Strawberry Fields Forever

Richard Furnstein: An absolute and perfect work, “Strawberry Fields Forever” is the The Beatles at their best. It represents the peak of their songwriting craft, George Martin’s production and arrangement work, incidental and exciting floating instrumentation, and the unlimited creativity of the psychedelic era. Hell, I’d contend that it is the greatest creative work of the 20th Century. I feel weird dumping our typical giddy hyperbole on this masterpiece. Indeed, “Strawberry Fields Forever” has little connection to its only true sonic or songwriting antecedents (“Tomorrow Never Knows” and “In My Life,” respectively) as Lennon doesn’t reference or build on these prior works. Rather, he devises an entirely new language to tell the story of his brain. “Strawberry Fields Forever” is a completely unique animal; emerging tattered and strange from the ornate gardens of the mind. The song isn’t in the key of A; rather, it’s in the key of Air—a menacing and fragrant gas which disables the feeble human synapses and filters and resets the landscape below.  

Robert Bunter: Yeah. It’s an altered mental state. The unfamiliar instruments (Mellotron and some kind of zingy Indian harp), the tapes played backwards or slowed down, the improbable yet beautiful chord changes, the trick ending – they not only illustrate the lyric’s precise yet vague portrait of confused uncertainty, they evoke and induce it. The listener can’t help but viscerally inhabit Lennon’s haunted mindspace. I don’t care how mentally together and emotionally secure you are, when you hear this song, you know what it feels like to be a rich, unhappy, drug-addled human genius full of pain from the past, fears for the future and disorientation in the present. Objectivity dissolves. Lennon was able to manufacture similarly hallucinogenic effects on his other two attempts at audio drugs (“I Am The Walrus” and the aforementioned “Tomorrow Never Knows”), but what elevates “Strawberry Fields Forever” is the beauty. It shines through the confusing textures like a warm smile inside of a nightmare.

Richard Furnstein: The nightmare was certainly displayed in the promotional video for "Strawberry Fields Forever." The clip displays the band's new look--a combination of Victorian and lurid clothing, deviant facial hair, and the vacant, sad stares of internal psychedelic explorations. After an unheralded six months of creative chrysalis, they have emerged as underfed butterflies. There was nowhere to go but up: miles from the dull, patchy grass, through the pink smog, and into the pulsing light. Surprisingly, Paul McCartney is the most frightening figure in the video. His once friendly doe-eyes are lifeless (perhaps literally) and full of sorrow. Cloaked in a garish mustard-colored coat, he hops along the ground backwards and jumps into an expired oak tree. George and John have aged decades during their break from the public eye. Their gaunt bodies are hidden by technicolor fashions. Ringo looks the most familiar, but he is clearly searching for comfort in this strange world. The clip enters night during the slow, cello-drenched "no one I think is in my tree' verse. The tree is festooned with nylon spider web emerging from a piano. Is the tree fake? Is there truly nothing to get hung about in this caustic landscape? Ringo smiles with glee as they douse the piano in cans of paint. We (the viewers) are similarly baptized in these colorful new structures. Surely, everything that came before had to be scrapped as useless. This was it.

Robert Bunter: It wasn't just the video. The lyrics themselves are addressed directly and personally from the John-figure to YOU, the listener ("Let me take you down"), just like "I'd love to turn you on," "Isn't he a bit like you and me?", "Can you hear me?", "There's nothing you can do that can't be done," "You can syndicate any boat you row" and so many others, all the way back to "Oh yeah I tell you something / I think you'll understand." This approach would come off has presumptuous (at least) in the hands of a lesser artist, but John and the Beatles were confidently aware that they occupied a special place in the consciousness of their listeners. So, after a gracefully genteel Mellotron prelude, the lyric begins with our old friend John disarmingly offering to let us join him on a trip to Strawberry Fields. Informed fans know that this was the name of an orphanage just around the corner from John's childhood home in the Liverpool suburbs, where a young Lennon was fond of listening to the sprightly tubas and cymbals of the Salvation Army Band each summer at the annual garden party. One can even imagine the domineering young lad rounding up his neighborhood chums on the way to the fair by saying something like "Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Field" in a cute little British accent. But obviously John is working on a different level. He informs us that "nothing is real" and, more alarmingly, "nothing to get hung about." This casual, ho-hum attitude towards the existential riddles with which John confronts us - "It doesn't matter much to me" - is almost as terrifying as the cellos, reverse-time drum loops and old-man moustaches. 

Richard Furnstein: I beg to differ. John was not entreating the listener to take a "trip" down to the halcyon Strawberry Field. Instead, he was warning the listener that he was about to tell them the sad story of his shattered childhood ("let me take you down"). It's significant that he set this alleged idealist piece of nostalgia in an orphanage as he was finally ready to tell the story of a mother who left him (and then suddenly died in a senseless accident as she decided she was finally ready to become a stable figure in his life) and an absentee seaman father. In "Strawberry Fields Forever," John envisions himself as a ward of the orphanage rather than merely a visitor to its lush gardens with his caretaker Aunt Mimi. John realizes that he is nothing more than an unwanted child, despite the best efforts of Aunt Mimi and Uncle George to create an illusion of stability and normalcy following his primal scream trauma (the loss of his parents). Indeed, "living is easy with eyes closed" suggests both John escape from his loss as he retreats to his rich and fractured imagination and Aunt Mimi's well-meaning illusion of a normal Liverpool family. Perhaps as an orphan, John could have realized a greater sense of connection to humanity ("no one I think is in my tree") in an age when traumatized children didn't receive psychiatric care. He was hiding his internal damage caused by the loss of his parents to the world rather than wearing his injuries proudly as a state-declared orphan. The casual mention of "nothing to get hung about" suggests that suicide is the only way to really stop the bleeding. John would be more emotionally direct in revealing his pain during his raw early solo years ("Mama don't go/Daddy come home" and "One thing you can't hide is when you're crippled inside"), as he finally received the therapy and time for self reflection that he desperately needed. However, the grace and poetry of the pain in "Strawberry Fields Forever" is somehow more startling than the grotesque exposure of those later lyrics.

Robert Bunter: The shattered childhood material is all there, but it’s subtextual – indicated only by the title/refrain’s mention of an orphanage and the track’s pairing with McCartney’s “Penny Lane” as an explicitly two-sided meditation on their shared Liverpool roots. The sad little chap, squinting nearsightedly at the merry Salvation Army band and stoic war orphans of early-‘50s England is now grown up. His already hyperactive mental/emotional/spiritual Self has been rocketed to the highest levels of wealth and artistic acclaim, then magnified and distorted through his copious use of advanced pure mind drugs of the highest pedigree. The Beatles just made the decision to stop touring and John, at loose ends, decides to accept a minor movie role and spend a few weeks filming in Spain. During the interminable waiting periods between takes, he gently strums an acoustic guitar and ponders the uncertain future of his career as a Beatle, his stultifying, dead-end suburban family life with Cynthia and Julian, and, yes, the bleak reality of his broken youth. The primal, crucial questions of his life loom inescapably as he struggles to decipher their answers through a haze of THC and boutique-quality lysergic acid. Am I a madman or a genius? What is real and what is illusion? How can I maintain my integrity and awareness in the face of so much pain? It is startling to hear the John-figure -- so accustomed to delivering pronouncements from on high, flashes of righteous anger or cutting wit -- lost in melancholy confusion. Who is this politely confused old man with the granny glasses and moustache, singing “I think I know, I mean, ah yes, but”? Surely not the same confident authority figure who had (quite recently) commanded us all to turn off our minds, listen to the color of our dreams and say the Word.

The beauty shines through the confusing textures like a warm smile inside of a nightmare.

Richard Furnstein: It's easy to imagine John languidly strumming this chord progression on the set of of How I Won The War. Literally and figuratively in a foxhole during the making of Richard Lester's dark comedy, Lennon was nervously awaiting the next development in his life. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was a bold and risky direction for the songwriter: he was exposing himself (emerging from the foxhole) to the rewards and risks of its creation. The glorious demos for "Strawberry Fields Forever" reveal the endless options of this strange composition. A Beatles fan could spend a decade in the stark and gentle productions of these early versions (combined and compiled nicely as part of the Beatles Anthology). Later in his life, Lennon claimed to be unhappy with odd patchwork of lushness and strangeness that was unleashed to the world like a psychedelic Frankenstein's Monster. You can almost understand his concerns because the final product--while pure brilliance--was so unusual and seemingly incongruent with his original vision of the song.

Robert Bunter: The story of how “Strawberry Fields Forever” was pieced together from wildly different takes in the studio is one of those Beatles stories that have been re-told in every book and documentary film, but I’ll briefly summarize it here. The song was first debuted to George Martin as a solo voice and acoustic guitar demo that George Martin later said was “utterly breathtaking” even in a completely unadorned state. Since it was the height of the studio experimentation phase, however, they clearly couldn’t let it go at that. John asked Martin to score the track for cellos and trumpets, and the resulting take was utterly striking and unique. John still wasn’t satisfied, however, and suggested they start from scratch with a more ponderous, heavy rock version that emphasized Ringo’s drums. This, too, was an artistic triumph. John still felt something was missing and asked Martin to join the two takes together. The staid, conservatory-trained producer nearly fell from his velvety-cushioned rotating studio chair with incredulity at Lennon’s inexhaustible naivete. “But John! They’re in completely different keys and tempos! What you’re asking is impossible!” But John just smiled and gave him “that look” and said, “Oh, I know you can do it, George” and floated away before his very eyes (actually, this was accomplished with a simple series of ropes and hidden pulleys arranged over the studio rafters by assistant Mal Evans and Ringo). Martin, suddenly alone in the cavernous studio space, racked his brain for several hours before he thought of the (totally obvious) idea to slow down the faster one a little bit and then speed up the slower one slightly. Miraculously, it worked – the keys and tempo matched perfectly. This is the reason John’s voice sounds more druggy and strange in the later verses. It may be difficult for a non-musician to understand just how startlingly unlikely it would be for that to work.

Richard Furnstein: John's voice also sounded more druggy because he was consuming Olympian doses of d-lysergic amid at the time. Martin's role was clearly to translate a madman's babbling for the Top 40; seducing happenstance with a surgeon's steady hand. Indeed, the studio trickery of the "Strawberry Fields Forever" master is more than mere psychedelic colouring (think of the BBC airwaves captured during the chaotic "I Am The Walrus" fade or the swarming clavioline that haunts "Baby, You're A Rich Man"). It is an essential element of Lennon's storytelling. He once implored us to "Listen to the colour of your dreams"--a nice enough sentiment--before taunting "It is not leaving." In other words, we have reached the point of no return. The dripping many-eyed iguanas and undulating mindwave trails are here to stay. Are you in or are out?  

Robert Bunter: I'm out. There's too much more to say, and we've already gone on too long. Maybe we'll do part two someday. Maybe. That would be a fine place to talk about the fake ending, the Mellotron, and the fact that this and "Penny Lane" were pulled from the Sgt. Pepper lineup as originally conceived. Let's get the hell out of here.  

Richard Furnstein: Fair enough, old pal. This song is a burrito-as-big-as-your-head. Sometimes it is alright to get your fill and walk away. We're all adults here.

Original Beatles fan art by Matthew Heisler

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!

I'm So Tired

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite

Robert Bunter: In a way, John’s terrifying “Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite” ranks among the most “peppery” of the Sgt. Pepper’s tracks, in terms of Paul’s concept of a Beatles record masquerading as an old-timey variety show. In subsequent years John would play down the “Pepper” concept as a fraud and a McCartney ego trip (and of course John’s album closer “A Day In The Life” manages to simultaneously deflate and shed light on the harsh reality behind Paul’s whimsical fancies), but at the time he was willing to play along. Characteristically, John’s vision of an old-timey variety show has a lot more fangs than Paul’s. Paul assumes the emcee role and opens the curtain with flourishes of showbiz razzle-dazzle. Then we are introduced to the hapless yet loveable Billy Shears and his ode to friendship. A few tracks later, “Mr. Kite” offers a much darker vision of early 20^th century popular entertainment – John’s emcee is a bored-sounding carnival barker, his voice oozing over the grim, minor-key gypsy melody with the same jaded contempt that strippers and freak show performers feel for their drooling audience of rubes, marks and squares. Paul conjures visions of a pleasantly amused crowd reacting to a colorful and friendly band of performers; John invites us into a dank, stinky tent where elaborately-moustached gymnasts in eggshell tights tumble through flaming hoops and drugged horses dance creepily (this was really accomplished with painful, hidden clamps and spiked bridles which directed the poor beast which way to go). But don’t worry! All you have to do is turn the record over and you’ll be ready to enjoy George’s interminable curry sermon, punctuated by a turgid sitar solo in 7/4 time. Thanks for inviting us to your wonderful show, Beatles!

Richard Furnstein: Lennon took most of the lyrics to "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite" from a Victorian carnival poster discovered in an antique shop (word is that John read from the fine print on the poster as he sat at the piano, pumping out the tune). However, the horrorshow ambiance of the recording is purely Lennon's drug fantasy. The sound of "Mr. Kite" fits in with the unsettling combination of nostalgia, fantasy, and drug experimentation of The Beatles' psychedelic recordings. The famous cover photo for Sgt. Pepper's is a window into this world, where The Beatles are outfitted as a droll marching band in a sea of black and white oddities (Aleister Crowley, a slightly hidden James Joyce) and technicolor splashes (the sheen of the marching band outfits, the funereal flowers). The heavily pixelated stark newsprint cutouts provides a shock of contrast next to the way-out implications of marmalade skies and a flaming hogshead. Lennon was in full control of this fantasy--guiding a generation of creepy long hairs into the light with his sinister word play and frozen Lysergic images. It didn't matter that the finely-wrought lyrics to "Mr. Kite" are almost verbatim from an antique poster. The language of "Mr. Kite" is a window into a world of danger and improbable illusions. Lennon was certainly sympathetic to the improbable world and fantastical events suggested in the poster's script.

Robert Bunter: Most of the time when Beatle books discuss this track, they focus on the swirling collage of organ and calliope music which George Martin conjured in response to John’s vague request to “do something fairground-y … I want to smell the sawdust.” They looked into renting an actual calliope but nothing would fit through the door. Instead, Martin collected a pile of tapes of organ and circus music, cut them into strips and threw them into the air, then glued them back together in whatever order they fell. This was supplanted with some actual real-time recorded organ and harmonium playing the melody. The final effect is wonderful, of course – exactly the terrifying, trippy carnival evocation that John had in mind. Even more wonderful, in my opinion, are the many circulating video clips of an older George Martin, seated in front of the recording console, re-telling the “we threw the tapes in the air” story for the umpteenth time with evident gleeful relish. The staid, conservatory-trained producer’s eyes sparkle as he remembers what a delightfully madcap afternoon that was. There’s something almost cute about it. Here are the Beatles, their minds sizzling on exotic drugs, changing the world with their bold satin military outfits and various attempts at facial hair (some more successful than others – George’s dirt-stache was rightfully panned during the 2006 “Beatle Facial Hair” panel discussion at Beatlefest, which I was honored to moderate). And then here’s dapper George Martin in a tasteful white sweater, sipping a cup of tea and feeling like a wild-eyed revolutionary for gently tossing a few strips of magnetic tape in the air. He probably was extra vigorous in the bedroom with Ms. Martin after he got home that evening; literally “feeling his oats.”

John invites us into a dank, stinky tent where elaborately-moustached gymnasts in eggshell tights tumble through flaming hoops and drugged horses dance creepily.

Richard Furnstein: "It's time for tea and meet the wife," indeed. Sure, George Martin felt schoolboy glee whenever he was able to lead Beatles recordings into new terrain. His heart would certainly race when they would scheme on ways to bend the strict rules of the Abbey Road headmaster. "George, we want this song to sound to like a calliope that we remember from our childhoods in 1947" or "I want to sound like the Dalai Lama, but underwater and backwards." All George Martin could do was sit back in his barrister executive chair (adjusted for minimum tilt, mind you) and stuff some Sir Pennington's Basingstoke Blend tobacco into a cherry-finished pipe. He'd take some pensive puffs on the pipe and look John and Paul in their spinning top eyes and say, "Gentlemen, this is what we'll do..." See, George Martin was there to find solutions for rich and curiously talented junkies. He was paid the big bucks to translate gobbledygook and gentle hallucinations into precise sound textures. He was unhampered by the auditory illusions and pesky dragon shadows that haunted his co-workers. George Martin was free to create and problem-solve while John and the boys were off debating the cosmic possibilities of the concept of "real fire." The Beatles wanted the impossible in short order, and the recording team was there to find a way to the golden princess. Speed up the tape. Flip over the tape. Cut up the tape. Are we there yet, sir?

Robert Bunter: Yes. That’s just how it was. I’d just like to add that the “LOVE” album mashup of this track with “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” works brilliantly. Plus, everything on that disc sounds so much better than the original albums, even the new re-mastered versions. I don’t know what Giles Martin (George’s son, possibly conceived on organ tape-throwing night, who knows?) did, but I like it. There is a lot of clarity, space, punch and transparency in these 21^st-centruy re-imaginings, and furthermore some of the merging and juxtapositions are simply exhilarating. When the “She’s So Heavy” riff comes in instead of the horse-waltz, my eyes fill with tears of excitement. I know this is an unpopular opinion in Beatle-land (see transcripts of Beatlefest 2010 “LOVE” panel discussion featuring the director of Cirque de Soleil, former Wings guitarist Denny Laine McCullough and Ringo Starr), but I think that album is an unambiguous triumph and a worthy addition to the canon.

Richard Furnstein: I couldn't agree more. How about the "Helter Skelter" ghost in that track or the punishing organ before the "I Want You" mash? The LOVE album is the most valuable addition to The Beatles catalog since Let It Be oozed out onto the sheets in May 1970 (the In Mono box is certainly close, but those releases already existed for the chosen Beatlemaniacs). It's exciting that mankind has Giles to carry the torch in the coming decades. It's better than having to rely on Geoff Emerick or his children. Giles clearly brought the innovations of Pro Tools to The Beatles, taking his dear old dad's haphazard cut and splice and innovations and translating them into the binary modern world. Mindful of the past, blazing into the future. Can you imagine the overactive/drug fueled imaginations of Lennon/McCartney in the modern age? The endless possibilities of the blank digital canvas would have been crippling to the wide eyed John and Paul. They had enough problems dealing with the unpredictable acid trips and the disembodied head of Pablo Fanque appearing in the rear view mirrors of their Bentley Continentals. What a scene!

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.

When I'm 64

Robert Bunter: Oh, Paul. What are we going to do with you? Possessed of one of the most electrifying male voices in heavy rock history, James Paul McCartney also happened to be one of the most versatile and gifted songwriters of his era – equally capable of breathtaking anthems, bold experimentalism, heartrending ballads, and delicate acoustic meditations. And it mattered not to what he turned his hand: it was almost always anchored by an almost supernaturally catchy melody and performed with admirable virtuosity on a wide variety of instruments. He is the man who can do anything. So what does he do? He dons one of those round Styrofoam hats, grabs his dancing cane and plops out a seemingly endless series of rooty-toot soft shoe ditties “for the grannies to dig” as George so accurately put it. It’s like Albert Einstein took a break from his equations to write jokes on Bazooka Joe wrappers, or Michelangelo painting the side of a goddamn barn.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, Paul had a great howler on him. He could have built his entire career on his howl and a rebellious rock persona with a tight expiration date. Paul was more than a get rich quick scheme and a leather daddy hat. Sometimes wanted to sing about old people tending to their little potato patches, grandchildren that scoff at your Eddie Cochran imports, and finding your dear love attractive even though she's now an old lady and smells weird. "Hope I die before I get old," eh, Pete Townsend? No way, Paul's seen the impact of early death on his life (his dear mama and good friend Stu and maybe some other people) and he's celebrating the crazy journey of life. "You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead," he would later observe. Sounds nice. Put some tea on the kettle. You grandkids can use that dorm room hot pot that you plug in, but I'm doing this the old fashioned way. Take the long way 'round.

Robert Bunter: Well, it pains me to admit this, Richard, but you’re right. Paul’s right. You’ve actually taken this whole analysis to the next level. Everyone assumed John had the greater emotional maturity because he was willing to forcefully confront his bleakest demons. Likewise, we assumed Paul’s eager-to-please Everyperson charm was a mask behind which he hid his real feelings. The truth is, he was aware the whole time that the real cosmic truth of life lies in the simple, everyday world around us. Old people shuffling around in sleepgowns while they brew their tepid brown mugs of Earl Grey were once vital, young people, full of angst and complex thoughts. THEY NEED BEATLES MUSIC, TOO. Paul’s ultimate wisdom recognizes the endless circle of life and the inevitability of aging and loss in a way that John’s primal babyscream tantrums were unable to approach. As someone once said, “It’s like a dusting of opium on Auntie Minn’s biscuits.” Behind the Paul-mask, a showbiz entertainer. Yes. But, behind the entertainer mask: PAUL.

Richard Furnstein: A snake eating its own tale. Adding to the cycle of life cacophony is the fact that this is one of Paul's first songs. It's the sound of pure melody pouring out of a confused adolescent on the sitting room's upright piano. "Your Aunt Mim has stopped by for wafers and tea, Pauly. Play us that song about old people." And he did, because he gives the people what they want. I'll tell you what I want, though. Great recorded pop music with killer bass tones (CHECK) with a light touch of sentiment (OH YEAH). It's not just light story time, however. Paul offers the amazing lyrics: "Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear" and "Yours sincerely/wasting away." "When I'm 64" is the perfect balance to an album about the heavy progression of youth culture. Take all the drugs you want and give your love away now, kids. But keep in mind a lifetime of new drugs (grandchildren, post menopausal intercourse, nice old sweaters) awaits you. It's closer than you think...

Paul was more than a get rich quick scheme and a leather daddy hat.

Robert Bunter: Wow. We’re really getting down to it! The harsh yet comforting realities of life. Now for some random observations: if you listen really closely in headphones, you can hear some amazing, subtle reverb on Paul’s lead vocal, which seems totally dry at first listen. While we’re on the subject, Paul’s voice has been sped up to sound more youthful, and he adopts a ridiculous Scottish accent on the word “your” in the lyric “Grandchildren on your knee.” I’ll bet whoever was in charge of ringing the bell at the end of that bridge had a hard time not laughing. The Lennon/Harrison backup vocals add a distinctive flavor, like pepper (!). The harmonized clarinet line under the last verse (and under the phrase “go for a ride”) is really compelling when you focus on it. Lastly, Paul’s closing “Hooo!” as he trots offstage is totally corny.

Richard Furnstein: So we agree, this is one of the clear highlights of "Sgt. Pepper," right?

Robert Bunter: You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s is without a doubt the worst song on that album. I’m going to go even further: it’s terrible.

Richard Furnstein: I hope you enjoy the rest of your life. I hope you bounce grandchildren on your knee or whatever it is your people do. Best of luck to you. We can't grow old together as friends now.

Robert Bunter: Hoooo!

Original Beatles fan art by Jeff Love (http://jeffreyalanlove.blogspot.com/)

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!