When I Get Home

Cynthia Lennon: September 10, 1939-April 1, 2015

Richard Furnstein: We lost another one, dear friend. Cynthia Lennon is the latest guest speaker at that Great Beatles Convention In The Sky. Look at that all star panel on the stage: the peaceful John Lennon, the gregarious George Harrison, the noble Mal Evans, the solemn Billy Preston, the monkish Brian Epstein, the jubilant Maureen Starkey, and the emotional Derek Taylor. Golly, there are only a few empty chairs up there now.

Cynthia was always a sad figure in the story of the Beatles. She was a hidden and forgotten part of the Beatles; a too-old-for-her-years figure pining for a fractured man child who would never love or accept the responsibilities and normalcy that she represented. Her big moments speak to betrayal and mistreatment: being hidden from the screaming teenagers to encourage their fantasies of bedding John; bearing and raising the ignored Julian Lennon while her husband toured the world and slept with endless women: refusing the romantic advances of Magic Alex; missing that train to Bangor to meet both the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and Mike Love; and--the final indignity--walking in on John and Yoko together in her Kenwood home.

Robert Bunter: John Lennon was a goddamn asshole. I'm sorry but these are the facts. "Give Peace A Chance" notwithstanding, he was basically a selfish pig and nowhere is that stark reality more apparent than in the life of Cynthia Lennon. Practically the first thing she did after they met was to dye her hair blonde to look more like the sticky, creased portrait of Brigitte Bardot that John carried around in the pocket of his black drannies (drainpipe trousers, a stupid pants style favored by young British rockabilly jerkoffs in the '50s). The relationship quickly became physical, and selfish John cared only about his personal dick stimulation - no primitive UK sheepskin for this drunken Scouse greasepail! So inevitably she becomes pregnant and only then does John ask her to get married. Justice of the Peace or some shit and a drugged up Brian Epstein was the best man with some construction work happening outside (captured in one of Cynthia's great drawings). Oh yeah right Cynthia, it looks like your dreamboat has really docked this time. Get the hell out of here. Next thing you know he's famous and you've already said what happened after that. Oh, one more thing - he beat her.

Richard Furnstein: Exhibit Whatever: stink filler "When I Get Home" from the non-soundtrack side of A Hard Day's Night. In this song, a drunk and violent John finally comes home from a tour of rock n' roll clubs and other moist areas of Portugal. You can almost hear him barge into their lovely Kenwood house, drunk as a fire ant and full of fresh drip infection. Just listen to that primal scream in the introduction, it pretty much shouts out to be let into the damned-door-because-I-lost-my-keys-where-are-my-Buddy-Holly-records-where-is-the-Cutty-Sark-ferchrissake-Cyn. Sure, John has a lot of things to tell her when he gets home, but it's either drunken ramblings about Ringo's flatulence or the amphetamine selection in Lisbon. "Julian has a double ear infection? [Fart noise.] C'mere, I'm 'gonna love you til the cows come home.'" What a disgusting scene. It's all there on the record, Your Honor.

Cynthia wasn't a Jungian archetype, an Oedipal mother figure or a conniving shrew. She was a real person who the real John Lennon fell in love with before he became "John Lennon."

Robert Bunter: Ha, this is the second post in a row where you've talked about how smelly John Lennon was. We can only imagine what he smells like now. But let's back up for a moment and take an objective look at "When I Get Home." This is a pure rock and roll monster. Even by the standards of early Beatles stompers, this track is a revelation. I feel as though I'm hearing it for the first time. John, George and Paul use their trademark three-part harmony on the intense "WO-a-WO HAAAAA!!!!" intro while Ringo beats the shit of of his drums even more than usual and Paul plays a thunderous bassline that almost never strays from the primal root note of every chord. Then you've got John's lead vocal: one of the twentieth century's most compelling voices unleashes a brutal assault that is every bit as heavy as what he would later attempt on "Revolution" or "Cold Turkey." The fact that this was a third-to-last-song-on-side-two throwaway track on an LP filled with much more significant achievements is frankly mind-boggling.

Richard Furnstein: The band really conveys the excitement of a homecoming. Sure, it's got some awful bits (John's Italian-man vocal inflections early in the song, the line "no time for trivialities," and the clunky middle eight), but the the fire behind the vocals and Ringo's good nature enthusiasm are easy to love. Question for you, Robert: is this the most sentimental Cynthia-influenced song in the canon? The most apparent Cynthia references are largely negative or dismissive. John is bored out of skull with domestic life in "Good Morning Good Morning." "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away" is more about Brian Epstein's homosexuality than his denial of his marriage in the early years. "Don't Let Me Down" features that cruel line about being in love for the first time with Yoko. I can't place any sweetheart songs about Cynthia. His early songs are mainly about weeping or coming up with revenge fantasies about the women who mistreated him.

Robert Bunter: I think that's kind of the point. Cynthia wasn't a Jungian archetype, an Oedipal mother figure or a conniving shrew. She was a real person who the real John Lennon fell in love with before he became "John Lennon." When John sang to Cynthia it wasn't from the stage of a baseball stadium or an AM radio speaker. The tender whispers of a young couple before turning out the light; the desperate scribbled vulnerability of letters mailed home from some dank provincial beer hall; the simple touch in a solitary moment or the knowing smile across a crowded room - these were the songs John sang to Cynthia Lennon. As John came to mean more and more to the world at large, perhaps he lost touch with this. He turned himself inside out for all the world to see and we stood in stunned admiration at the candid beauty of his exposed soul and thanked him for the gift. But before he was ours, he was hers. The nowhere man sitting in his nowhere land making all his nowhere plans for nobody while his flesh-and-blood wife and son waited patiently for him to come out of the goddamn TV room and say something to them for a change. Let us consider with humble gratitude that Cynthia was able to emerge from her troubled relationship with John and build a long and happy life for herself, and bid her beautiful spirit a fond farewell. We never really knew her, and that is as it should be.

Tell Me Why

Richard Furnstein: I'm here to tell you: this song reflects the true John Lennon. You can keep the patient dreamer of "Imagine." I don't want to hear about the guardian of childhood imagination in "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds." Get the hell out of here with the tender yet mad genius of "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Nowhere Man." Print out the lyrics for "Tell Me Why" and show them to your therapist. She'll tell you that the author is clearly hiding his self loathing behind his misogynistic aggression. He is obsessed with his own overwhelming sense of misery while being unaware of his the impacts of his emotions on other people. Textbook abandonment issues, related to a fractured relationship with a mother. While most adults enter into relationships for an emotional connection and sexual fulfillment, the protagonist of "Tell Me Why" only pursues women in order to shift blame and fears onto another person. It's pathetic, but what a backbeat.  

Robert Bunter: I can imagine that therapy session. “Mr. Bunter, why don’t you tell me about your childhood?” “Well, doc, actually I want to play you this song from A Hard Day’s Night and get your reaction.” “Mr. Bunter, we’re here to talk about you, not … what are you doing with that portable phonograph player? [sputtering] Mr. Bunter, this is highly irregular! [music starts to play, the attractive woman therapist’s hips begin to involuntarily rock and sway to the irresistible Mersey backbeat] Mr. Bunter! I have never … This is a therapy session, not an episode of Top of the Pops! [the song reaches the bridge] Oh, the hell with it! [therapist dances with wild abdomen]” Yeah, that would be quite a session! Whoo-whee! SHAKE IT! OK, but look: the lyrics may well point to John’s inner fears and issues, but when I hear this song, I’m not listening to the lyrics. I’m hearing the supreme confidence of a master pop craftsman at the top of his game. “She Loves You,” “Can’t Buy Me Love” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand” were the three knock-out punches that really shook the world and launched a thousand black-and-white videos of shrieking girls and crowded airports, but in my opinion, some of the second-tier early rockers like “It Won’t Be Long” and “Tell Me Why” are even more galvanizing. This song makes me feel like I could jump over a building and dance on the head of a pin. Whatever inadvertent subtextual psychological revelations may have been lurking under the manhole cover are ultimately irrelevant. This is the song of a conquering champion on top of the world.

Richard Furnstein: You got that right. The Beatles play "Tell Me Why" during the finale of in A Hard Day's Night. It's a big moment. We finally get to see The Beatles perform live after an hour of watching them get chased by teenage girls, outsmart local cops, and babysit Paul's perverted grandfather. Sure, the exposition was hilarious and occasionally touching, but we were waiting for that rock n' roll party moment. The film footage of "Tell Me Why" is highlighted by a energetic upshift of girl screams. We see close-up shots of these poor girls crying as John and Paul jeer "tell me why you cried." I'll tell you why they cried, John and Paul. They cried because The Beatles destroyed their sad, quiet lives. Wondering which of their with horse-faced classmates would get the lead in the useless school play. Petting that short-haired goon Johnny Titus after the church ice cream social. Listening to their dying fathers smoke in the den. They thought they were happy, but The Beatles showed them that they were miserable. She's leaving home. He's leaving home. Everybody is leaving home. We're starting over.  

Robert Bunter: Yes, the sprouts of a new generation. The seeds of all that came after were planted here. Ringo's just bashing away on the goddamn cymbals, shaking his hair back and forth. The bass is playing jazz-inflected walking bass lines that add to the sense of accelerating propulsion. John's fantastic rock and roll voice has never been in better form, yet it has been nestled into a bed of utterly gorgeous close harmony singing from George and Paul. Here's a pop (!) quiz: what's the best part of this song, the intro, the verse, the chorus, the bridge or the ending? I dare you to answer me.  

Richard Furnstein: The answer is clear: ALL OF THE ABOVE. It's one of those hot typhoon Beatles songs where the individual pieces roll along with little regard for dynamics, despite its relatively simple structure. Similar to "It Won't Be Long," it kicks off with a shouting chorus. I'd particularly like to highlight the bridge. It's a simple build, but exactly what the song needs after the repetitive breezy verse. It's hard not to love Paul and George squeaking towards the falsetto on "Is there anything I can do." It's like they are mocking the hysterical cries of the lying girlfriend. The ending has a classic Beatles resolution, quickly descending in half steps before landing on the D major. That's the stuff!
  
Robert Bunter: Ha! You know, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that. This song is just brimming with positive spirit and joie de vive. It’s perfect. It’s not uncommon for fans and critics to regard the Beatles’ accomplishments as somehow superhuman, usually because of later peak points like “A Day In The Life,” “Hey Jude” or “Old Brown Shoe.” But I would submit that they were already operating as gods on “Tell Me Why.” The whole is greater than the sum of the parts: four primitive, unschooled musicians from a hardscrabble port town with simple guitars and tape recorders somehow managed to trap lightning in a bottle. I’ve said it before, but we should all get down on our knees and give thanks that we are lucky enough to live in a world where “Tell Me Why” not only happened, but was captured on tape and is easily repeatable via simple audio reproduction technology. I tend to insist on original mono UK vinyl pressings in order to appreciate the holy scriptures in their fullest glory, but “Tell Me Why” is an exception. Go ahead, listen to a lossy mp3 with earbuds. Try a third-generation low-bias cassette dub on a primitive GloanTone Pocket Walkman. I don’t care if you’re hearing it through the walls from your sister’s room over a transistor radio. The Force will be transmitted just as strongly as it would have if you were right in the middle of the studio when they cut the take. “Tell Me Why” is as good as Beatles music ever gets.

Richard Furnstein: Kudos to you, old friend.  This is goddamned life.

Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey

Richard Furnstein: The winter's almost over, dear friend. Come inside, we've been expecting you. A wild man with fangs and lady hair will take your coat at the door. Don't mind those STAB-STAB-STAB guitars, things will settle into a fun groove. There are plenty of girls here. Have a look around. Hot with ten T's, pal. "HOTTTTTTTTTT." Look at them. They are smoking cigarettes and are dressed like beautiful women from another age. Skin and teeth and caring eyes. Sensitive pulsing. Comeoncomeoncomeon, let's keep moving. What's that sound? Is that a cowbell? Christ, that's a cowbell! Anything goes!

Robert Bunter: We have all been invited to John Lennon’s terrifying 1968 party. His childhood was difficult, his early adulthood was consumed with inhuman fame and creative development, and he’s spent the past year or two in a weird haze of drugs and mantra chanting. But don’t worry, he’s met a strange Japanese artist and now we can all join in the celebration! “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except For Me And My Monkey”’s stabbing guitars, cowbell clanks, exuberant lyrics (and the bevy of attractive ladies which you seem to have conjured up in your overheated mind-dreams) seem to offer the promise of a raucous party, but as usual with John Lennon, everything is terrifying. What a celebration! Some freak is screaming a bunch of incomprehensible riddles in my face and yelling about monkeys … the imaginary attractive teeth ladies look like they don’t want to have anything to do with me … the punch has been laced with Purple Segments and the deli meats on the hospitality tray have long since spoiled. I don’t want to spoil the party, but please excuse me while I curl into the fetal position and silently cry while I wait for this thing to be over. The drumbeat is damaging my mind.

Richard Furnstein: The drumbeat is damaging the drums! It's a physical affair. I'm sure lowly assistant Mal Evans was calling the local Ludwig rep to get a line on some replacement heads after this session. It's even more devastating in the sequence of The White Album. Paul just delivered the soothing cradle cap massage that is "Mother Nature's Son," and then John creeps into the room like a crocodile arriving late to a picnic. All purpose and desire.

The monkey of the song is typically Lennon symbolism: the slow-eyed and mysterious creature hiding behind his flaking facade. This inner-self provides the wisdom to adjust to the challenges of a world full of evil. The symbol of the  monkey is not quite as simple as a reference to Lennon's junior varsity heroin addiction or even the rhesus monkeys that would steal food from the Maharishi's camp and defecate in the cabins. "Monkey" hints at a common Lennon theme: the renewal of self and the redemption of love. Indeed, it's almost a first draft of "God" from the Plastic Ono Band LP. The heights suggested in the lyrics are about emotional connection to the self (and the angelic saving presence of Mother Yoko Ono). It's a notable progression from The Beatles equating emotional heights with common drug use in their early recordings. George Harrison would often equate this feeling with spiritual enlightenment, but John just embraced the hollow perfection that is The John Figure.

John creeps into the room like a crocodile arriving late to a picnic. All purpose and desire.

Robert Bunter: On another level, this is an extension of the sort of throwaway-rock-and-raver-with-a-cool-guitar-lick that John had pioneered on earlier tracks like “I Feel Fine” and “Day Tripper.” But so much had changed in the brief few years that separated them. At the time of their unveiling, “Fine” and “Tripper” (as I call them) seemed a bit ominous and intimidating in their own right – creepy feedback and cryptic lyrics. Yet, they were hit singles that fit comfortably into the nascent development arc of their Merseybeat sound. Nobody is likely to have nightmares or bad trips inspired by “I Feel Fine,” even though it has those unsettling barking dogs tacked onto the end during the fadeout. The same cannot be said of “Monkey.” Lennon’s trademark acidhead optimism (“The Word,” “All You Need Is Love,” “Baby You’re A Rich Man”) seems to be operational with lyrics about flying high, going deep, ease and joyfulness. Yet, they have been warped and distorted into what I would argue is a just as much of a bared-fangs horrorshow as “Glass Onion” or “I Am The Walrus.” Lennon was in the middle of a really dark period (by the way, here are the periods of Lennon’s life: birth to 1956, happy; 1956-1963, dark; 1963-1968, happy; 1968-1972, oh my God, so unbelievably dark and terrifying; 1972 – 1980 relatively OK with a few cloudy patches) in 1968, and you can hear it on this track. The peppy hippie slogans have soured into bizarre riddles and monkey dreams. During that breakdown section where the drums dissolve and the babbling cacophony of voices is temporarily faded down, the collapsing walls of the party you initially described start to leak onto themselves and the monkey bites its own head off.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon often finds comfort between two states, suggesting severe depression. Lennon muses, "Your inside is out/And your outside is in/Your outside is in/And your inside is out." Sure, it may initially seem like instructions for a fun new dance. However, it was no longer about innocent fun for John Lennon. This was the same man who also switched in and out in the lyrics for "Revolution" and called the suicide hotline in "Yer Blues." Somehow, much like on "Yer Blues," Lennon corrals this isolation and fear, delivering a powerhouse rock band performance on the fractured White Album. Listen to Paul yelping helplessly in the background (at the 1:40 mark). He's deep in the moment. You imagine the four men locking into place, finding a way to shoot electrical salvation into each other's hearts. I imagine the ceiling of the studio was dripping with the sweat of millionaire geniuses. Catch a drop on your tongue and you may find your way back to Hamburg or Julia Lennon's loving arms. Heavy stuff for two minutes and twenty five seconds of pop music. "Brother, can you take me back?" 

Hey Jude

Richard Furnstein: Step inside, old friend. Let me take your coat. It's been too long. Now, where were we we? Right, I was telling you about The Beatles. I figure it's time that I told you about "Hey Jude." Sure, you think you know all there is to know about "Hey Jude." You've heard that Paul wrote it to help Julian Lennon heal from his parents' divorce. You've looked deep into Paul's tender browns in their seminal Mark Frost performance. You know that it was the first single for the band's Apple Records business enterprise/tax shelter. You know that McCartney was initially accused of antisemitism because of the title. You've got it all figured out, right? Wrong. You are dead wrong, old friend.  

Robert Bunter: Wait. Hold your tongue, dear one. Richard is right. I want you to think about everything The Beatles accomplished and all the different things they’ve meant to the world. Bold fashion, freedom of thought, cheerful questioning of authority, experimental attitudes. From dear John we learned how to look within ourselves and behold the restless horse of spirit. Paul showed us the poignant comedy and tragedy of the everyday world and we mundane clods who inhabit it. Stern, frowning George warned us of the seductive danger of materialistic illusions and selfishness. Friendly, approachable Ringo taught us to laugh. Ha ha! They taught us that album sleeve art doesn’t have to be boring, that suits don’t need to have collars, that hit singles can be seven-plus minutes long. They showed us that four humble bean-and-chippers from a stinky Northern provincial fishing town could change the world in less than ten years … in less than ten minutes! But underneath all that the Beatles did and were and are is the simple, profound certainty that We can do it. With love and understanding and communication, all things are possible. This was the foundation of everything from “She Loves You” to “The End,” but this primal message found its expression most fully within “Hey Jude.”  

Richard Furnstein: Welcome to the heart of the matter, dear friends. Paul paints a delicate portrait of personal pain (a child realizing that his world is falling apart following the separation of his parents) and slowly draws back his soft and steady lens from a child's eyes to the universal consciousness of the late 1960s. While Paul tended to trade in the small, private emotions in rumpled bedroom scenes in songs such as "Eleanor Rigby" and "For No One," this time he tries to connect personal loss with greater social fears and--more importantly--social obligations. "Why don't you try healing the lonely people instead of just looking at them, you ape?" The fate of young Julian Lennon is not dependent on the disintegrating relationship of the needy and childlike Cynthia Lennon and the sociopath tendencies of John Lennon. Young Julian is all of us. He's nothing more than a symbol of the end of the nuclear family, changing gender roles, and a movement towards inward emotional reflection. I'm not suggesting that The Beatles created divorce or the crisis of the modern family; they simply advanced realization of the self. I'm sure Paul felt somewhat responsible for the fate of all humanity. To me, the lyric "Hey Jude, you'll do" sums up Paul's hope for this new form of humanity. The old world wasn't worth saving, but it deserved a requiem. "Hey Jude" is Paul telling the world that we can heal each other.

Robert Bunter: It really is. And not just telling us – showing. The musical construction of this song is deceptively simple; steady major chords and primitive melodic movement establish the mood of universality. Paul’s message was strong and vital enough to stand unadorned, without the embellishments of harmonic cleverness or studio trickery. His plaintive vocal is recorded dry and close, as are Ringo’s drums. The unobtrusive three-part backup “aaahs” and “wooahs” are low in the mix. The pacing is relaxed and unhurried; we are seated front and center in Paul’s charming, understated personal living room as he gently plays the piano. One by one, the other Beatles gracefully walk into the room and pick up acoustic guitars and tambourines, smiles of comradeship and togetherness warming their handsome faces. As each verse slowly unfolds, the emotional intensity knob (operated by a grinning George Martin from a hidden recording console in the other room) is gently but inexorably dialed to the right. The simple living room seems to expand in size as a crowd of friends and brothers we didn’t even know we had appears without fanfare. Look to your left – is that original Beatles bassist Stuart Sutcliffe? Didn’t he die from a brain hemorrhage? Who is that attractive, smiling woman behind John? That can’t be … it’s not his mother Julia, is it? No, that’s impossible. I can’t even see her anymore in the crowd. That dapper gentleman with the clipboard nodding his head. Brian Epstein? Impossible, but there he is! He has a percussion shaker in his other hand! I think Ringo just smiled at him! Does Ringo know where we are? How can the air be so fresh in here? I can see Bettina, the voluptuous barmaid from Hamburg, dancing with Nicky Iaccono, my friend from the first grade! It’s clear to me now. We are in Heaven, and we have just reached the three minutes and three seconds point of “Hey Jude.”  

Richard Furnstein: Indeed. The spirits are comfortable in "Hey Jude." The ghostly apparitions realize that there is a common portal in this sound; a way to travel through emotions and heal with the other lost souls. I'm sure if you keep searching you will find an aged, balding Julian standing next to his moon-faced childself. "Keep on fighting, little child. Brighter days are waiting." Do you think that this kind of spirit miracle is possible through "Get Together" by The Youngbloods or "For What It's Worth" by The Buffalo Springfield?

Does Ringo know where we are? How can the air be so fresh in here?

If the final volume swells and engineered cacophony of "A Day In The Life" was an audio interpretation of Hiroshima, "Hey Jude" was indeed the sounds of Heaven. The EMI engineers had orchestrated the sonic expansion of the track in part to facilitate the song's inclusion on 45 RPM single (interestingly, George's solo single "Isn't A Pity" clocks in at almost the same length and employs a similar shift in dynamics).The drones and human excitement that underpin the second movement don't represent tension or chaos (despite some similarities to the sonic rush of contemporary epic "Revolution 9"). Instead, it's the sound of lifetime speeding up; the ascent and descent of the sun is sound tracked by the voices of aging children and passing holiday glee. It's almost as if the music is assuring us that time heals everything. Sit still for seven minutes, child. I guarantee that this will heal you.
  
Robert Bunter: John used to say that on first hearing “Hey Jude” he assumed that lines like “Go out and get her” and “You’re waiting for someone to perform with” were hidden messages encouraging him to leave the Beatles and follow his heart towards Yoko and a solo career. Paul later insisted that it actually had more to do with his own feelings. Meanwhile, Julian’s over here with a tear on his face, like “I thought it was about comforting me in the wake of my parents’ divorce!” and we’re insisting that it was actually a message of togetherness to all of humanity. It was all of these things and more, and it’s perfect. I think it makes a lot of sense as a single (it was backed with the heavy rock version of John’s “Revolution”); “Hey Jude” would have overwhelmed any album tracklist, even the sprawling “White Album,” which would be the nearest potential LP candidate. Like “Penny Lane” b/w “Strawberry Fields” (originally intended for Sgt. Pepper), it was a perfectly realized work on its own. The other nice story that circulates about this song is the one about how Paul apologized when he first sang “The movement you need is on your shoulder” to John, assuring him that this was just a first-draft line that he would revise. As Paul tells it, John insisted it should stand and declared it the best lyric of the song. Paul says that even now, when he plays that song in concert and gets to that line, he tears up a little at the memory of his departed friend. So what you should do is go to the Paul McCartney concert like we did and pay extra attention to the Jumbotron at that exact moment to see if he was telling the truth.  

Richard Furnstein: Paul tells that story every single time he steadies himself at the piano for another bombastic "Hey Jude" performance. The Ghost of John Lennon has usually already been conjured during Paul's solo acoustic performance of the beautiful death lament "Here Today," so he's available for that magic moment. To be fair, Paul's shoulders are usually full of spirits at that point, including his beloved Linda Eastman, his little friend George Harrison, the troubled-yet-well-meaning Mal Evans, and whatever specters float around a sports arena's emotional connection to these songs. He's the keeper of souls. It must be exhausting.

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. 

Please Please Me

Richard Furnstein: "Please Please Me" is the superhero origins story. The lonely orphan teen who suffered a spider bite. The well meaning scientist who fell into a vat of nuclear goo. The Beatles were a methamphetamine enhanced bunch of bashers that were coming up small in the spotlight. Their first single offering--the ghastly "Love Me Do--traded in the leder-und-schwitzen antics of the Star Club for harmonica-drenched mid-tempo pap. In many ways, "Please Please Me" was clearly presented as the sequel to love me do: witness the return of Lennon's plaintive harmonica, the nursery rhyme teasing of Harrison's opening lead, and the pronoun driven lyrics. However, "Please Please Me" offers something more. Simply put, it's one for the crotches. John's is pleading for a bit of physical tit-for-tat in the lyrics while the pulsing "Come on/Come on/Come on" is the firestarter. Staid conservatory-trained producer George Martin proposed the hired song "How Do You Do?" as their second single, but dropped that hot bowl of garbage after John and Paul offered up the (at once) sexually frustrated and aggressive "Please Please Me."

Robert Bunter: You say that like sexual frustration and aggression are mutually exclusive. My friend, they are inextricably linked. That’s why I yelled at you that one time in high school! I think the reason this track works so nicely (you’re right, it’s the first piece of their recorded output that really strikes some sparks) is that it takes both of those intense emotions and amalgamates them into a pile of sweet harmonies and unorthodox-yet-undeniable chord changes. The singer is aggressive and sexually frustrated, but one gets the impression he won’t be for very long. “You don’t need me to show the way, love.” In other words, what do I have to do, paint a goddamn picture? But with a song this delightful, the object of his ardent entreaty is sure to capitulate. Interestingly, there is a bit of distance suggested – the opening line, “Last night I said these words to my girl” suggest a fourth-period locker-room bull session, maybe exaggerated for effect with the boys. It’s doubtful that the singer was actually yelling “Come on! Come on! Come on! Come on!” at the poor “bird” in the midst of their rendezvous.

Richard Furnstein: The "come on" build is clearly the key moment of this song. John (and his insistent buddies) are clearly trying to wear the poor girl down. They deliver their script with a mannish growl (I detect a Parisian odor to their pleas) and a hint of a smile. Then finally, the walls come down and the destination is in sight. The keening on "please pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease me, oh yeah!" tells you the rest of the story. Our heroes crave the ecstasy of release but it's never enough. They claim that they don't mean to complain about the situation during the bridge. There's always rain in his heart, the poor boy. How will he possibly heal his deep heart wounds? The answer is in the tides of pop music--you don't have to search long to find another chorus (release). The only thing missing here is the yelping passion of a rock and roll fade out, including some yelps and guttural noises from the young and doe-eyed Paul McCartney.

Robert Bunter: One of the key songwriting tricks in the Beatles’ grab bag (along with simple pronouns, harmonica solos and yelling “Yeah Yeah Yeah” or “OOOoooh!”) was the use of startling and innovative chord changes; this was a habit they never really lost, actually. “Please Please Me” was the debut appearance. The ascending chords after “Last night I said these words to my girl” were completely fresh and new; the only contemporary example I can think of that used that chord was the Everly Brothers’ “Wake Up, Little Susie” in 1957. The “Come on” section uses some bold transitions, as well. But the capper is that magnificent five chord resolution that ends the single. It’s utterly invigorating, each step like a slap in the face. After I heard that, I knew that this band was going to change the world.

Simply put, it's one for the crotches.

Richard Furnstein: The early Beatles were experts at the dramatic resolution, completely avoiding the mindless fade-out that has long been a hallmark of popular music. Think about the emotional tidal wave that concludes "She Loves You." Even sub-baby food songs like "From Me To You" tended to wrap up things nicely. It's easy to connect this approach to their well-honed live act. I would argue that there is more to it. The resolution of their early hair-shaking mega hits always managed to ratchet up the excitement level in their already exploding pop songs. You replay songs like "She Loves You" and "Please Please Me" because these splendid magicians implore you to return again to the golden cave of self realization. John, Paul, George, and Ringo have the secret recipe for the foodstuff of life--come back any time to feast on their delights. Yeah? Yeah.

Robert Bunter: Yeah!

Baby It's You

Robert Bunter: The early Beatles' girl group covers reek of ambiguity. Sure, they geniunely loved these emotional pop confections, which is obvious when you look at how much their own songwriting was influenced by them. Yet, you can't help but feel like they might be kidding a little bit. Hearing young George's phlegmy teenage baritone sha-la-la-ing in the background gives the impression of an almost ironic, self-aware cover of an oldies song by a group of young phenoms riding the crest of a totally new wave; an affectionate nod toward the curious relics of the past. Of course, when the Beatles recorded this in 1963, the Shirelles were their contemporaries, not an oldies act (actually, they were demonstrably more successful at this early stage). Still, it feels a little like the Ramones covering Bobby Freeman. But that's not to take anything away from the deathless sincerity of Lennon's vocal. His earnest tones practically leap out of the speakers, and there's nothing ironic about it.

Richard Furnstein: The sha-la-la-las are trapped in a reverb tank and it's giving John the blues. He fights through the anguish in a startling direct performance of this Shirelles song. He rarely reverts to the throat ripping that highlights many of the early covers. Instead, John is close to the mic, specks of dust taking flight from his newly tailored Beatles suit. George and Paul are in the shadows, pitching in with shas, las, and oohs, but they seem to understand that John is in complete control. He even answers his own set up "You know what they say about you?" with "Cheat, cheat." The other dudes are right there, but John doesn't want to risk losing the urgency of that line. It's the best moment in a flawless recording.

The sha-la-la-las are trapped in a reverb tank and it's giving John the blues.

Robert Bunter: At the same time, there's something campy about four young men in leather (OK, granted, they were in suits by this time, but remember, Please Please Me represents an idealized version of their live set from Hamburg or the Cavern) singing the Shirelles. The same gender ambiguity that was hinted at by their scandalously long hair and naughty, bold-fitting trouser seams is at work here. As was so often the case, the Beatles were at the vanguard of a revolution, flaunting a conscious blurring of outmoded sexual roles and show business conventions. These "boys" were neck-deep in all the women they could possibly handle. George, in particular, was legendary for his prodigious output and abundantly be-notched bedposts. By leaning in close to a shared microphone with handsome Paul McCartney and sha-la-la-ing fruitily, he was in effect saying, "I'm so secure in my masculinity, I can do THIS. What's the matter, Mr. and Mrs. Establishment, are you shocked? Have I offended your puny 'morals'? SHA LA LA LA LA!!! Now you'll have to excuse me, your daughter just threw her underpants at me. PERHAPS I'LL KEEP THEM."

Richard Furnstein: A lot has been made about the Beatles pumping out the bulk of Please Please Me in one day (and night) at Abbey Road. The band had that luxury by reverting to the lessons of their German boot camp. "Baby It's You" is my favorite "sleepwalking through the live set" moment of Please Please Me. It also highlights the girl group influence that set the Beatles apart from their brain dead bluesmen or plunky surf rockers contemporaries. The same drama and restraint that marks "Baby It's You" would serve Lennon well in his own excellent "girl group" compositions such as "Bad To Me," "You Can't Do That," and "Not A Second Time." You can keep your blues howl, Rolling Stones; the softer side suits Lennon better.

Robert Bunter: It's great when John screams, "Don't leave me all alone ... come on home" at the end while the track fades out. There's something about singing or speaking during a fadeout that adds a poignant urgency to the words. It's like hearing the melting witch bleating in the Wizard of Oz or the screams of someone falling off a cliff.

I Don't Want To Spoil The Party

Robert Bunter: Well, here we are. We've arrived at what I like to call "the standout track on Beatles For Sale." For my money, this is the crux of any argument that someone might try to make that Beatles For Sale doesn't sort of suck (other pillars of this argument are "No Reply," "Baby's In Black," "I'm A Loser," "Rock And Roll Music," "I'll Follow The Sun," "Mr. Moonlight," "Eight Days A Week," "What You're Doing," "Words Of Love," and "Every Little Thing"). How many ways can I say "I really love this band?"

John is taking another stroll down lonely street here, but instead of screaming himself hoarse with revenge fantasies or cries of anguish, he tries the old passive-aggressive routine. Who among us has not done this? "Oh, you guys just keep on having fun. Really. Don't mind me. I'm just miserable because the woman my heart needs won't give me a play. Go on. I'm just going to go for a walk." This approach is clearly the result of immature adolescent solipsism. What's obviously going to happen is, the narrator will go on his self-pitying drunken mope and the rest of the gang is going to keep right on smoking cigarettes and listening to their new Bob Dylan albums and making out with each other on shabby brown sofas in cheap wine-soaked basements. Later that night, she'll show up and pair off with Gibbs or maybe Loose Lon. That's what it was really like in late 1964/early 1965, and, as usual, the Beatles have captured the mood of a generation.

Richard Furnstein: Lennon debuts the Dylan-inspired plunk and strum that will later define his "Help!" material. However, his words are still miles away from his latest inspiration. Sure, we've all been there, and Lennon himself is no stranger to self pity. The song revises the jealous wanderings of the same album's "No Reply" or perhaps serves as a prequel to that song's revelations of love behind window shades. He wanders off from the party, somehow winds up on her block, and hides in the bushes until his stupid heart is finally broken. "How was your night, John?" "Total shit, but I wrote two pretty neat songs this morning..."

Keep on walking and stay strong, John Lennon. Your day of vindication dawns anew, just around the next bend.

Robert Bunter: But it's not all sadness for our country-twangled narrator. The bruised optimism of the middle eight ("Though tonight she's made me sad") gives every indication that it won't be long before the emotionally wounded hero is back on top. And when the syncopated drum thumps show up ("I still love her"), you just know this ol' cowboy might still have a few moves in him. Keep on walking and stay strong, John Lennon. Your day of vindication dawns anew, just around the next bend.

Richard Furnstein: There's plenty of fish in the emotional stabbing sea, John. Buck up. Look at the sunny side. Oh, hey, your young friend George Harrison is stopping by to deliver a concise country and western guitar solo. Doesn't that make you smile?

Robert Bunter: Pop quiz: who's singing harmony with John on the verses? You have two seconds. BZZZZzzzt. Time's up. It's John himself, using a revolutionary new recording technique called "overdubbing." McCartney could have just as easily handled the part (he pops in beautifully on the bridge), but the use of one man's weary voice overlapped twice effectively conveys the sense of self-absorbed immaturity that animates this early masterpiece.

Richard Furnstein: Masterpiece!? I know that night that Loose Lon showed up at the Naus party with Christie was a tough one for you, Bunter. I totally get how you relate to this one. Get it under control, though. This song is serviceable on the Beatles' most serviceable album. Still, five stars!

Anna (Go To Him)

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

I want this song tattooed on my face.

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

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

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

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

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

Misery

Richard Furnstein: The second song on the first album by the number one band in our hearts. "Misery" is proof of why all those girls were screaming their fool heads off and dudes were wetting their pants with pure hetero man love excitement.

George Martin plays some neato monkey piano in the reverb tank and Harrison nails the harmony because he did what everyone said because he was the youngest.

Robert Bunter: This track has a nice bold, up-front recording style that perfectly suits the melancholy lyrics and happy-go-lucky melody. Credit is due to staid producer George Martin. He was a button-down conservatory man who was, fortunately, loose and open-minded enough to translate the unformed musical thoughts of four rough-and-ready Liverpool scruffs into golden classic record albums. If there was ever a fifth Beatle, it was undoubtedly Stu Sutcliffe and Pete Best. But George Martin and Murray the K deserve honorable mentions for translating their scruffy ideas into golden classic record albums and relentless self-promoting radio patter, respectively.

Richard Furnstein: I guess, let's talk about the song, which is their best ever. George Martin plays some neato monkey piano in the reverb tank and Harrison nails the harmony because he did what everyone said because he was the youngest. Lennon's "shalalalalala" during the fade is a top five Beatles moment of all time, and you need to listen harder if you don't agree. Also neat: Paul singing "shend" instead of "send." Whattariot!