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.

Chains

Richard Furnstein: Listen, we can't move ahead with our scheduled post: a tepid run down of the Gerry Goffin/Carole King song "Chains" from Please Please Me. I'm sorry, I know there is a strict schedule to these posts, developed through extensive research into maximizing the viral marketing potential of this blog. I also know that we could go on for hours about the Beatboys' rendition of that classic Cookies track. Sometimes you have to say "bugger the system" and push forward for what is right. It's time that we told our devoted readers about the Yoko Ono/John Lennon Two Virgins album. Sure, you've probably heard about the album--and the controversial body explorations of the front and back sleeves--but never dug into the hairy and uncircumsized music contained on this release. I'm sure you get the general idea: prototypical junkie bedroom explorations, including rudimentary freakout guitar tracks, crumbling barroom piano, guttural whispers, sparse snippets of Lennon's tense and mocking conversational tones, and denatured organ play. Remind you of a little of "Revolution 9"? Well, by golly, it should! While "Revolution 9" used a complex and terrifying mesh of source material to soundtrack the madness of Beatle/human life in 1968, Two Virgins is a more intimate affair documenting the start of a love affair between two married people. The revolution inside.  Yoko and John circle each other in a junkie mating dance; the old push-and-pull in a white bedroom. Unfolding wings and encircling prey. Yoko pushes the frantic fly range of her instrument while John tries on some new stuffy British businessman voices. It's positively titillating!

Robert Bunter: For readers who may not be up on the story so far: it’s 1968 and John is a wreck. Japanese avant-garde artist Yoko Ono has been on the periphery of his scene for quite a while, and they corresponded by mail while he was over in India meditating with the Maharishi. One day he takes a bunch of drugs at home with his longtime buddy Pete Shotton (his wife and young son were presumably elsewhere). According to Shotton, John started uncontrollably rotating his arms in a slow dual propeller motion while alternating between hideous laughter and uncontrollable sobbing. Every time Pete asked him what was wrong, he denied that there was any problem, which must have been unintentionally hilarious. Finally, he came to the realization that he was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. That seemed to calm him down and he spent the rest of the night babbling about it. The next day, surprisingly, he was still on the same track. He called an emergency Beatle meeting at Apple (highly uncharacteristic for John) and told the rest of the boys the news. They reacted with cartoonish, exaggerated “Oh wow, look at the time!” gestures while pointing at their watches and hastily exiting the meeting room for some lunch. By now he was pretty despondent, on a heavy bummer. He decides to invite Yoko over that night. They take more drugs and stay up all night playing with his tape recorders and primitive sound manipulation equipment – creaky Mellotron, vintage Binson tape-delay Echoplex unit, microphones with curly telephone-style cords attached, a radio and a couple record players. When the sun came up, they made love. Those tapes became the “Two Virgins” LP.

It certainly doesn't smell like a rich person's house in here!

Richard Furnstein: Of course, you're right. Here's the big question: is there more to this album than the story of two married weirdos falling in love? We've all heard stories about how couples first got together. Typical relationship origins stories are more about three dollar you-call-its at a dank bar or meeting that special someone in a co-worker's depressing kitchen than Echoplexplorations fueled by high grade heroin. These stories are nothing more than ice breakers at awkward dinner parties. Sure, this union had a tremendous impact on Lennon's creative output and the group's increasingly splintered identity, but do we really need this memento of this landmark event? Is this just an excuse to stare at the deflated genitals of famous people? What the hell am I doing listening to this, Bunter? Help me out.

Robert Bunter: Well, I think it was Lennon’s way of childishly thumbing his nose at the world. He regarded the general public with barely-concealed contempt, despite his popular image as a peaceful dreamer. The product of a childhood shattered by parental abandonment and a young adulthood filled with screaming lunatics, worshipful adulation and powerful drugs, circa-’68 Lennon was like a screeching monkey in a gilded cage, exposing himself and violently slinging excrement at the terrified masses. Taking up with Yoko and releasing an album with a shocking sleeve and incomprehensible contents was his attempt to express the nauseous revulsion he felt for his audience. He tried to offer a lot of different rationalizations for this ugly side of himself – it was variously passed off as highbrow avant-garde art (Two Virgins), primal psychiatric therapy (Plastic Ono Band), raw hairy rock (Live Peace In Toronto, “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”), political activism (“Give Peace A Chance” and the Bed-Ins), personal journalism (“Ballad Of John & Yoko”) or radical revolutionary rabble-rousing (Some Time In New York City) – but underneath it all you’ve got the stinky tantrums of a messed-up baby crying for attention. A long-haired, bearded feral baby with a huge ego, millions of dollars, piles of drugs and the attention of the entire world.

Richard Furnstein: It's the ultimate desperate play for attention. This junkie shell invites the world in to sift through the audio reminders of his first date with Ono. There's no way you would turn away an invitation for an intimate view of a millionaire genius. Once inside, however, you get a better understanding of the sadness in Lennon's life. The tape plays much more than just the audio-fartistry. The stink of the session wafts out of the speakers: stale incense, body odor, rotting fruit, and hashish laced cigarettes. It certainly doesn't smell like a rich person's house in here! The paper bag texture of the outer sleeve doesn't just hide the scandalous cover photo, it serves as a mocking reminder that this impossible album is a commodity. Nothing more than a can of fruit cocktail or some mousetraps from the corner store. Use once and destroy. The outer shell mocks the consumer from the record shelf. Enjoy the tuneless whistling, warped piano fondlings,and overexposed celebrity genitalia, Beatlemaniac. Is this what you wanted?

Robert Bunter: I need a sick bag. I'm going to be sick.

Every Little Thing

Robert Bunter: This song (from 1964’s Beatles For Sale LP) sits solidly among the late early period (or the early middle period). The acoustic textures, chiming 12-string guitars and harmonic maturity point the way ahead to Help! and Rubber Soul, but the simplistic boy-girl lyrics seem to be a relic of an earlier time. This is one of those songs where I can’t quite tell who was the primary songwriter, and I’m not going to cheat by looking it up. John and Paul blend their voices in practiced unison on the verses, although Lennon seems to dominate. In the chorus it’s the opposite, with Paul’s high harmony in the foreground. The absence of barbed lyrical wordplay and edgy expressions of hurt and anger lead me to believe it was Paul. What do you think Richard? Am I right?

Richard Furnstein: You are deep in the groove in this one, old friend. It was written by Paul but sung by John. This bit of rock and roll masquerade fits nicely next to Ringo's "Honey Don't" on Beatles For Sale; the Carl Perkins song used to be sung by John back in the rock and roll toilet days. I hear "Every Little Thing" as the last Beatles tribute to the American girl group sound that dominated the first two albums. That's why I think Lennon is the perfect lead on this track; he absolutely captured the angst and fury of the girl groups in their early repertoire. "Every Little Thing" is definitely one of those minor but pleasant transition numbers for the group. Imagine "Every Little Thing," "You Like Me Too Much," "It's Only Love," and "Tell Me What You See" comprising an extended play in early 1965. These songs find the band stretching out ever so slightly. They just lack the inspiration and pharmaceuticals to blast off to the next level.

Throw a Lennon wheezing harmonica over the instrumental breaks and I'd be in heaven!

Robert Bunter: I will imagine it. [pause] Wow! What a terrific EP! The prospect of hypothetical should-have-been Beatle records from this period is intoxicating. Of course, they did what they did and it stands perfectly as it is, but if they’d taken just a few different steps, we might have had even more and better discs to cherish. How about this scenario: John explores his nascent interest in downhearted Dylan-influenced folk rock on a solo LP. Meanwhile, the boring ‘50s rock and roll crap on Beatles For Sale gets shunted off to an EP, to accompany the early ’65 just-starting-to-spread-their-wings EP you described above. So where does that leave Beatles For Sale? I’ll tell you where: with another dozen bracing, innovative rockers like “I Feel Fine” (released alongside Beatles For Sale as a standalone single backed with “She’s A Woman.”) Here are the titles: “Without Love,” “Think About It,” “Take A Number,” “You’ll Always Know,” “After Someone,” “Call To Her,” “Until Another Time,” “Suit Yourself,” “Your Love Is Still Here,” “Look Out My Door,” “Every Letter” and an uninspired 12-bar-blues instrumental called “Squeaky.” Beatles For Sale? I’M BUYING.

Richard Furnstein: What a pants-shifter of a dream, my dear pal. Your album of mid-period mediocrity would have surely been a huge hit with the power pop universe of grown men in ill fitting dungarees singing vague songs about teenagers in love. Imagine if Matthew Sweet or the jugband cretins in Brinsley Schwarz grabbed hold of another cache of indifferent 1964 Beatles songs. It's easy to think about the "what if" scenarios in the Beatles For Sale/Help! era as the exhausted band was trying to find the next big thing while legions of Americans with shaggy haircuts and Rickenbackers were approaching their throne. Beatles For Sale is a little unsettling because the band isn't quite sure how to set themselves apart, both in terms of songwriting and the sonic touches. The mopey-Lennon-does-Dylan direction has promise but little box office appeal. Beatles For Sale was definitely rushed for Christmas delivery, so even the production innovations and mood swings from A Hard Day's Night are largely absent. "Every Little Thing" has more of a spark than most of the songs on this set, but it suffers from a drag on the verses, dopey lyrics, and stale 12 string touches. I'd love to hear a version of this with a bit more of the With The Beatles amphetamine flexing. Criminy, throw a Lennon wheezing harmonica over the instrumental breaks and I'd be in heaven!

Robert Bunter: Yeah, but these are all just so many pennywhistles and monkeydreams. Let’s keep our feet on the ground in the real world and deal squarely with the plain facts: Beatles For Sale served up a relatively lean meal and left listeners wishing for more. It’s a nice album to discover tucked in the back of the cupboard after you’ve gorged yourself sick on the more immediately appealing platters, but when push comes to shove you’re left sitting there with an empty bowl and some crumbs stuck on your face.

Richard Furnstein: Welcome to my lifestyle, mon frere.

Teddy Boy

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney's songbook is full of sketches of the daily lives of simple folk. "Teddy Boy" fits well with better known songs such as "Eleanor Rigby," "Penny Lane," "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," "Lady Madonna," and "She's Leaving Home." They all provide a portrait of the quiet moments of common people. The subjects of these songs flutter about like impatient extras on a movie set: a middle aged man pours his morning coffee as a baby babbles in a playpen. A young woman runs to catch the morning trolley while tugging at her sagging pantyhose. A shadow lingers over these portraits, often in the form of death, loneliness, or shattered dreams. The Let It Be outtake "Teddy Boy" brings all three to the table as a widow and a child try to support each other in the changes following the death of a "solider dad." It's a vague story but the essential emotional cues are there: a child hugs his mother as she cries over a solider's photo. Paul can hardly narrate this touching scene, offering platitudes such as "oh my" or "oh no." You created this world of misery, man. Help these people out.

Robert Bunter: It seems to have been a default mode for him. When Paul sat down and picked up a guitar and let the ideas flow naturally, a seemingly infinite stream of strong melodic hooks and third-person Everyman portraits bubbled to the surface. “Teddy Boy” illustrates this particularly well, as it never developed past the fragmented rough-draft stage. Even the “completed” version that appeared on his debut solo LP McCartney sounds like little more than a sketch. It’s catchy enough, and the darker undertones you describe add a bit of depth, but few would rank this among his highest achievements. It doesn’t even shine very brightly alongside similar, roughly contemporary Macca throwaways like “Junk” or “Her Majesty.” Every time I buy another Get Back sessions bootleg or outtakes compilation and see “Teddy Boy” on the tracklist, I have to suppress a faint groan of disappointment.

Richard Furnstein: At least you try to hide your disappointment in this song. You can actually hear Lennon's deride"Teddy Boy" in the band's aimless Get Back recordings. His distaste surfaced in the form of  jokey voices, rambling asides, and square dance instructions during the song's protracted coda. You can almost feel the cold air and ambivalent vibrations of Twickenham Film Studios come through your speakers when you listen to this song. To be fair, Lennon was pulling this too cool for school routine on all of Paul and George's offerings during this period. It's just that he was actually right this one time.

"Teddy Boy" is much more successful on the McCartney album. It's still not much of a song, but the arrangement is tightened up significantly. To be fair there are probably 1.5 fully realized compositions on Paul's debut and it's still one of the best things he ever recorded. The recording offers many of the charms of the album: muffled drum tracks, light echo box tricks, the warm ambiance of the McCartney living room, and off-kilter Linda harmonies. The small touches such as the gorgeous "ooooooohs" at 2:02 and the fluttering ending really make the recording. I wish Paul, Linda, and Martha the sheepdog were still in that living room, pumping out lo-fi  delights on a dusty Studer tape machine. Stick around for dinner, there's a vegetable barley soup on the stove and Linda is making her famous yeast crepes. We'll listen to some old tapes together.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s a lovely image. Too bad the McCartney album and its trappings of domestic contentment (warm, homespun songs about family and love accompanied by charming snapshots of Papa Paul chopping down trees, holding babies and picking his nose) is one big lie. Here’s the real facts: John quit the Beatles but everybody convinced him to keep quiet about it because they were in the process of a massive renegotiation with the record company and didn't want to upset the applecart (that’s my little joke). Paul is an emotional wreck and retreats to his Scottish farmhouse where he grows a beard and drifts slowly toward a full-scale Brian Wilson-style breakdown. Stops wearing belts. Vodka for breakfast, sacked out in bed all day, showers optional. Very optional. A reporter from LIFE magazine shows up and Paul screams in his face and throws his camera at him. The fans have started to speculate about whether he’s dead. One can only imagine what newlywed Linda thought of the situation. She had climbed aboard the Paul train just in time to see it run completely off its rails. Drunken sadness and paralyzing numbness gradually coalesce into fury. They can’t do this to me! So in an undisguised power play he cobbles together McCartney on primitive home recording equipment (by today’s standards, anyway – in 1970 it was state-of-the-art) and releases it along with a self-interview press release to tell the world that he’s quit the Beatles and doesn't care about them anymore. Against this backdrop, the Happy-Family-Man-Strumming-His-Guitar-By-The-Evening-Fire vibe that the album and its packaging attempted to convey ring chillingly hollow. You can build up sweet mental fantasies about tape recorders and yeast crepes, Richard, but the reality was considerably more hairy, smelly and toxic. I’m not here to sugarcoat the facts.

You can build up sweet mental fantasies about tape recorders and yeast crepes, but the reality was considerably more hairy, smelly and toxic.

Richard Furnstein: Paul's retreat to his country compound was part of a greater social trend at the end of the sultry sixties. The unwashed legions were retreating to the mountains--a new farm movement featuring malnourished children, diseased livestock, and bog-like conditions in the fields. Neil Young captured the simple pleasures of this movement on "Here We Are In The Years" from his 1969 debut album: "Go to the country, take the dog/Look at the sky without the smog/Look at the world laugh at the farmers feeding hogs/Eat hot dogs." Paul wasn't as dim witted or charming in his appraisal of country life. He just reverted further into the familiar comforts of mama-based blues and ballads built for wide open spaces. Want to play some mason jars and record it for the album? Great, we'll call it "Glasses." How about an audio hunt track to really "get back" to the origins of man? Here's four plus minutes of "Kreen-Akore." There were no expectations. John wasn't leering at him when he introduced some bone-headed blues like "Oo You." He didn't have to worry about George's sour puss appearing in the gatefold. Ringo didn't have to be bored during the sparse "Every Night." That's the charm of the McCartney album. It's beautiful and it's nothing at all.

Robert Bunter: Back to the land? Sure, it’s wonderful that Paul could crawl into a filthy swamp and record a strangely beautiful solo album. But we’re supposed to be talking about “Teddy Boy.” It wasn’t a very good song and it came out of a particularly low point in Paul’s life. The outtake/bootleg versions of the Beatles attempting it are hard to listen to. It sits more comfortably among the half-baked platters and weird experiments of McCartney or the dismal vibe of the aborted Glyn Johns Get Back LP. Look Richard, I’m sorry but this whole discussion of yeast pancakes, stinky groat clusters, hot dogs, body odor, vodka, sheepdogs, sagging pantyhose and rotten Apples is making me nauseous. Let us have a little mercy and draw the soiled curtain of dismissal over this sordid chapter in Beatles history, shall we? Do you have any final thoughts?

Richard Furnstein: Yeah, hold on. Urp. No, that's better. I'm good.

Honey Pie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Rock And Roll Music

Robert Bunter: This song is operating on many confusing meta-levels. It’s like a mirror gazing into a mirror or a beatnik contemplating a box of Morton’s salt (“Like, the girl in the raincoat is holding a small box of Morton’s salt which is illustrated with the same girl holding the same box of salt! Dig that, man! Real gone!”) You’ve got Chuck Berry, who was simultaneously inventing rock music and commenting on it. Then you’ve got the Beatles in the process of reinventing it, doing a cover version of the self-referential Chuck Berry song. Is it an affectionate tribute to an inspirational oldie of the past? An ironic comment on the stifling conventions of ‘50s rock – conventions that the Beatles were in the process of upending? Was this a crucial return to roots or a moldy bit of filler from the Cavern setlist to pad out “Beatles For Sale?” Does John actually say “It’s got a black beat” at 2:13? Is that how you’re supposed to pronounce the word “mambo?”

Richard Furnstein: The song's protagonist claims to be a lover of rock and roll music. However, like many connoisseurs, his palate has become too specific to truly understand the simple pleasures of his obsession. He's haunted during his pursuit for the perfect beat. His nagging qualifiers are removing him from the primal joys experienced by the revelers described in this song. The song takes us on a colorful journey through modern jazz clubs, a rough and tumble American road house, jubilant parties filled with moonshine and slow-eyed women, and an exotic tango/mambo/congo land full of bananas and rum. Our hero has a great time on his voyage, yet approaches each of these scenarios with a dismissive and detached tone ("I must admit they had a rockin' band"). He returns once again to his plain hamburger with extra ketchup (rock and roll music), eating the fried patty while staring out of a greasy diner window.  

Robert Bunter: Yes. Yes. And then we have the late ’64, “Beatles For Sale”-era Beatles. They’ve just conquered the world with their radical redesign of rock and roll music’s original architecture, yet they are at pains to make sure all their new young fans know how they feel about Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Carl Perkins, Little Richard and Larry Williams. The kids are standing there in their stupid rooms staring at the front cover sleeve photo of four gloomy mop tops in raincoats and thinking, “Well, it’s really nice that you guys liked Buddy Holly enough to cover ‘Words Of Love,’ but wouldn’t that space on the album have been better filled by another ‘I Don’t Want To Spoil The Party’ or ‘No Reply’?” and meanwhile the Beatles are over here like: “Listen to the track. You must mind the roots that the blooms may blossom. Mind the roots.” And the kid’s like: “What?”

You must mind the
roots that the blooms may blossom. Mind the roots.

Richard Furnstein: You are truly an apologist if you think Beatles For Sale was a loving tribute to the roots of rock 'n roll. The cover depicts four weary men staring through an autumnal haze at the fickle consumer. It's almost a day after shot of those charming face-pullers from the sleeve of A Hard Day's Night. "Sorry, we're a little knackered today from being chased by girls and singing an exciting blend of sexually-charged original compositions. Would you like to hear a poorly recorded Carl Perkins song? No? Sorry."

The album's contents suggested a combination of emerging post-fame insecurities (especially for the overly sensitive John Lennon) and creative exhaustion. "Rock and Roll Music" is one of the few exciting moments on this album, especially coming after the misery triumvirate of "No Reply," "I'm A Loser," and "Baby's In Black." Lennon's voice shines like the best moments on With The Beatles; the reverb effect which weighs down the contemporary cover "Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby" is a much better fit here. Staid, conservatory trained George Martin busts loose with a rollicking caveman piano overdub. The rhythm sections is sleepwalking through this standard, but its fun to hear Ringo play it high and loose with the cymbals while Paul takes his beast for a walk. No problem!  

Robert Bunter: Yeah, they were tired but managed to rally nicely on "Rock And Roll Music" and many other moments of Beatles For Sale, truth be told. It has a reputation for taking a dip in the quality control department, but that's part of the charm. This was a "typical" Beatles album, another product from the factory (hence the title). It's like when you're reading MAD Magazine and one of the little cartoons shows somebody reading a copy of MAD Magazine, it's always a perfectly generic copy, with nothing on the cover but the logo and a plain, unadorned portrait of Alfred E. Neuman. When I saw that, I wanted to own that issue. It's the same with Beatles For Sale. Rubber and Revolver and Pepper and White and Abbey and Let It (as I call them) are each so singular and unprecedented that they defy contemplation as mere albums in the discography of a talented beat group - they were epochal touchstones, culture-bearers, departure points for the sprouts of a new generation. But while everyone else is admiring the lofty peaks of those towering accomplishments, it is the unique pleasure of the discerning fan to wander in a journey of discovery amidst lowly, earthbound records like Beatles For Sale.

Richard Furnstein: Gosh, I feel guilty for every thinking that Beatles For Sale was an inferior Beatles product--marked by relatively poor production and an underwhelming tracklist. It's a vital piece of the whole. Nostalgia drives Beatles For Sale, both in the rock and roll sounds of their early years in Liverpool and Hamburg and in the yearning for the simplicity of life before their sudden fame. Did they not bleed during its creation? Yes, look at that Dixie cup sitting in the vocal booth. That's where John spit out blood between takes of "No Reply." Did they not sweat during its creation? Surely you can see the sweat crystals on George's leather guitar strap and the damp posterior grooves on Ringo's throne. And what of the fans? Did we not scream and woo and wonder at its (admittedly) lesser majesty? Of course we did. Get the hell over here, sweet love. Let your hair flow down and dance with me to this wild rock and roll music. They're playing our song again.

All You Need Is Love

Robert Bunter: The year is nineteen something-or-other. Some guy invents satellite television technology, capable of using space machines to beam pictures and sounds across the entire globe! Then, in 1967, some TV producers decide to create a program for everybody. The climax of the show would involve the post-Sgt. Pepper Beatles, at the very height of their cultural influence and creative powers, performing and recording their newest single absolutely live, in real time, before an audience of millions. They had no reason to think that exponential leaps of genius and sophistication that marked the progression from "She Loves You" to "Yesterday" to "Tomorrow Never Knows" to "A Day In The Life" would not continue indefinitely; even the most curmudgeonly critics would have allowed that "if they keep on at this rate, their next record ought to be quite good!" Wonderful. Let's prepare the studio and order up some cameras and session musicians. "What are we going to do, lads?" asks staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin. "I've got a little number that'll do nicely," said handsome Paul. And he sits down at the piano and plays a brisk minor key ostinato. "Let's all get up / and dance to a song / that was a hit before / your mother was born," he sings, and before he can even finish the next line, Ringo throws a large, heavy-bottom ashtray at his head. There were still cigarettes burning inside of it; Paul's brightly-colored satin blouse could have easily caught fire as he lay unconscious from the impact. But he deserved it. Can you believe that he actually offered up "Your Mother Should Know" for the Our World global satellite broadcast? No, I am not making this up. After Ringo threw the ashtray, John reached over and pulled on the back of Paul's hair as hard as he could, which really hurts when your hair is the length that Paul's was in summer 1967. Paul screamed (he sounded just like Little Richard, listen to the actual session outtakes on rare bootlegs!) and George took the opportunity to karate chop him in the lower ribs. There was no fracture but an ugly purple bruise about three inches below his nipples was there for weeks. Mal Evans poked him in the behind with a sharp cane. The playful locker room horseplay and brotherly tussles that had long characterized the Fab Four's studio sessions had taken a decidedly ugly turn. 

Richard Furnstein: Thanks, Robert. You set that up nicely. The Our World programme (program here in the States) was a talent show for the world. Each of the civilized nations with television technology provided entertainment (including comedy skits, Hungarian juggling, traditional dance, and songs) for the live broadcast. I'll tell you what, they should have just cut to the chase and shown "All You Need Is Love" twenty times. Can you imagine sitting through this endless program for three minutes of The Beatles? It must have been torture. They probably had teasers before each commercial break: "Coming soon: THE BEATLES live from England." That was that, you were stuck in your chair for hours, staring at some confusing samurai swordplay, hoping for the salvation from the greatest band on the planet. Suddenly, there they were! They looked just like the creepy aged faces on the cover of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (except John and Paul lost their progressive mustaches). While the Sgt Pepper's album cover's heaving forest of exploding flowers and garish frocks was drained of all its color in the broadcast, the array of beautiful people (plus Mal Evans), willing hippie women, and stuffy old English session players provided an even sharper view of the love revolution. Look, the Rolling Stones stopped by! The Pepper sleeve told us about that band. I should check them out at some point.

Robert Bunter: So, the group wisely decided against using Paul's less-than-stellar "Your Mother Should Know" in favor of John's anthemic mission statement "All You Need Is Love." It was a simple, catchy tune with a nice universal message that really rings true. Even Paul had to agree that it was the right choice for the TV program, after he regained consciousness with the bruises under his nipples and on his behind. And yet - "All You Need Is Love" ultimately represents a disappointment. Lennon was at his best when writing about his deep personal emotions and somehow managing to strike a chord of resonant universality with the larger outside world, on tracks like "In My Life" and "Nowhere Man." When he sat down to consciously address humanity ("The Word," "Give Peace A Chance," "Power To The People," all of Some Time In New York City), more often than not he was wont to trip over his own inflated ego and serve up a platter of stale broadsides. There were exceptions ("Revolution," "Imagine," "Isolation" and "Working Class Hero"), but I'm putting "All You Need Is Love" in the former category.

Richard Furnstein: Cut Lennon some slack. Do you think it was easy for him to relate to the common man? He couldn't sing of straight happiness or love; his emotional ideal was based on dependency and abandonment fear. His nightmares were full of horrific fanged visions. Yet, Lennon had an ongoing desire to make that connection. Hence, his worldwide plea for peace and love was anchored in familiar melodies ("Three Blind Mice," "The Song Of The Marseillaise," "She Loves You") and offset by a uniquely Lennon clipped verse melody. There you go, World: you've heard it before but you haven't heard it before. Do you love it? Of course, you do, it's got Keith Moon playing brushes on a snare while Mick Jagger wears a ridiculous Lennon face jacket. Forget Haight-Ashbury, "All You Need Is Love" resides at the corner of Fabulous and Lysergic. Time to clock in at the ol' drop out factory.

It’s no wonder the hippie dreams of the ‘60s faded into the clouds like so much happy smoke, leaving behind only the seedy crumbs and vague, burnt peanut butter stink of yesterday’s stash box.

Robert Bunter: OK, fair enough. Lennon was so advanced, he needed to simplify his message lyrically and musically so it could be understood by all humans, from the most urbane sophisticates to the most primitive children. As a longtime Beatle fan who falls somewhere in the middle, let me just admit that this song is on my list of skip-overs. I’ve been over-exposed to it my entire life. There it was on the 20 Greatest Hits cassette. Then I got it on the Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP. Then, there it was on the “Blue Album,” 1967-1970 and on Magical Mystery Tour. That’s not even counting its appearances on the latter-day greatest hits collection One and the trapeze mashup record Love. And the original 1967 single. And the Our World footage appearing in every single Beatles documentary, from the immortal Compleat Beatles to the Anthology. I’m sorry, but the song just isn’t that good. It was lazily written and poorly produced. It is lyrically oblique and musically uninspired. It’s no wonder the hippie dreams of the ‘60s faded into the clouds like so much happy smoke, leaving behind only the seedy crumbs and vague, burnt peanut butter stink of yesterday’s stash box. It was the Beatles’ job to write, perform and record a song that would unify the world and heal the lingering wounds under our nipples and on our behinds. Instead, John served up a platter of warmed-over fortune cookie riddles and Glenn Miller horn charts. The Beatles would record the necessary world-unifying track soon enough (it was “Hey Jude”), but they didn’t put it up on the satellite TV and therefore everything went down the pan until finally they broke up.

Richard Furnstein: Gosh, I'm surprised you didn't complain about Ringo's poor drumming performance in the broadcast video. Listen, I'm sorry if you can't appreciate Lennon's cool gum-chewing detachment in the dreary verses. It's too bad that you can't hear the beautiful swirl of the finale as a mantra (the fanatical George Harrison later claimed it was a "subtle bit of PR for god"). What about George's squeaky but emotional solo? If only you could delight in the cello driven string section, old friend. I think there's a lot to love here. It has always represented the excitement of the transitional points of The Beatles. While in many ways a retread of the sophisticated pop symphonies of Pepper, the weird combination of live and backing tracks alone make this a completely unique recording in the world of The Beatles. (Side note: have you ever imagined what the backing track sounds like on its own?) It's certainly not The Beatles' fault that this song was anthologized to death; it was merely a single with a worldwide premiere. A snapshot at the transition from the wide eyed lovers of life in Sgt Pepper to the garish confusion that marked the Magical Mystery Tour/Yellow Submarine era. The Robert Bunter I used to know would lament that we don't have a full album of these miracle sessions. Another branch in the mighty Beatles oak tree cut short by the changing seasons.

Robert Bunter: I’m not taking the bait. This track is weak and I think deep down everyone knows it. John certainly did; I would refer you to the following quotes: “[All You Need Is Love] wasn’t our best track” (Crawdaddy, 1971); “…a real low point, creatively speaking” (Rolling Stone, 1973); “Frankly, Dick, I was just phoning it in. Me heart wasn’t in it, we just figured we had to cut a track for the telly-vision program” (Dick Cavett interview segment, 1974); “Garbage? Yes.” (Creem, 1977). Now, I will grant you that artists themselves are seldom the best judge of their own work, but I think we ought to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. One little-known fact about these sessions is that the Beatles played oddball instruments on the backing track – John strummed a banjo, Paul thumped a double-bass and George scratched away on a violin. I will admit that I would love to hear those isolated tracks. They probably sounded like Flatt and Scruggs. VERY flat and Scruggs, that is! Look, the song is far from terrible. John’s assessments (“another steaming pile shoveled onto the dung-mound of our post-Pepper doldrums” –East Village Other, 1972) were overly harsh. I’m just saying this is ultimately a pedestrian effort that does not deserve to be numbered among the greatest hits. That’s all, Richard.

Richard Furnstein: Here's a quote I'm more interested in: "It was a fabulous time musically and spiritually"--Ringo Starr, poolside, Los Angeles, California, 1995. He's right, we're both wrong. Let's go get some Mexican food, old friend. I'm buying.

Matchbox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maggie Mae

Robert Bunter: OK, a quick primer for the casual reader who may not be steeped in Beatles lore. After the White Album they were starting to fight. Paul dragged everybody into the studio with the idea to heal the cracks and get back to roots by rehearsing for a live concert of new material. The rehearsals would be recorded and filmed for a new album and documentary movie. The problem was, like telling Monkees jokes the day after Davy Jones passed on, it was “too soon.” The others still resented Paul’s bossiness, John was in a stupor from his first heroin habit and relationship with Yoko, and George, grouchy on the best of days, was certainly in no mood to be corralled into another Paul-dominated multi-media project after the ridiculous Magical Mystery Tour film. Even the clownish Ringo was in a sour mood, his droopy facial features and downcast eyes becoming even more sad-dog-looking than usual. To make matters worse, they were used to recording their wonderful music during hilarious late-night sessions at the comfortably warm Abbey Road studios (equipped with the infamous bottomless teapot and constantly re-stocked beans, “crisps” and digestive biscuits). For this project, however, in order to accommodate the film crew, they had to set up their stuff on a cold, gray soundstage at early hours of the morning. Do you want to take it from here, Rich?

Richard Furnstein: Hold on, I'm scanning your primary education summary on the Get Back project to see where we are. Control F "cold, gray soundstage"? Right, perfect. What started as a promising concept for the new Beatles project--intimate audio/visual explorations of The Beatles writing and rehearsing new material in preparation for a grand return to the stage--was quickly downgraded to a warty documentation of uninspired sessions. The grand finale would become an impromptu rooftop performance of the album's more palatable numbers. The "return to their roots" angle of the project is even less inspiring when you consider that the stark White Album pretty much achieved that goal. Throw in the worst batch of songs since the troubled Help! project along with an awful Phil Spector hack-job in the post production and you have a posthumous document of excuses from the decomposing Beatles.

Robert Bunter: Okay, are you with us, reader? So, part of the conceit was that the Beatles would be recorded and filmed performing not only their new original material but a batch of the old ‘50s rock and roll chestnuts with which they’d often warm up. What could be more inspiring? As they work together in harmony to craft their latest brilliant LP, the unobtrusive cameras manage to peel back the curtain of history and allow the raptly-attentive fans to glimpse their heroes playfully re-exploring the primal/crucial rock and roll that ignited the spark of their brilliant career in the first place. “Let’s record a great song, then, eh?,” says George. “Aye, Georgie,” says John in an exaggeratedly-deep fake voice which cracks up the assorted engineers and staff members. “Soonds good, but first why don’t we warm up with a Buddy Holly number, then?” replies Paul, and the next thing you know they are re-defining the electrifying changes of “Maybe Baby” so masterfully that grown men start to weep. Once that’s out of the way, they’re warmed up and ready to record their new stuff and it’s going to sound even better than it would have beforehand. They all smile warmly at each other and the sour mood of the White Album sessions and tense Apple Corps business meetings rises off the group like sock-steam from a dirty, sweaty sock that you leave outside in the morning next to your tent and the new day’s sunshine and warmth just lift the filth away, leaving behind a warm, dry, clean sock. The rejuvenated foursome is finally ready to continue into the dazzling future of their potential ‘70s career, and later we will all look back at Paul’s great idea to film a movie of the band rehearsing old ‘50s songs along with their new material as the turning point, a masterstroke. That’s how it was supposed to go.

Sad millionaires conjuring drunken spirits as a pathetic tribute to their forgotten hometown.

Richard Furnstein: How did it actually go? The aborted Get Back album was full of obscure chatter, underdeveloped songs like "Teddy Boy," "The Rocker," and a particularly putrid version of "Save The Last Dance For Me." The Let It Be album was a slicker compromise that didn't make anybody happy. It's easy to get excited about the endless pile of unreleased recordings from these tedious sessions. Beatlemaniacs always run into the Get Back sessions trap. Imagine being 17 years old and coming across Beatles bootlegs at the monthly Keystone Record Collectors show and finding a disc full of Bob Dylan covers by The Greatest Band On The Planet. Then imagine sitting in your sad bedroom listening to these awful versions played by rapidly aging and disinterested musicians. No refunds, the man said at the record fair. He's a smart businessman, and his business is breaking young men's hearts.

Robert Bunter: Man. That really hits home. So, we finally arrive at “Maggie Mae.” It’s not the Rod Stewart song about the relationship between a young rock star and an aging, fading beer queen (I’d like to add parenthetically that it drives me crazy in that song when he sings about how he might go back to school, or maybe “steal my daddy’s cue / and make a living out of playin’ pool.” He’s in the process of giving the boot to a poor woman who was kind enough to “take him in for the night” and this over-privileged fancy boy is just torturing her with the many wonderful life options that are still open to him. Please consult Lester Bangs’ first book for more on this subject). It’s a funky old ditty about a Liverpool prostitute, a drunken barroom sing-along. One gets the impression that the Beatles all knew this song from the old days, maybe a bit of an in-joke from the Reeperbahn or something. So, they break into an off-key little version and forget half the words and sing the harmonies wrong and then the whole thing putters off into nothing to end side one of Let It Be. Why did they even give it space on the tracklisting? It’s really more like the same sort of filler material as the “I Dig A Pygmy by Charles Hawtrey and the Deaf Aids” segment which opens the record.

Richard Furnstein: Throwaways like "Maggie Mae" and "Dig It" were clearly added to connect the Let It Be album with its original "work in progress" concept. They serve an ever greater purpose in the final track list, offering a safe place to hide from Phil Spector's tidal wave of strings and contempt on "Across The Universe" and "The Long And Winding Road." The fact is that The Beatles were never this rough, even in their rugged teddy boy days. It all just feels a bit phony: some sad millionaires conjuring drunken spirits as a pathetic tribute to their forgotten hometown. How can they connect to the common seamen and crooked toothed ladies of Liverpool now after years of eastern thought explorations, (alleged) sexual escapades with Joan Baez, bold new psychedelic drugs and fabrics, and gentle scrubbing and care from Mal Evans? They were no longer those simple men in 1969. John Lennon once promised an eternity of explorations in the rich Strawberry Fields, but now he couldn't be interested in leaving the comforts of heroin, white suits, and Yoko's control. Interestingly, Lennon would revisit "Maggie Mae" in the late 1970s (available on the crucial Anthology boxset). It's a much calmer take and represents a sincere attempt to connect to the folk traditions of North Liverpool.

Robert Bunter: That’s a good point. The Let It Be/Get Back experiment didn’t really work. They pulled themselves together to record one last brilliant album, but it was despite of the Get Back vibes, not because of them. The whole project ultimately belongs to the small but pungent category of Beatle missteps, along with the aforementioned Magical Mystery Tour film, the Maharishi retreat, Andy White’s drums on “Love Me Do” and side two of the original Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP.

Richard Furnstein: That being said, I would trade a decade of my life for a few more pungent missteps from these British superheroes. Perhaps we could have seen another twenty years of terrible recordings and poor production choices. "Maggie Mae" is indeed a special thing because it represents the promise of a terrible, thoughtless Beatles.

Robert Bunter: That’s a nice way of looking at it. Nice talking with you, Rich!

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]

Carry That Weight

Richard Furnstein: Without a doubt, the lightest of the lightweights in the Abbey Road medley. "Carry That Weight" is not much more than Ringo bellowing in the cavernous Abbey Road studios and some lovely callbacks to the momentous "You Never Give Me Your Money." It's a reassuring final sprint for the boys; reminding us once again that they were human beings all along. Ringo's tone deaf shouting lent a similar everyman sheen to art house numbers like "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill," "Flying," and "You Know My Name Look Up The Number." "Carry That Weight" is his final shout in his Beatles costume, following this moment he would ascend to the heavens during his rapturous drum solo in "The End."

Robert Bunter: Lightweight? This song weighs a ton. You do realize that this is the sound of the Beatles confronting their impending breakup and the knowledge that the rest of their lives will be defined by the enormity of what they'd accomplished over the past ten years or so, right? How do you think it felt to be in that studio, shouting along with Ringo on what they just knew was going to be their last hurrah? I'll tell you how it felt: they were crying. John looked over at George and there were tears rolling down his face. That made John start to well up, and then he looked over at Paul and remembered the first time they met at the Woolton fete. Paul was just singing, not really crying, but then he looked up from the microphone and remembered the time he and Ringo stayed up all night talking in Rishikesh, and thought about how the whole thing was going down the pan and they were breaking up. George Burns was there, too. He was holding a top hat to his chest and trying to keep from weeping. I have the footage.

How do you think it felt to be in that studio, shouting along with Ringo on what they just knew was going to be their last hurrah? I'll tell you how it felt: they were crying.

Richard Furnstein: Fair enough! I just meant that there's not much to the song. All the cool bits are from that other song. But, sure, this band went from crusin' for some sweet hand holding to reflecting on how they devoted their twenties to dramatically shifting cultural and artistic trends. It's like Paul knew that he was facing the next lifetime alone. No more John to carry the burden of lean years (London Town). No more George to lend sweet harmonies and licks to every little thought that he put on tape (he'd have to keep Denny Laine on salary for the next ten years for that). No more Ringo to trumpet the childlike innocence that fueled their creative process. A dark road laid ahead, filled with triumphs, missteps, McCartney/Starr co-writes, breast cancer, assassinations, synthesizers, and Nigel Godrich productions. Can you carry that weight? Well, dig in, brother. It's coming.

Robert Bunter: McCartney/Starr co-writes? Huh? (shakes head in startled disbelief and makes cartoonish "e-yada-yada-yada" noise) Do mine ears bewitch me? Hold on a minute, I'm going to consult the computer about this. [...] I don't see anything. You made that up, right? Please tell me there aren't really any McCartney/Starr co-writes.

Richard Furnstein: Hold on to your butt! No, seriously, hold your butt closed. Poop is going to escape your body when you hear this song.

Robert Bunter: That song makes Wild Life sound like Band On The Run!