Get Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

In My Life

Richard Furnstein: "In My Life" is John's first journey through his past. While future songs like "Strawberry Fields Forever," "Mother," and "Julia" would filter nostalgia through his pain and longing, "In My Life" is all John's surface level memories. It's his painful childhood, sure, but it could just as easily take you to your happiest childhood memories. Black and white waterlogged photos of Fred Lennon, Julia Lennon, and Stuart Sutcliffe haunt this song, but you probably just see photos of your childhood dog and Ms. Boland, your beautiful and pert second grade teacher. The early draft featured more specific references to Liverpool landmarks, including Strawberry Field and Penny Lane, but the final version cuts out those sensitive bits to better convey the general life experience. This is your life, my life, our life. Let's weep for what we've lost and toast to the days ahead.  

Robert Bunter: Cheers, mate! I think you’ve got it right. John offers one of his typically navel-gazing self portraits, yet the presentation allows us all to make the emotional connection. If you list all of John’s many songwriting personas, then cross-reference which songs belong to which persona in a comprehensive pdf file with flow graphs and “pie” chart [attached], you’ll find “In My Life” emerged from the same gentle John mindspace as “Dear Prudence,” “All You Need Is Love,” the background vocal parts on “She’s Leaving Home” (the parents’ voices, a masterpiece of Lennon empathy) and “Because.” This was the most loveable of the many Johns we were blessed to know – a vulnerable yet wise and loving friend-figure. How great would it be to sit around and shoot the breeze with this wistful dreamer, perhaps over a pint of lager in some damp Liverpool dive? The only problem is, how long would it be until the terrifying monster of “Hey Bulldog” and “I Am The Walrus” [see attached chart] reared its bloodshot, leonine head? Not long, I’d wager.  

Richard Furnstein: Not long at all! I'd bet that John's eyes would cloud at the end of pint two (maybe pint three during the chunky Help! years), unleashing the vicious fang-toothed Lennon. A man who would cauterize his crippling fear of rejection and inadequacy with a dangerous blend of drugs, fractured gurus, and rage-filled wit. The pie chart should consider the true golden hour between the contemplative dreamer ("and I'm not the only one") and the self-hating psychopath ("no one I think is in my tree"), a man who was eager to connect his emotions and experiences with other humans. This Lennon Version was refreshingly non-self obsessed--in fact, his most effective use of this voice was decidedly global. "All You Need Is Love" was famously broadcast across the world via satellite. A song like "In My Life" is a much more personal version of a wide-reaching transmission. Sit down and cry, love. We'll get through this together.  

Robert Bunter: Well, whichever Lennon persona we’re dealing with here, he has created an almost painfully beautiful tune. The mood of rose-tinged nostalgia is perfectly evoked by the introductory guitar riff (reminiscent of a young child studiously practicing his music exercises), the chord progression (a blend of fake-classical formality with 1950’s pop conventions and just a few touches of the Beatles’ characteristic harmonic innovations - the flat vii chord on “with lovers and friends”), the arrangement (stop-start drum lurches from Ringo, nice cymbal chimes on the bridge and George Martin’s faux-harpsichord solo – actually, it was a sped-up piano) and the lovely vocal harmonies. John saves his best and most emotionally devastating moment for the very end. I’m talking, of course, about the falsetto “In myyyyyy life” that closes out this beautiful track. John knew that his falsetto was an absolute killer, every bit the equal of Paul’s main vocal trick (glorious throat-shredding rock belting). When John sings really high (“Happiness Is A Warm Gun,” “She’s Leaving Home”), grown men weep. And those men are me.  

I think you’re right about the angels

Richard Furnstein: Those men are we, old friend. The track is lovely. The introductory guitar riff is incredibly beautiful, largely because of the fumbling guitar student aspect. The slow plunking of the open E string at the end of the figure is such a naked and emotional sound. I can hear the entire moment in that one note: that slow and ringing E is pregnant with the paint on the studio wall, the snare ringing delicately, dragons of smoke curling from the ashtrays on top of Vox amplifiers. The rhythm of that repeated note always seems a touch off, or perhaps it is just too delicate and perfect. The first blossom of spring that could be crushed before it fully opens up to the sun. McCartney later claimed that he wrote the music for the track. While it doesn't sound quite like a John backing track (the closest song in the catalog may be "I'm Only Sleeping"), I can't say it really suits McCartney's style either. I'd say that God and all of his angels most likely wrote this track. Geniuses are allowed to have a few moments of divine inspiration, right?

Robert Bunter: I think you’re right about the angels. This is a song that really fits nicely into the warm vibe of Rubber Soul. Despite some jagged emotional shards poking out from “Norwegian Wood,” “Run For Your Life,” “Girl” and “I’m Looking Through You,” overall the album is suffused with a nice emotional warmth, a golden glow. The next record, which I like to call “Revolver,” presents a much sharper, acidic feeling. So, let’s summarize: a beautiful song, written by angels, which melds Lennon’s autobiographical impulses with a larger desire to find universal human connections, nicely recorded in a smoky studio with Vox amplifiers by a nice man who we’d like to share a beer with.  

Richard Furnstein: Thanks for tidying up the place, Robert. Let's publish this and wait for the money to come pouring in.

Original Beatles fan art by Scott McMicken (www.drdogmusic.com)

I Want To Tell You

Robert Bunter: I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this is unquestionably the highlight of Revolver, which is unquestionably the highlight of the Beatles’ career. That makes George Harrison the best Beatle, thus the best human. Somebody call the people at the World Almanac and have that inserted into all future editions. There are many people who’ll put down George’s early contributions to the catalog, and I’m one of them. But he was shot out of a goddamn rocket on Revolver. “Taxman” was a bracing opener, but “I Want To Tell You” shows that he has managed to equal his older Beatle brothers – not just in infectious pop craftsmanship, but harmonic, lyrical and formal innovation. You’ve got the unusual fade in with a disorienting rhythmic stagger that makes it difficult to tell where the beat falls, the bold yet appropriate use of dissonance, the freaky Eastern harmonies on “I’ve got time” over the fade – I could go on. Simply, this is a knockout home run touchdown to win the championship. The opponents have all been defeated.  

Richard Furnstein: This is the part where I tell you that you are completely wrong, right? WRONG. You are actually right. I've always considered "I Want To Tell You" one of the purest and most beautiful Beatles songs. It suggests an age of discovery that is rooted in bubblegum while hinting at the weirdness and ambition that would catapult The Beatles past mere saccharine treats. I imagine super intelligent aliens would produce something similar to "I Want To Tell You" if you gave them a copy of a 1910 Fruitgum Company album and some gentle early-generation drugs. As you said, it was such an incredible accomplishment for George Harrison at that stage. It's only a year removed from such awkward fare as "I Need You" and "You Like Me Too Much," yet the quality of his Harrison's Revolver material suggests a complete reevaluation of his songwriting contributions to The Beatles. "I Want To Tell You" is the best of the bunch and never sounds like a gangly younger brother of John and Paul's muscle man songs. I honestly don't know if either of them could come up with a song that so perfectly balances innocence and tension.  

Robert Bunter: It’s just exciting, man. This song has an irresistible energy and drive. For once, George’s thick, phlegmy Liverpool accent is perfectly suited to the music. Major buddies John and Paul chime in on wonderful harmonies, of course. Can you imagine how good the guitar solo would have been, if there was one? The lyrics evoke the world of emotions that George was likely feeling during this heady time. Sure, there were countless meaningless groupie conquests and late-night snogs at the Bag O’ Nails club, but in the swirl there may have been a few young ladies who inspired real feelings in this sensitive young man. His fast-paced world didn’t allow their full expression, however. Picture it: Stockholm. 1965. George slowly awakens, looking slim and fit in his fashionable “Swinging London” undertrousers. Last night’s “bird” slumbers gracefully beside him. Gerte (or was it Fabiene?) had some surprisingly complex thoughts on Dylan’s latest LP, and her hair had that great smell that you only get to smell once in a while. Of course, she was stunningly beautiful. They laughed all night, and when she smiled it lit up the whole room. But now it’s 6:45 a.m. and the cold grey dawn is seeping into the windows of this luxury Stockholm hotel. “Eppy” (dapper Beatles manager Brian Epstein) is on the phone and it’ll soon be time to catch the limo to the airport. The horrible shrieking of thousands of kids outside is already audible. Jesus, I don’t even have time to brush my teeth. What was her name again? “I’ll probably never see her again,” George thinks to himself, and he was right. Later that afternoon on the private airplane, George stares out the window, lost in melancholy thought as the other Beatles laugh uproariously in the course of a card game. Mal Evans is wearing a cowboy hat and everybody’s listening to Herman and the Hermits 45’s at the wrong speed. Now that you’re inside George’s headspace, put “I Want To Tell You” on again and you’ll know exactly where he was coming from. That’s the true story of how it happened.

Later that afternoon on the private airplane, George stares out the window, lost in melancholy thought as the other Beatles laugh uproariously in the course of a card game.

Richard Furnstein: Thank you for that. I pictured it. I went online and went to cvs.com and printed it at my local pharmacy. I'll probably frame it later if I stop by Ikea this weekend. I truly want to believe that the genius of "I Want To Tell You" came from pure inspiration--a hint of French perfume on his wrinkly collar--rather than a blind hit from George Harrison. It really does succeed in many areas where George's songs usually fall flat. You already mentioned the appeal of his phlegmy voice on this track--an anchor on many Harrison songs, especially in his 1970s solo output. The bridge is a particularly interesting case: it's a really unique progression. Typically, George's explorations in non-conventional chord structures sound a bit stilted and overly melancholy (put on the Living In The Material World album for evidence). Finally, George slips some of his Eastern-melodic influences on the songs outro ("I've got tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime"), giving the song a hint of Champa without completely falling into the Pagladiya River ("Within You Without You" and "The Inner Light"). To be fair, those perilous and perfect undulations sound like they are coming from Paul's golden throat (Paululations!). "I Want To Tell You" is truly George Harrison's perfect game. It's a beautiful thing and it's thrilling as can be, but you almost wonder how the heck he pulled it off!  

Robert Bunter: You’re correct. Let me just take this opportunity to say, was there ever a better drummer than Ringo? His lead-footed beat and primal fills are absolutely crucial to this track. Paul’s bass is wonderful, especially toward the end where the whole thing starts to unravel. John’s contributions are less clear – I’m sure the cleanly picked guitar arpeggios were George’s work, and Paul seems to be the main presence in the vocal harmony mix. I imagine John might have been sitting up there in the control room, with a slightly raised eyebrow as he listened to the initial takes, like “Oh ho? Wot have we here? Thick little George has written quite a good track here, hasn’t he? Perhaps I need to step up my game.” That’s just a little imaginative flight of fancy, I have no way of knowing whether that ever really happened. I’m sure John Lennon never thought or said the phrase “step up my game,” for one thing. But I know this: my earlier fantasy about George and the girl in Stockholm is completely true. It just has that ring of authenticity to it.  

Richard Furnstein: Huh, what? Sorry, I zoned out there for a minute. I was too busy imagining myself in that Stockholm lovers' nest. The morning damp with regret. Heart strings pulled by the stern hands of Grandfather Time. It's a sad and beautiful story and I wish I had the bed sheets for my special Beatles memento collection.

Dizzy Miss Lizzy

Richard Furnstein: "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" is the end of the line, the final stop on The Beatles' Hamburg express. It was a road littered with backstage weisswursts and quaalude smoothies; four boys trying to match the raw buzz of their beloved rock and roll singles. The Help! album was the last hurrah of a floppy haired rock band--before the sound of sitars filled the room and love and money complicated lives instead of simply fulfilling teenage fantasies. "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" is the sound of young men who were still satisfied with the sound of drums bouncing off of unpainted walls, smoky guitar parts, and shredding your throat because it is the last song. The retreat to the studio and from their former selves really began with Rubber Soul and its sophisticated arrangements. Sgt. Pepper's would be the full realization of the artificial world of tape and echo. Sure, they'd try to revisit the primordial wail on Let It Be, but the love was gone. Why would they retreat to the limited palette of early rock and roll when they have climbed the highest mountain of Pepperland. So long, dear friends.

 Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s pretty raw. A basic 12-bar blues with a repetitive guitar riff, ape-man cymbal assault, screeching vocal through a slapback delay. You’re right that the Beatles didn’t manage to recapture the youthful magic on the Get Back/Let It Be sessions, but it wasn’t all that much later that Lennon managed to re-invent this song in a much more successful way at the “Live Peace In Toronto 1969” concert event. Hairy-scary beardo junkie John in the pure white suit and bloodshot eyes, screeching “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” with Klaus Voorman and Clapton on guitar while Yoko writhed around in a bag. Whoo-whee! SHAKE IT! That was a spectacle intense enough to make those long-ago Hamburg weisswursts look like demure cocktail wieners. The point is, this song has always been terrifying. It sticks out like a sore, infected thumb on “Help!” among the gentle acousticism, McCartney pop, Harrison flops and George Martin piano riffs.

Richard Furnstein: Well, sure, the Toronto version is a horrorshow. Lennon was entering his thirties in half vampire/half Howard Hughes mode, trying to capture some of the vital life essence of his younger years. It's easy to interpret his smacked out Toronto performance of "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" as more than a "Rock and Roll Revival," it was a desperate attempt to ground himself as his childhood friendships and the juvenile comforts of The Beatles years were rapidly dissolving. He would later calmy assert "I just believe in me/Yoko and me," but that performance of "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" suggests that all he could count on was fear and isolation. Look at that man screaming into the void ahead of him. The stage fright filtered through a blitz of drugs and destroyed ego. Lennon's cagey behavior in the footage of that concert suggest a broken man who, while adored by the world, couldn't face a crowd of simple Canadians without being held up by his famous friends and his eccentric wife. It's Lennon doing "his new thing," but it's essentially his old thing (just sloppier). He would later package the set (along with a stirring version of "Don't Worry Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow)" as Live Peace, but the evidence suggests anything but peace. It's a portrait of a thirty year old man at war with himself. Give peace a chance, John.

That was a spectacle intense enough to make those long-ago Hamburg weisswursts look like demure cocktail wieners.

Robert Bunter: The Beatles sure did love Larry Williams. They covered three of his songs, perhaps more than any other artist: “Bad Boy,” “Slow Down” and “Lizzy.” Without the Beatles’ kudos and admiration (not to mention all the generous royalty cheques!), he would have perhaps died in penniless obscurity. As it stands, I’m not sure how he died, or anything else about his life, really. I keep getting him mixed up with Andre Williams, who recorded “Bacon Fat.” The important thing is that the Beatles loved him. They probably rushed to the record shop eagerly to greet each new release, pushing each other out of the way in the queue, waving fistfuls of cash at the hapless clerks. “’Ere then, give us the new Larry Williams, mate!” Then they would rush home to their dank flat and listen to them excitedly. Larry Williams may have died (I am unsure), but his memory will always live on, in vivid recollections like that one.

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!

Free As A Bird

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby You're A Rich Man

Richard Furnstein: "Baby You're A Rich Man" is a celebration of the nouveau rich hippies and the LSD-addled visionaries that dotted The Beatles' path in 1967. The Beatles are both dazzled and disgusted by their vacant companions, while realizing that they fit right in with these newly minted millionaires. It's a theme that Joni Mitchell would milk to great effect on her mid-1970s fretless bass driven albums ("Oh man, dig these crazy, drugged out degenerates at this rich Hollywood party! I pity/understand them.").

The verses come off as insincere party banter ("How does it feel to be..."), asked by someone who doesn't really care about the answer. It's just idle chatter at the party before the next party. The person begins to tell John and Paul how they feel but then the tablet kicks in. The ebullient chorus comes in just as Lord Ferret Shoulders start his cosmic response. "Oh sorry, I didn't hear your response, I was chanting about how you are a rich man in a zoo of cowards in my brain. Pardon me while I fall in the swimming pool." I can't tell you how many times I've been at this party in my mind.


Robert Bunter: This one falls into a certain category of Beatle music that I’m very fond of, despite its limited merits: the mid-to-late period throwaway. I’m talking about the lesser tracks from Magical Mystery Tour and Yellow Submarine, b-sides like “The Inner Light,” outtakes like “What’s The New Mary Jane” and similar garbage (by the way, if you’re wondering why I didn’t mention “Old Brown Shoe” in that list, you clearly have no idea what an enormously important track that is and I would suggest you pay close attention to future “Let Me Tell You About The Beatles” entries for an exhaustive explanation). These songs don’t have the immortal importance of a “Hey Jude” or “Day In The Life,” but I’ll tell you what they do have: amazing Ringo drums, mellotrons, looseness, experimental attitudes, pointless overdubs, weird percussion shakers, tape loops, tambourines, groovy Paul McCartney basslines and so many other wonderful ingredients. The point is, even when the Beatles were self-indulgently coasting, they were providing us with interesting sounds and refreshing perspectives. OK, so maybe “Baby You’re A Rich Man” is the sound of John Lennon looking bemusedly down his nose at vapid paisley millionaires and doodling pointlessly on a Clavioline. I’ll have a second helping, please?


Richard Furnstein: Oh, certainly without a doubt. I'm always up for a little bit of fun with The Beatles. Just listen to Paul howl it up in the fadeout! Can I also mention how much I love the sound of this song? It's anchored by such a perfect foundation of psychedelic drums, slightly overdriven bass, and a thin saloon piano. It was the perfect soundtrack for the home movie footage of Beatles tropical adventures in the Anthology.

I didn't hear your response, I was chanting about how you are a rich man in a zoo of cowards in my brain. Pardon me while I fall in the swimming pool.

I can't tell you how many times I've drafted a tracklist for a post-Sgt. Pepper's fantasy psychedelic record comprised of these "throwaways." Think about the primal groove of "Rich Man" transitioning into the extended mix of "It's All Too Much." Think about "Hey Bulldog" as a central track to an album with garish artwork by The Fool. An album guided by Ringo's incredible huge drum sound and an increasingly unstable set of fantastic lyrics. I'll tell you one thing, the version of "Your Mother Should Know" on my fantasy album would go even deeper into the brain cathedral, all reverb chambers and milky light pouring holograms across a tiled floor. I wish The Beatles gave themselves a chance to linger in this space a little longer, they retreated to the Big Pink ("paint the entire room white") simplicity far too soon.


Robert Bunter: Well, we’re in agreement. The Beatles officially-issued catalog is nice, but it would be nicer if it was larger. Other fantasy albums: Lord Of The Rings soundtrack (there was, in fact, a brief discussion of the Beatles starring in a film adaptation, with John as Gandalf), The Album After Abbey Road (featuring “My Sweet Lord,” “Remember,” “Momma Miss America” and “April 1970”), Do It Yourself (1965 Lennon solo project). Now you go!

Richard Furnstein: I'm not playing this game with you if you insist on putting "April 1970" on the post-Abbey Road fantasy album. That song was Ringo's emotional response to the breakup of the band. Ringo: mindful of the past, looking to the future. Beautiful. It doesn't belong on an album of unity. I am intrigued by the idea of the Lord Of The Rings project, I wonder if it would have been much different from Bo Hansson's excellent 1972 imaginary Tolkien soundtrack.

Robert Bunter: “April 1970” on the post-breakup fantasy album was a joke, you nitwit. April Fool’s.

Richard Furnstein: Wait, is it April 20th already? You got me again, Bunter! I'll catch you next year!

Original artwork by Brian Langan. http://www.langorwins.com/

Got To Get You Into My Life

Richard Furnstein: Welcome to the Revolver building. Why yes, this building does have a thirteenth floor. Great question, young man. Let's check it out. (Elevator door opens to beefy horn blasts.) Now, you may ask, is this really The Beatles? Sure, we love them for their hard charging rock like "It Won't Be Long" and loping jangle of "Ticket To Ride," but this sounds like alien soul music. The horn arrangement sounds like ambulances powering down a highway in the middle of the night. Ringo and Paul are united in this discrete (and surprisingly) gentle pulse, defined more by tambo slaps than the deep groove explorations like "Paperback Writer."


Robert Bunter: Huh? What’s that? You’ll have to excuse me, I was just picking my face up from the floor because it’s been blasted off by this high-powered Beatles track. Whoo-whee. SHAKE IT! Let’s talk about album sequencing – this would have made a fantastic opening track for Revolver, with its expectant mood and surging exuberance. Any other band would have done that, but, characteristically, the Beatles had a better idea. By placing “Got To Get You Into My Life” second-to-last on side two of what has already been an astonishingly brilliant album, they create the surprising impression that the record is actually gaining new momentum as it nears the finish line. Then, of course, they up the ante dramatically with “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Game over. Revolver is a microcosm of the exponential development arc of the Beatles’ pre-White Album career. It starts out great, then it just gets better and better and better. Better than you ever could have dreamed. Then, all of a sudden, it gets 500 times better than that. Hyperbole? THAT’S AN UNDERSTATEMENT.

Richard Furnstein: You're not wrong! Listen, "Got To Get You Into My Life" is a top ten song. "But The Beatles have a ton of great songs, Richard. How can you say that?" Listen, man. I'm not talking top ten Beatles, I'm talking top ten all time. I couldn't tell you if it's about drugs or love or sunshine, but I can tell you that hearing this song is as close as we humans will come to actually levitating. I'm talking gliding down the sidewalks like in a classic Spike Lee trolley shot, the gladiolas blur past our faces stunned in bliss. Are we heading towards the sun? Of course we are. Good Lord, there may be two suns in the sky. Anything is possible right now.

Robert Bunter: Did you hear McCartney on Fresh Air the other week? Terry asks him if he felt concerned about notions of authenticity when they were young, white English kids attempting to play American rock and R & B. Paul says something like, “We weren’t sophisticated enough to worry about stuff like that, we just thought it was fun to have a go. We knew we couldn’t compete with the masters.” That’s exactly the point: American music styles (in this case, Motown/Stax) were just more dabs of paint on the palette. They could plunder and appropriate genres for their strengths, without feeling any need to prove their authenticity. British artists who didn’t learn from this wise example fell flat on their faces. Listen to Eric Burdon’s putrid bellowing or the flatulence of Alvin Lee “singing the blues” and try not to barf.

Richard Furnstein: The difference is that The Beatles would root their genre explorations in actual songs, rather than just hairy chested moon howls over a blues dirge or damp noodle bellows over flute escapades. With that in mind, "Got To Get You Into My Life" is actually a pretty light song for McCartney. The demo version from Anthology exposes the delicate underpinnings of the song, an organ drone and some rough background vocals. This early version highlights the strength of the horn section and George Martin's arrangement. The Revolver alternate takes are the highlight of the Anthology discs, and "Got To Get You Into My Life" is the best of the bunch. It's almost a completely different song in its naked state, revealing the incredible creativity at this phase. It's what I like to call "the departure point."

Revolver starts out great, then it just gets better and better and better. Better than you ever could have dreamed. Then, all of a sudden, it gets 500 times better than that.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, I just listened back to that version, too. One of the things that struck me was the Eastern-sounding harmonies of John and George’s backup vocal parts (first appearance at :43). There are some very similar moments of non-Western diatonic dislocation in the vocal tracks of “I Want To Tell You” (during the fade), “Love You To” (“You don’t get time / to hang a sign / on meeeeeeeeeeeee”), McCartney’s “Taxman” guitar solo and it’s backwards reappearance in “Tomorrow Never Knows.” I must say, in the case of “Got To Get You Into My Life,” I wish they’d left them in. It was a nice, freaky motif for the album. Leave it to the Beatles to take something as unappealing as moaning, dissonant backup vocals and turn it into a glorious asset. One point of disagreement: “Got To Get You Into My Life” is the best of the Anthology Revolver outtakes? How unfortunate that your defective copy does not include the happy giggle version of “And Your Bird Can Sing,” which is universally acknowledged as such.


Richard Furnstein: The giggle take is fun, but life isn't a slumber party goof fest. You would certainly rejoice at the altar of EMI if they released the 27 minute version of "Helter Skelter" with Mal Evans making fart noises over top.


Robert Bunter: “You’re not wrong!”

Her Majesty

Robert Bunter: This is a case where context defines meaning. Placement at the end of the last recorded album of the Beatles career serves to deflate the transcendent glory of “The End,” which is a nice idea. Sure, they just brought tears to your eyes with primal guitar dueling, Ringo’s crucial drum solo and a haunting reflection on the Universal Love Equation (as I call it), but they’re at pains to avoid anything that might give the impression that they’re taking themselves too seriously. So they tacked on a funky little McCartney ditty to puncture the heavy mood. It sounds almost nothing like a McCartney song; it has the flavor of an old folk melody or bawdy pub singalong. The lyrics are pleasantly innocuous with just a touch of impudence. If they’d kept the track in its original spot (alternate Abbey Road side two mixes have it sandwiched in between “Mean Mr. Mustard” and “Polythene Pam”), the implications would be totally different.

Richard Furnstein: The show is over, but Paul lifts the corner of the curtain to let a little light back on to the audience. "Her Majesty" is the pollen gently floating through the spring air, it doesn't matter if it lands on a lonely stigma. You are right, it breaks the heavy mood around the side two medley, where The Beatles threw everything at the listener to give him the strength to carry on in a post-Beatles world. But it's sketch-like nature and the crashing indecision of the song's introduction suggest that the ditties will survive. "The End" is a beautiful (ahem) ending, but seems a little forced for a band that was always thinking ahead to the next phase. "Her Majesty" is a relief. "Don't worry," they seem to be telling us, "McCartney's solo album is right around the corner and it is full of non songs like this!"

These false endings underscore the “nothing is real” message of the Beatles and give us hope in some cosmic sense that there always might be something more around the corner.

Robert Bunter: Both sides of Abbey Road end with surprises. The interminable frozen wasteland of “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” is clipped to an abrupt silence which provides a mighty jolt for the attention of the listener who’d been lulled into a stupor by the hypnotic repetition of the main riff. With side two, they give us another fake-out … we’re wiping the tears from our eyes at “The End,” which is followed by some silence. Well, that’s it for that! The album is done. Wait, what’s this? Fake endings are a staple of the Beatles catalog – you’ve got the eerie “Strawberry Fields Forever” coda, both sides of Sgt. Pepper’s (on side one, the “bye-bye” at the end of “She’s Leaving Home” seems like a natural finish but watch out because the terrifying Mr. Kite is leering around the corner; on side two, the reprise of the Pepper theme seems to bring down the curtain but the listener is abruptly shifted from the magical wonder-show to the melancholy dream that is “A Day In The Life”), “Hello Goodbye” and a moment at the ACTUAL end of the Beatles’ official recorded catalogue, “Free As A Bird,” when an incongruously showbizzy ukulele appears out of a swirl of backwards tapes and poorly-recorded Ringodrums. These false endings underscore the “nothing is real” message of the Beatles and give us hope in some cosmic sense that there always might be something more around the corner.

Richard Furnstein: I always wondered if George Martin supported the fake out ending to Abbey Road. Martin was very careful about sequencing closers for The Beatles. The early albums were based on the live set, so the shredders were given their natural position. That's all folks, there is blood on the mic. Later albums seem to blend the majestic ("Tomorrow Never Knows") and the pedestrian ("Run For Your Life") with consistently exciting results. The Abbey Road Medley was set to tear the faces off of the world (remember this is years before Genesis took us from the living room to Jerusalem in "Supper's Ready" from Foxtrot) and The Beatles decided to set off a roman candle after the bombastic fireworks display. Geoff Emerick later recounted the story of "Her Majesty" remaining on the master of Abbey Road in his soulless book Here, There and Everywhere. Abbey Road engineer John Kurlander kept the aborted snippet of the medley (following EMI rules) and Malcolm Davies missed the tape indication of the extra snippet in the final cutting. Sure, Davies should have been listening, but I think it all worked out in the end! (The album later went triple platinum.)

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]

I Want You (She's So Heavy)

Richard Furnstein: This is a new phase John Lennon song. The jabberwocky of "Glass Onion" and the blurry poetry of "Strawberry Fields Forever" have been replaced by Lennon The Straight Shooter. "Don't Let Me Down" was one of the first Lennon songs to utilize this new approach, and he would take it to new levels of heavy on Plastic Ono Band. "I Want You" is Lennon writing about Yoko Ono in the style of Yoko Ono. There's a direct line from John bleeding his love all over the floor in fourteen words or less in this song and Yoko's bleating and pleading on "Why?" (a single word chant on her Plastic Ono Band) or "Don't Worry, Kyoko" (a startling two words, "Cold Turkey" b-side). Let's get down to the heart of the matter. It's all S.O.S. or "I love you" when the day is done.

Robert Bunter: It's one of the most overused words in my Beatles vocabulary, but this track is primal. John wants his mother's love, and he believes he's finally found it in Yoko and heroin. The various Lennon masks lay discarded on the floor of his squalid Montague Square flat (on loan from Ringo while John gets Tittenhurst painted completely white) - there's the grinning moptop, the Joycean punster, the Dylanesque sophisticate, the acid prophet, the youth culture sloganeer, the political rabblerouser - all tossed haphazardly aside like so many nickels and dimes. Behind all the personas, there's a terrifying snakepit of madness, hurt, anger and need. "She's So Heavy" evokes this with horror-movie organ chords, moog-generated howling wind noises, hypnotic stupor-inducing length and repetitiveness. By the time this thing ends with a sudden silence, the listener feels like they've spent a year trudging through a frozen tundra. The effect is heightened by the clever sequencing of "Here Comes The Sun" as the next track when you flip the record over. George leads us out of the cold and warmly sets the table for the exhilarating rocket ride of Abbey Road's second side. But as we step on the gas and wipe that tear away, we glance at the rear-view mirror and see a screeching, bearded madman in a pure white funeral suit with bloodshot eyes, his extremities starting to go numb from cold snow and worse things. Jesus!

Richard Furnstein: The Nordic howl and the shivers of cold metal entering your arm. It's a medical condition. "P.S. I Love You." John manages to outdo the lunkhead grooves and hairfaced sleaze of the heavy British bands of the day. Ten Years After couldn't even change the oil in John's bluesmachine. Like most of the songs on Abbey Road rest of The Beatles play their part perfectly. Paul almost steals the show with an hyperactive bass part. George is a master of steely tension and liquid drip guitar riffs. Ringo is yet again the master; he even brought along the congas to spice up the party! And the windchill at the end of the song? That's the sound of all of us entering the void that is tomorrow. Snow blind and kept alive through a precious combination of drugs, food, and love. Will there be enough to get us through the next day? God, I hope so.

John wants his mother's love, and he believes he's finally found it in Yoko and heroin. The various Lennon masks lay discarded on the floor of his squalid Montague Square flat.

Robert Bunter: In an interview, Lennon said "When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone had the foresight to notice me drowning,' you just scream." It's interesting that the closest metaphor he can devise for his love for Yoko is drowning; she's "driving me mad" because "she's so heavy." This is not the same figure who celebrated the youthful joy of love ("She Loves You"), slowly grew to understand it's more sophisticated shadings and nuances ("If I Fell,") or universalized it as a prime focus of human existence ("The Word," "Tomorrow Never Knows," "All You Need Is Love"). The Lennon of "She's So Heavy" finds love has become a ten ton burden instead of a life preserver. The minimalist lyrics are delivered to two listeners. He tells Yoko "I want you so bad," while declaring to the other Beatles and the rest of the world that "she's so heavy." That's pretty much all he had to say at this point, other than "could you please get me more heroin?" and "I want a divorce. I'm splitting up the group." Pretty grim.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, it's grim, but that's life. "You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead," is mighty grim, too. It's all coming to an end. Lennon wasn't taking the stability of a little woman love for granted. He had seen that it could go away in an instant. A drunk police officer could run over your mother or your wife could be a minute late for the train to India. Humans just have to dodge and sway the obstacles of life and hope they wind up living out their final days in a lovely cottage on the Isle of Wight. Lennon is screaming at us to live and love now. The abrupt ending was the result of John telling Geoff Emerick to "cut it right there." John was playing God, quickly lowering the curtain on the first act of the final play. The Beatles' catalog was full of these moments of happy accidents. They dialed past a performance of King Lear that was broadcast on the BBC, providing gravitas to the absurd death dance of "I Am The Walrus." "Revolution 9" was almost entirely composed of these blink and you miss it moments that define creativity. "Cut it right there" says everything about Lennon's head circa 1969. The song was long enough already. They could have maintained the ritual of the lurching riff forever but they eventually had to snip the tape.

So heavy.

You Like Me Too Much

Richard Furnstein: Beatles history is full of moments when George Harrison was treated as a second class Beatles citizen. His darkness, youth, and support role meant he often had to take a backseat to the raging egos of John and Paul and the finely pressed shirts of George Martin. It's a revelation to listen to George's 1969 demo of "All Things Must Pass" and realize that it didn't make it onto an album. It was mostly an issue of quality and quantity, but I would argue that the alpha males in The Beatles probably discounted much of George's songwriting efforts after a series of early period stinkers. "You Like Me Too Much" is one of the worst offenders: George delivers a bland melody over an aimless backing track. Young George was offering tales of high school love while John and Paul were off at college, writing songs about hash and one night stands. It's a shame. You can almost imagine Ringo heard this song and thought, "Man, even I'd be bummed out to bring this song to these guys."

It's a train wreck from the saloon meanderings of the song's introduction.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and the hindsight knowledge that he'd go on to much greater things ("Old Brown Shoe"), this is a shambles. The chord changes at the end of the bridge are just insanely bad. John and Paul had the Bacharach-like gift of moving their songs to striking, unusual harmonic modulations, then cleverly bringing the listener back home with a few adept, economical strokes. George gets himself into the same sort of quagmire, but instead of landing gracefully on his feet, he stumbles through the chords that accompany the words "...if you leave me."


Richard Furnstein: It's a train wreck from the saloon meanderings of the song's introduction, but the resolution of the bridge is almost criminal. You can almost hear the fear in George's voice as he reaches that point. I imagine he's giving Paul and Ringo a helpful nod as they suffer their way through their little buddy's worst song. Sure, George would write perhaps the best turnaround in Beatles history in "Here Comes The Sun," but it's going to be hard for him to live that one down.


Robert Bunter: These lyrics are just unforgivably clumsy and lazy. "You like me too much and I like you" makes zero sense. I am literally sitting here trying to understand what this song is about, and I can't do it. He's giving the kiss-off to an over-affectionate girlfriend. He sounds alternately angry ("you haven't got the nerve") and self-deprecating ("which is all that I deserve"). Is he trying to get rid of her or convince her come back? And it's not one of those things where it's all about the ambiguousness of young love. Harrison stinks.

 Richard Furnstein: That's why they called him the Dank Horse!

Doctor Robert

Robert Bunter: One of the "problems" with the Beatles catalog is the fact that so much of it was earth-shatteringly great. Every album, every single, almost every song: so many of them became benchmarks of quality, huge hits, famous achievements. Most bands that release a dozen albums have just a handful of major touchstones (if any), so it's fun for fans to dive into the world of the middle-quality albums, the forgotten filler songs, the fourth track on side two. If we were talking about the Stray Cats, it would be songs like "Baby Blue Eyes" or the "Rock Therapy" LP. If you like Ten Years After, it must be fun to dig up things like "Circles" or "Stonedhenge." What about Tom Petty's "Change Of Heart" or Carly Simon's "De Bat" or the Beach Boys "Marcella" or side two of "Tales Of Kidd Funkadelic"? Anyway, the Beatles catalog distorts this whole proportional ratio because the records are loaded with total monster smash hits, which deprives us of this kind of fun discovery. What I'm trying to say is, in my ideal world the Beatles would have released about ten records during the "Revolver" period instead of just one. I wish they could have been frozen in that stage of development (and all the other ones) to really explore the zone, even if the overall impact was diluted. Anyway, if that had happened, I can imagine "Dr. Robert" as one of the B-side tracks from one of the many "Revolver"-era records in this fantasy world. It's great, but not too great. Typical work from this stage in the group's evolution; beautiful. Am I making any sense here?


Richard Furnstein: Strong but fair. Sure, we all want to freeze those Revolver Beatles in time. They still wore suits when Brian Epstein told them to, John still had his baby fat, and they all played on the records. It was a beautiful time. And, sure, "Doctor Robert" would have been a nifty lost track to accompany this little playground of the mind. Well, roll over, Beethoven. The Beatles gave us "Rain" as the b-side of this era. A b-side that was set down on a golden marble pedestal by angelic unicorns in a hailstorm of first kisses. I ain't complaining and I'm not playing God. I'll take it. Give me one "Doctor Robert," barkeep. There's some dust on that bottle but it tastes mighty fine.


Robert Bunter: John's head was spinning and his pupils were dilated, so he wrote this funky ode to a mythical, drug-dispensing Dr. Feelgood. It's got a creepy feeling to it. The angelic "Well well well / you're feeling fine" chant has a vague undertone of menace. The lyrics are cryptical riddles, delivered in an odd rhythmic meter, with strange chord progressions and shiny guitar tones. At the very end as it fades out, it goes to a chord that didn't happen in any of the earlier choruses. Vintage Lennon. Great stuff, man. Great stuff.


Richard Furnstein: "Doctor Robert" is another case of The Beatles providing a glimpse into their drugged out, finely tailored lives. As John and Paul moved away from love songs, they found greater inspiration in the small moments in lives and the odd characters that filled their protected lives. Doctor Robert was just another of these faceless humans, paper cut-outs of humans that entered into their lonely orbits. The shadows dominate much of their songs from this period and later. Eleanor Rigby is a lonely old maid, a symbol of their yearning for understanding. The "bird" from "Norwegian Wood" is so vividly sketched that you can imagine the long brown hairs danging from her hairbrush at the end of the bath. Bungalow Bill has a hell of a smile. You get the picture, or maybe you don't (and isn't that the point?). The Beatles had to make sense of these lesser humans that entered their lives. You always got the sense that Paul thrived on his sketches of humanity ("Another Day" is one of the greatest examples of his "oh life" songs) and John dipped his toes into the waters a bit before going full oninto self exploration. "Doctor Robert" is the ultimate soulless character from their songs. He's a side effect of celebrity, the kind of unseemly and sinister character that The Rolling Stones loved to throw into songs. The good doctor is the late night visitor after an evening of the nightclubbing in A Hard Day's Night. "This will calm your heart, Johnny. You have to get on a plane in the morning!"

The John-Figure stares out at us from the black vinyl grooves with bared teeth and uncomfortable eyes.

Robert Bunter: You've got a point there. As we've done so many times before, it's useful to imagine the impact this track had on the impressionable young listener. Whether it was a callow young lad who looked up to the cheeky moptops as life inspirations or a young tinybopper who wanted Ringo to ask her to the sub-junior ring dance, they were surely shocked when the bouncy love songs of yesterday (!) gave way to Revolver's creepy character portraits, incomprehensible acid invocations and complaints about her majesty's marginal tax rates on top income brackets. John's lyrics on "Dr. Robert" are delivered like the sales pitch of some shady character in an alley, holding open one side of his oversized trenchcoat to reveal a selection of illicit wares attached to the inner lining. "Pssst, hey kid, c'mere. Try this." John would return to this mode with the terrifying carnival barker of "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite," the belligerent interrogator of "I Am The Walrus, "Hey Bulldog," "Glass Onion," and the leering pervert of "Happiness Is A Warm Gun."  When John wasn't analyzing his own tortured psyche, he seemed to get a kick out of directly addressing you, the listener, with unsettling, one-sided conversations. Even when he tried to play the Paul role (third-person narratives about colorful characters), he couldn't seem to help himself from wallowing in the imbalanced power dynamic between artist and consumer. The John-Figure stares out at us from the black vinyl grooves with bared teeth and uncomfortable eyes.

Act Naturally

Richard Furnstein: They are going to put who in the movies? Well, you, of course. The you in question is Richard Starkey, or, as his IMDB page indicates, "Ringo Starr." Ringo received big points for his acting turn in A Hard Day's Night (kicking cans, wearing a low slung hat, and generally appearing less stoned than the other Beatles) and turned this appearance into a healthy little side gig. He's appeared in movies that you never want to see like Candy, Caveman, and Magical Mystery Tour, usually playing the sad eyed weirdo with a thick accent. Don't quit your day job, Richard! Or, at least wait until after you release Goodnight Vienna to quit your day job.

Robert Bunter: It’s true! Ringo, who spent his childhood dreaming of coming to America to be a cowboy, had a country and western heart. He sings this Buck Owens shuffler with genuine gusto, and of course the whole thing is a wonderful tribute to his innate aw-shucks image as the hapless goofball who stumbled onto the world stage with only one real talent: the ability to be himself. His wonderful, charming self. It’s no wonder Ringo made by far the biggest splash when the group stepped off that 1964 Pan Am jet and into the world’s collective heart. It wasn’t just the funny name or the non-threatening androgynous little boy charm that girls could have a crush on without stirring unconscious fears about the bruising realities of adult physical relations (a role that would be subsequently played by the Monkees' appalling Cockney subhuman Tinkertoy automaton Davy Jones). He was the one who was easiest to relate to. He probably looked at the other three with the same sense of awe as the rest of us, but there he is onstage with them! They’re “mates.” “Maybe there is hope for me,” is what everybody said to themselves as they watched this homely lad pound the Ludwigs and smile like a five-year-old with a new wagon.


Richard Furnstein: You are one hundred percent correct and I'm shocked that it's taken us a year and change to truly discuss what makes Ringo inherently great. Sure, he held his sticks wrong and he famously couldn't nail the beat on "Back In The U.S.S.R.," but Ringo is the glue-stuff of life. I wouldn't cross the street in socks to sniff Pete Best and he was certainly a capable drummer. The Beatles needed a lucky charm, and found this stumbling sweetheart of a man to complete their gang. When Ringo sings "they're gonna put me in the movies," he's not talking about movie executives or a Hollywood agent. He's referencing his unique journey, riding on the crest of genius towards stardom. Ringo is but a man, but chemical compounds in The Beatles would become unstable with anything but Ringo. "What would you do if I sang out of tune?" We'd love you with all of our hearts, dear buddy. Thank you for being you.

“Maybe there is hope for me,” is what everybody said to themselves as they watched this homely lad pound the Ludwigs and smile like a five-year-old with a new wagon.

Robert Bunter: Ringo must have been such a fun guy to hang out with. I love to speculate about how funny he must have been during the first-time-smoking-reefer with Dylan experience, or between takes on the set of "Help!" I can imagine him saying a bunch of hilarious stuff, and John, Paul and George becoming breathless with uncontrollable laughter, the way you laugh at a seemingly dimwitted friend who is always saying unintentionally hilarious things and you almost wonder if he even knows why he is so funny but really of course he completely knows, it's all just part of his wonderful personality that he's willing to play the fool. And then later, the party's over, everybody's gone home, you wake up and realize that he washed the dishes and played with your kid for an hour before school. How did he even get up that early? Good old uncle Ritchie, just hanging around the kitchen and whipping up a batch of his delicious beans and toast, exactly the way Julian likes it, while you're upstairs sleeping off the acid hangover and writing the bridge to "I Am The Walrus" in your unconscious mind. You ought to be ashamed of yourself and your selfish behavior, John Lennon.