Words Of Love

Richard Furnstein: "Words Of Love" is a cover of an innocuous yet revolutionary Buddy Holly song (surely the most innocuous yet revolutionary artist in music history). As a holdover from their time vibrating on sticky stages in bratwurst halls in Hamburg, it provides a handy key to the harmonic foundations of the group. Indeed, there's a gentle simple charm to how perfectly restrained the voices of Lennon/McCartney/Harrison are on the track as they simultaneously push their droning vocal lines (heeeeeeeeeeeear, truuuuuuuuuuuuuue). It's a light touch on the back and a drink of punch from a paper cup at the sock hop, so it's a genuine delight to imagine them delivering these angelic chords to methamphetamine-enhanced white power horndogs in a foreign land. You spilled some on your trousers, mate.

Robert Bunter: Well of course you're absolutely right, but the apparent simplicity and restraint actually conceal some characteristically inventive moves. The insistent eighth-note handclaps underlying almost the entire two minutes of the track's duration evoke the then-unheard texture of a scratched-up CD-R attempting to be read by your player, which strangely seem to line up with the beat regardless of the source material. The effect evokes the original version, which featured a similarly disorienting rhythmic figure caused by the primitive slapback echo on the acoustic guitar interacting with the understated mambo of Jerry Allison's horny tom-toms. The vocal harmonies (which the Beatles reproduced in full) eschew the luxurious stacked intervals of doo-wop in favor of low-register perfect fifths that give the impression of a chant or incantation. The overall mood is one of mature, adult serenity - more like a porcelain mug of espresso or a snifter of Grand Marnier than a paper cup of punch in my opinion. I hope I haven't been too confrontational here.

Richard Furnstein: Not at all, my dear old friend. I appreciate your frankness and am genuinely excited to talk about this song. It reminds me of so many late nights at Ramada Inns, discussing the hidden delights on Beatles For Sales with other attendees of the local Beatlefest. "Did you know that Ringo played a packing case on 'Words Of Love'?" "Of course I do! Is that like a wooden packing crate or just a common wooden box?" "Should we call my cousin? He lives outside of London and I'm sure he'd know. It's already 9:30 in the morning there!" Moments like this were like boldly opening a properly folded road atlas on the bonnet at the car park. A cuppa on the dash to fuel our adventures and a rucksack of crisps and sausage rolls in the boot. It almost didn't matter where our journeys would take us. We were just happy to engage in the sacred conversations of Beatle fandom, to solve the puzzles left for us by these faraway beings, to find a way to feel closer to our memories as the world around us became more certain. "There's A Place," indeed. And I feel a familiar tingle as we head there once again.

Robert Bunter: It's true, we had a lot of fun at BeatleFest. I get hungry just thinking about those sausage rolls. On the other hand, I get nauseated when I think about other humble British street foods like pie mash, jellied eels, smack barm pey wet, and Lancashire cockles. You have to eat some of those things really fast right out of the deep fryer or else in about five minutes you're going to have a greasy, inedible mess and you'll get fingerprints all over the picture sleeve of the Beatles For Sale (No. 2) EP that you just bought from Stan Panenka from his special under the counter box where he keeps the real goods.

Richard Furnstein: "Words Of Love" is a showcase for unique harmonies of the Beatles' singers. I've always thought Buddy Holly meant something unique to each of the boys. George always seemed inspired by the slashing open chords and leaned on some of the early rock simplicity in his pre-Rubber Soul offerings and frequently reverted to these tricks throughout his solo career. John loved that Buddy wore glasses and named his band as a nod to The Crickets. Paul tapped into the optimism of the lovelorn that defined so much of Buddy Holly's work. And lest we forget, Paul purchased the Buddy Holly song publishing catalog in the seventies. This resulted in the Denny Laine album Holly Days (produced by McCartney and a nice revenue stream for Paul after the ink was dry on the contract. Later, McCartney's business move inspired his friend Michael Jackson to buy out the Northern Songs catalog from Yoko Ono and McCartney, resulting in a lifetime of Beatles tunes used in unfortunate advertisements and a decrease in funds for the skinflint McCartney.

Robert Bunter: Maybe we're being too kind though. We can see the inclusion of "Words Of Love" on Beatles For Sale as a thoughtful homage to a primal formative influence, but it's no less true to label this track "exhibit A" in the case for this album as a slapdash, relatively uninspired cash-in. Robert Freeman's iconic cover portrait tells the story all too candidly. It's late '64, the boys are hungover and bone-tired after three straight years of nonstop running and screaming. The EMI honchos are howling for fresh product to feed the masses and nevermind if it's a greasy inedible pile of Devonshire craw urchins a few too many minutes out of the deep fryer. Trudge into the studio and crank out a few old chestnuts from the bar band days to pad out the tracklist, boys. I know we've covered this ground before, but in a better world they would have been given time and space to develop an LP's worth of the inspired acoustic folk rock that started side one off so promisingly ("No Reply," "I'm A Loser," "Baby's In Black"). Instead it's a bunch of goddamn shit like "Words Of Love."

Richard Furnstein: Crikey, you're right. This song is nothing more than a smear of HP Brown Sauce and some greasy scotch egg crumbles leaking through on the cafe grade paper plates. I want my five pence back, Doris. No hungry.

P.S. I Love You

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney was a dangerous young man. His loose balloon eyes would draw the helpless ladies of Liverpool into his warm cloak, where a dark cloud of aftershave and sweat would swarm around their wilting bodies. The women were easy prey: Paul would snatch them up like a giant ripping the roof off of a girls' school. He always seemed to be the secret man in a gaggle of boys. "P.S. I Love You" finds Young Paul reaching Aleister Crowleyian levels of control over sexual energy and power. The song--a breezy appropriation of Buddy Holly's white man samba--seems innocent enough. The P.S. of the title may even be a reference to Holly's figurehead of rock and roll innocence, "Peggy Sue." There's something sinister going on in this song. John Lennon serves as the dashing wing man on this recording, gently easing his friend into each line of the verse. Paul remains steady and confident during the pitch to Earth's women. He only breaks a sweat during the climax of his mating call ("YOU KNOW I WANT YOU TO remember that I'll always-YEAH-be in love with you"). You don't even really notice that the man is screaming until he comes down off that powerful run to join the measured tone of his buddies. It's powerful stuff.

Robert Bunter: Well, that’s just it. Paul’s greasy charm was irresistible, and the whole song is delivered with brisk professionalism. It’s difficult to listen to this one and not form a cartoonish mental image: a single blue spotlight illuminates the shabby wooden stage of a darkened nightclub. A quartet of unctuous smoothies sways gently back and forth as they effortlessly sketch a gentle tropical melody; the singer cradles an old fashioned microphone and leans into the foreground of the frame at an exaggerated, physically impossible angle. His eyebrows arch and tighten with hideous sincerity; his pursed lips glisten with shiny secretions. The audience members are the featureless black silhouettes in a George Peed album cover. The sincere intensity of Paul’s contrived insincerity begs all sorts of questions. Is it possible to tell a lie so well that it becomes your truth? The real Paul McCartney and his emotional feelings might be the real illusion; the cartoon nightclub crooner in our mind’s eye, the reality.

Richard Furnstein: The music suggests motion: a tender blend of the precision stride of a seasoned nag and the comforting creaks of a an tugboat. Where are we going? Paul suggests that he is "coming home again to you, love." It's a nice image, but Paul is reluctant to put a timeline on this return. It feels more like a tender kiss off from a man who realizes that his future his full of tender fragrant nubs, moist jazz cigarettes, and the simple elegance of teak. Paul's never coming home. His love is still true; in fact, he loves you so much that he can't break your heart. I'm sorry. It has to be this way. You'll understand years from now. See you around, sweet Penny Lane.

Paul's never coming home. I'm sorry. It has to be this way.

Robert Bunter: Penny Lane – the heartsick, immature Liverpool dalliance whom smarmy Paul is brushing off with a casual letter and postscript – is US. The fans, the record buyers, the listeners – from the damp screaming 12-year-old in the upper decks of Shea Stadium to the sad, fat old man with a shopping bag full of officially-licensed Apple Corps towels, jackets and Magical Mystery Tour DVD’s at Beatlefest 2009. The “letter” is actually the record album itself; “treasure these few words while we’re together / keep all my love forever,” he tells us. “Send a few extra bob to the fan club and you may even receive an autographed glossy photo and a lock of hair shipped via postal mail!” Paul seduced the world and then tossed us aside like so many nickels and dimes, scattered across the rumpled bedsheets of our lives from where they fell out his pants pocket during the tussle and roll of physical love. Thanks for the trinkets, Paul. I guess I’ll just hold onto them and treasure the memories. PS, I love you. But … who are you?

Richard Furnstein: That's the burden that James Paul McCartney must carry. He's just a man who was sent to this planet to keep our memories alive. George and John are dead. Ringo doesn't want to sign autographs for you anymore. It's all on Paul. You say it's your birthday? Let me play you this Paul McCartney song. Are you sad because you are lonely? Here is a magic spell called "No More Lonely Nights." Wait, you want him to live forever and play a thousand songs in a single concert? I'm sorry, he has to travel to Pittsburgh in the morning to heal their citizens. But aren't you glad that you heard "Mrs. Vanderbilt"?

How much are these memories worth to you? That depends. Are they truly longer than the road that stretches out ahead? I'm not sure if there is an answer. All I know is that I want more of it. Forever. Give me your collected letters of John Lennon. Give me "Press To Play" in multiple formats. Give me Ringo and Steve Miller jam sessions. Give me the overpriced remastered mono vinyl box set (rumored for an Xmas 2013 delivery). I want it all. I'm alive.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, I want it all, too (London Town illustrated songbook and “Take It Away” 12” single with the picture of him holding the teacup, please). I’m human. But you’d better go into this thing with your eyes open. The thing you really want is the one thing you can never have: Paul McCartney’s true heart. I’ll bet that even when you were in his actual presence, you found yourself staring at the pixilated eyeballs on the JumboTron and not the flesh and blood human at the other end of the sports arena. Paul’s voice is an electronic signal coming out of a speaker, his face is a 8"x10" glossy promo photo and his soul is a haunting melody that captured the heart of a world called Earth, I’ll bet not even Paul McCartney knows who the real Paul McCartney is at this point. He looks in the mirror and sees an album cover; his grandchildren visit for Boxing Day and he gives them autographs. He sits down at the piano and everything he plays is a Paul McCartney song. His burdens are as weighty as his gifts. The love you take is equal to the love you make, but at what cost?

Anna (Go To Him)

Richard Furnstein: All languid drag, this is the kind of punisher that they probably couldn't pull off in Hamburg. The spook is all in the room and John's vocal is pushed way high in the mix. The instruments pulse without real flourish. It's clear this is a job site, John's got a story to tell about a lady that broke his heart and is about to leave him. Show your respect and listen to the man.

I want this song tattooed on my face.

Robert Bunter: This early soul cover (Arthur Alexander waxed the original for Pat Boone's DOT label in 1962) offers yet more evidence for the "John Lennon is the greatest male vocalist in the history of rock and roll" case that many of us have been trying to make for years to an increasingly annoyed and rapidly shrinking group of disinterested friends and business associates. I want you to pull this up on your iTunes or CD player right now and cue up the word "DOOOOOOOOOOO" at 1:27. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Richard Furnstein: (singing along) "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!"

Robert Bunter: How about that, eh? I haven't heard that much raw, unbridled animal passion since the last time I listened from outside the bedroom window ("No Reply"-style) as my wife made physical love to another man. To my wife, whose name is Anna, I say: go with him. Just leave me alone with
my Beatles bubblegum cards and my NM+ first-state sealed butcher cover which I purchased from Mark Lapidos at BeatleFest in 1974 for $301 and is now worth enough money to purchase the lawyer that you'll need after the judge hears the evidence which I recorded on my Brunell three-speed reel-to-reel.

I'm sorry, this has been a very personal post for me.

Richard Furnstein: I love the zombie backing vox on this one. George and Paul are drunk or sleepy (or BOTH!) and they clearly want to steer clear of John's romantic turmoil. The song doesn't fade because it shouldn't fade because the ending is damn perfect. I want this song tattooed on my face.