manner possible. A god damned all time triumph. Dig it out immediately and your brains will explode with delight.

Don't Bother Me

Richard Furnstein: The story is that George was sick in bed and decided to try writing a song. The result is a statement of intent for a million grumpy George songs. Usually he's moaning about stupid people who are unable to embrace their inner peace and wisdom; here he is just upset because his girlfriend is out of town.

Robert Bunter: The inimitable gawky younger brother persona of George Harrison was never more apparent than here. However, just like his betters (John and Paul) George was already using startling, out-of-the-ordinary chord progressions and song structures. Not too bad! A quintessential distillation of the elusive "Mersey Sound." You can just see the dark overcoats and black-and-white photography and tins of beans with English "crisps."

Richard Furnstein: The other Beatles all contribute percussion and clicks and clacks to George's song, perhaps in an attempt to shadow any awkwardness in his delivery. It's like when Michael Wagener famously dumped banging percussion overdubs all over the crummy basic takes for Mötley Crüe's debut album Too Fast For Love.

Robert Bunter: George would not write a comparable song until 1974's "Far East Man." I must admit, I'm supposed to be listening to "Don't Bother Me" over and over while I write this, but I just put on "Far East Man" instead. When can I talk about this one?