All My Loving

Robert Bunter: To this day, I can't tell the story without getting emotional. Furnstein and I went to the Paul McCartney concert together. He opened the set with some Wings stuff, to build the tension ("Venus And Mars / Rock Show" into "Jet"), then launched into "All My Loving." The video screen lit up with iconic black and white footage of screaming girls and the smiling young Beatles. In an instant, every one of the thousands in attendance had the exact same thought: "Mother of God, that is really him. He's from the Beatles and HE'S RIGHT HERE WITH ME NOW." It was like getting punched in the soul. Tears rolled down my face and I was far from the only one. It was a cheap showbiz trick, in a way; the kind of contrived, premeditated dazzlement that has long been Paul's primary approach (in stark contrast to Lennon's raw, in-the-moment inspiration). But how else could he have handled it? That moment needed to happen and Paul deployed it with the confident touch of a master. "All My Loving" was the perfect song choice. It stands tall among the very best of their earlier work, yet it never really garnered the reputation as a cultural milestone assigned to "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and "She Loves You." It almost managed to feel like an obscure album cut, even though it was probably the first Beatles song most Americans ever heard.

Richard Furnstein: What a great moment in our lives together as Beatles fans and friends. I wish I scooped up one of your careless tears and captured the shimmering drop in clear perspex: a testament to the power of time, love, and memory. What a feeling! I wanted to stomp my feet on the ground like those reckless teenaged girls in grainy black and white clips, but I was worried about crushing my nacho tray purchased before the show.

I always considered it a bold choice to kick off their first Ed Sullivan appearance with "All My Loving." It's a cracker to be sure, but it's a Paul song in an era where John was clearly being presented as the closest thing to a front man of the group. John, the group's primary songwriter during that period and the throat shredder who lead most of their songs, stood tall in the center of the pack: legs boldly parted as he strummed his custom Jet Glo Rickenbacker, smacking bubblegum, and his pointy nose acting as a divining rod to the teenaged American moistness ahead.. Paul was merely the side attraction during this era: the loose balloon-eyed, soft cheeked romancer who didn't even warrant his own microphone. Yet, there he was, leading the charge of The Beatles into foreign shores. "All My Loving" was the perfect choice. It's essentially a sequel to previous triumphs, building on the letter within a song format of "P.S. I Love You" and "From Me To You." This conceit managed to touch on both the innocence of young love and the hopeful correspondence of lovers in the previous wartime generation. "All My Loving" also suggests the day after the initial fumblings detailed in "I Want To Hold Your Hand." Nighttime was the right time. Now we have to figure out where we stand, babe.

Paul was merely the side attraction during this era: the loose balloon-eyed, soft cheeked romancer who didn't even warrant his own microphone.

Robert Bunter: The surging chord progression and irresistible triplet rhythm make the song throb with tumescent, propulsive inevitability. The genteel, politely romantic sentiments of Paul’s epistle are belied by the jackhammer pant-grind of the music track. The mental image is a young man seated at a constrictive desk composing a letter to his beloved in cursive script with a quill pen, but meanwhile he is bouncing up and down violently and pawing uncontrollably at himself with the other hand. His hair is disheveled and his face glistens with sweat. His eyes betray the brittle intensity of a madman. More ape than human, he nearly knocks over the inkwell as he stumbles around looking for envelopes and a book of stamps. The demented, hollering 13-year-olds who dampened the seats of every concert hall the Beatles ever played understood that rhythm in their bones. The four young men on the TV screen were wearing fresh-pressed tailored suits and had their hair washed squeaky-clean, but that was just a subterfuge to sneak the primal sex rhythm onto the staid airwaves of a repressed nation. The children understood.

Richard Furnstein: Paul was seen as the romantic of the band, but there's a sleazy quality to the lyrics that suggests that the heart and groin can't quite meet up. "I'll pretend that I'm kissing the lips that I'm missing." Love the one you're with, indeed. Imagine Paul sending that dedication out to his girlfriend from a pungent, tossed Manhattan hotel room. A cigarette dangles from his chapped bottom lip as he dampens the envelope on the cream colored top sheet. "Fly away little bird" he says as he slides the letter to grotesque errand boy Mal Evans at the hotel restaurant. Then it's a quick adjustment of his trousers as he heads out into the brisk February night. It's a disgusting cycle, but we're all just animals. The Ouroboros can't eat itself forever.

Robert Bunter: Ew gross. How about the U.S. stereo mix on this one? Right channel is all vocals, left is all music! Isolate the right channel and you can really pick out some fascinating details, like Paul’s huffing for breath at 1:52. Meanwhile on the left channel, I think Paul hits a wrong note on his little bass at 1:19. That bass line is nuts … as Carol Kaye said in that Beach Boys documentary, “That’s a JAZZ FEEL, man!” George takes the guitar to some nice places on his little solo segment. Speaking of “solo segments,” you’ve got Paul’s voice double-tracked in unison on the first two verses, then in harmony later. Why didn’t John or George jump in there? I’ll tell you why: because Paul cut the damn track perfectly. It didn’t need any other voices on that lead, and the others were cool enough to recognize that and not make a big fuss about it.

Richard Furnstein: "How about the U.S. stereo mix on this one?" Did you honestly ask me that question? Put that mix in the garbage can with the rotting banana peels and used adhesive bandages. It's not even on my radar, man. You know my original issue Parlophone mono is one of my prized possessions. Do I look like some stupid slack jawed teen buying Meet The Beatles! at a Woolworth's in Baraboo, Wisconsin? "All My Loving" as a side closer? No thank you, sir. Please get yourself the hell out of here already. There's the door, you monster.

Robert Bunter: Ha! Great! Terrific!

Sie Liebt Dich

The Beatles recorded German language versions of two of their biggest early hits--"She Loves You" and "I Want To Hold Your Hand." It was at once a nice look back to their roots playing dingy rock and roll in Hamburg and a globe-dominating cash grab for German listeners. It's interesting that they didn't duplicate these efforts for larger international markets (Portuguese, Spanish, Mandarin). They would soon discover that their true language--perfect and exciting songs delivered by handsome ambassadors from heaven--was spoken everywhere. The world would later push back against the global revolution provided by these men. Think of Imelda Marcos and her henchmen aggressively revolting against innocent Ringo's disparaging comments about the Philippines or angry rednecks stomping on copies of Meet The Beatles after Lennon's "more popular than Jesus" remarks. 

As a musical offering, "Sie Liebt Dich" is a fascinating document of the band at the peak of their live powers. The Beatles recorded the song from scratch due to the fact that the "She Loves You" master tapes were destroyed after mix down. As a result, Beatles scholars can enthuse at the raw ride cymbal technique and George's razor sharp guitar sound. Our resident experts, Herr Bunter and Herr Furnstein, were appropriately inspired by the exotic tongues of this crucial oddity. 

Robert Bunter: Gibt es ein wort, das nicht mehr schlüssig als "perfekte" wenn es war ich würde es ihn zu beschreiben, beschreiben dieses lied. Es fühlt sich ein wenig heruntergekommen aus, für solche eine herrliche muster auf unsere übliche pompöse bachchans schwafelei - wie eine seltene schmetterling auf der wing tötet es sie heften sie bis zu ein stück sperrholz und einen blog schreiben. Aber ich habe hier einige sachen - schlagring trug die atemberaubende Insekt kurz mit zarten hohlen handflächen vor der freigabe noch einmal zu fliegen ganz einfach und kostenlos. 

Richard Furnstein: "Sie liebt Sie" ist die einfache ihre füße ins wasser moment für die Beatles. Sie wurden ins leben gerufen in dem ganzen dreck aus Liverpool zu liefern das dvangelium von L-O-V-E auf eine sich verändernde welt. Alle, die vor dem war aber "subtle energetic bullshit." Anfang wie "P.S.  I Love You" und "Love Me Do" deutete auf die größe dieser emotion und seine fähigkeit, grundlegend verändern sie ihr Leben. "Sie liebt Sie" ist ganz in der liebe revolution. Zum ersten mal die Beatles zu begreifen scheinen ihre großartigkeit sind sie mit einem grinsen als sie zu fuß über die kohlen wenn man die verängstigten bewohner in den augen. Sie würden wahrscheinlich auf dem wasser laufen wenn nur John würde nicht in die luft sprengen die bedeutung der bewegung weg aus der anteil.

Bewohnen den moment. BLICK. Dann, wenn es vorbei ist, spielen es wieder zurück. Nichts zu danken.

Das thema des songs deuten darauf hin, dass die Beatles kennen sie ihre befugnisse. Sie sind wahnsinnig schön charmanten-reichen und talentierte aber sie sind hier, um zu deinem Freund um zu dienen als matchmakers für die schwachen sterblichen, die leiden in der liebe das grausame spiel. Wo Lennon würde normalerweise auseinander die Frau (Frauen ist als primäre quelle für seine aufgabe aengste und unsicherheiten) behandelt er die weibliche figur in "Sie liebt Sie" mit mitgefühl ("Entschuldigen Sie!").  Sie ist aus ihrem kopf und sie hat darauf vertraut, daß die Band von Superhelden, ihrer liebe. Sie machen ihren job perfekt in "Sie liebt Sie" sagt ihr freund über die frau der liebe und ihn ermutigen, den weg des lichts und der freude. Es ist ein faszinierender weg, erzählen die geschichte der liebe in einer zwei minuten pop song alle die während der Beatles zu scheinen wie bescheidene weisen freunde, die Sie einladen möchten, in das also immer wieder erneut. 

Robert Bunter: Ich möchte, dass sie gehen, um zu hören, was dieser (mono, natürlich), so laut, wie man bekommen kann es gehen. Ich weiß nicht, wenn sie bei der arbeit sind. Wie sie hören, denken sie an die alten schwarz-weiß-videos von kinder schreien, so laut sie nur können und schaukelte hin und her, wie sie durch den heiligen geist besessen. Manchmal müssen wir schritt weg von der gigantischen tier vor uns und ganz einfach, "it ain't my elephant!" Werfen sie ihre gedanken zurück in eine zeit, wenn sie in der lage, das gefühl etwas so rein waren. Bewohnen den moment. BLICK. Dann, wenn es vorbei ist, spielen es wieder zurück. Nichts zu danken. Ich akzeptiere Ihre entschuldigung.

Richard Furnstein: Ja ja ja! Ja ja ja! Unendlichkeit...

Rock And Roll Music

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Savoy Truffle

Richard Furnstein: "Savoy Truffle" was George Harrison's attempt to create a world of psychedelic colors. A fantasy land intended to rival the dripping funscapes established in "Strawberry Fields Forever," "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds," and "Glass Onion." Yet, where John Lennon's landscapes were created out of manic fury, terrifying childhood nostalgia, and a steady hand for Jabberwocky, Harrison's fantastical lyrics were a droll recitation of weird British candy bars. It's a long way down from the startling lysergic visions of tangerine trees in marmalade skies to the turd-shaped creme tangerine and coconut fudge bars in the window of an old time sweets shop. George never really advances the metaphor or changes the lyrical focus of the song (unlike the preachy undertones of the contemporaneous "Piggies"). As a result, we're left alone in the sweets shop as George continues to pile the disgusting fudge bricks on top of the shop's rusty old scale. Quantity over quality. "Let's be freaks and sing the candy catalog over some scuzz rock." Thanks, but no thanks.

Robert Bunter: Naw. It’s not on that plane! You’re looking at a tuxedo and complaining because it’s not a linen jumpsuit. The lyrics of “Savoy Truffle” don’t seem to amount to much because they don’t need to. Sometimes a few funny words and long vowel syllables are all you need, especially when they’re chosen to adorn a steaming, sizzling pile of greasy funk that sticks out from the rest of the decidedly un-funky “White Album” like a sore thumb. The deeper meanings are there if you want them – George’s bhagavad-inspired assertion that momentary pleasures of the flesh (maya, chocolate lumps) will surely bring toothaches and the inevitable dentist’s drill of karma. But that’s really beside the point. This track is all about the funky clavichord, brisk snare rolls and sassy horn charts. The whole thing simmers and bubbles like a stockpot full of pungent soup. I, for one, am eager to dip in and ladle myself out a hot meal.

Eric Clapton eventually reveals his true self to be nothing more than impatient desire as he opens the wrapper (Pattie Boyd's multi-colored micro mini skirt) and takes a bite of coconut candy bar covered in buttery white chocolate with 2 large almonds on top.

Richard Furnstein: Your point about the karmic implications of the momentary sweet desires aligns nicely with the true subject of the song: Eric Clapton. George wrote the song about his old pal's sweet tooth, but it's easy to connect the refrain to Eric's future betrayal of The Beatle in his successful pursuit of Mrs. Harrison. The "Savoy Truffle" is presented as the original sin--a tempting indulgence which carries significant risk. George seems all too sure that his friend will ultimately reach for the ultimate sweet treat. He is after all an out-of-control junkie with crooked teeth. All is revealed in the sturdy bridge as "what is sweet now turns so sour." Eric eventually reveals his true self to be nothing more than impatient desire as he opens the wrapper (Pattie Boyd's multi-colored micro mini skirt) and takes a bite of coconut candy bar covered in buttery white chocolate with 2 large almonds on top.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, the relationships were pretty tangled and complex. George clearly looked up to Clapton as a virtuoso “real” musician and treated him with respect; he was drafted into the “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” sessions as a premier figure on the London blues scene, a “heavy.” At the same time, Eric “God” Clapton was naturally star-struck to be in the presence of a Beatle, even one as phlegmy and sanctimonious as George “Dark Horse” Harrison. Affairs were further complicated (as you’ve noted) by Clapton’s tumescent desire to bed and wed George’s toothsome wife, Patti “Layla” Harrison. The nicknames flowed as freely as the wine and joss sticks in the elite echelons of the 1968 pop scene – even also-rans like Mary "The Cushion" Hopkin and Jackie "Burgertime" Lomax got into the act.  

Richard Furnstein: I'm glad you mentioned Jackie Lomax. "Savoy Truffle" is clearly related "Sour Milk Sea," Harrison's White Album-era composition which was later recorded by throaty bluesman Lomax with assistance from Harrison, Clapton, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, and famed sideman Nicky Hopkins. I'd argue that "Sour Milk Sea" is superior song to the leaden "Savoy Truffle," although much of that can be credited to Lomax's hair on fire delivery.

Robert, what's your take on the dismissive "Ob-La-Di" reference in "Savoy Truffle"?  

Robert Bunter: It’s bad, man. Real bad. George was starting to hate Paul’s smiley-face songwriting persona and his growing assertiveness meant that he was willing to insert a dig at “Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da” right there on the same album. He even contemptuously gets the title wrong (“We all know Ob-La-Di Bla-Da”) because he can’t be bothered. It’s not the only self-referential moment on the White Album, either. John places his own turd into the punchbowl with “Glass Onion.” Earlier manifestations of the Beatles’ psychedelic period playfully altered the group’s image – the brightly-costumed fairground musicians of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band or the wizards and walruses of Magical Mystery Tour. By the White Album, however, the self-awareness just hangs in the atmosphere like a sour cloud. George and John take potshots at Paul in their sardonic lyrics while Ringo’s over here cowering in the corner with his can of goddamn beans. And where is Paul? He’s with George Martin in a completely different part of the studio (THEY WERE RECORDING IN SEPARATE STUDIOS BY THIS TIME) supervising the sublime French horn overdubs on “Mother Nature’s Son,” one of the finest moments in human history. The whole thing is disgusting.

Money

Robert Bunter: The first two UK Beatles records (which I like to call “Please Please Me With Love Me Do And 12 Other Songs” and “With The Beatles”) were obviously derived from the brutal, punishing live sets they’d been perfecting for years in a series of foul, damp basements, crime-infested German beer parlors and smoky dance halls. Cover versions of American R&B rarities cribbed from scarce imported 45’s dominated the proceedings, with the balance gradually tipping toward John and Paul’s original compositions. They’d toss in a show tune or ballad for effect, but for the most part the setlists were designed to keep a bunch of sweaty black-and-white film footage teenagers in Elvis Costello glasses and bobby socks jumping up and down for hours at a time. The first two albums were crafted from the same template – start out with a lot of energy, whip up the pace with a few rest stops along the way, then sprint over the finish line with a barnburner. On the first record it was “Twist And Shout,” on the second album, “Money.” As great as these tracks are to listen to, I can’t help but feel a strong sense of “you had to be there.” Sure, there’s menacing piano riffs, pounding rhythms, throat-shredding vocals and a general sense of frenetic abandon, but what I hear more than anything else is the echo of a moment that had already come and gone by 1963 when this was released. The dank basement crowds hopping up and down for a stageful of leather-clad bruisers were already pretty much a thing of the past, replaced by packaged variety shows and established theatres within which collarless suit-clad teen idols bobbed their heads politely for crowds of pants-bedampened 12-year-olds.

Richard Furnstein: It saddens me to admit that you are right, sir. The magic was in the moment: a drunk George stumbling into his shaking Vox Amplifier; Ringo's sweat bouncing off of his pleading floor tom; Paul with both the angel and the devil on his shoulders, with his predator vision searching for this evening's beauty queen; and John's razor and bile voice projecting onto the loose stone walls, affixing to the crumbling structure like evil moss. George Martin tried his best to capture the magic. Indeed, his thick piano work is one of the greatest elements of the recorded version. However, it's easy to feel that something is missing in the final recording. Perhaps it is the result of the strict recording standards of Abbey Road. Maybe it was difficulty for The Beatles to become truly engorged in the sterile atmosphere of the studio--where George Martin's tea cozy was dampened, not the pants of innocent young adults. I posit that we perhaps are bringing unrealistic expectations to this recording. Sure, it's the final track on The Greatest Beatles Album (AKA, With The Beatles). As such, it has to both serve as a closing argument for an incredible set of primal rock songs and match the majesty of Please Please Me's final shredder "Twist And Shout." "Money" has everything, it's just that we have an odd feeling that we were here before.

Robert Bunter: The subsequent Beatles LP and single releases, from A Hard Day’s Night onward, were the event; the screaming stadium gigs were merely the shadow. The post-With The Beatles primal moments all happened on vinyl, over radio and television airwaves and in the ears/hearts/minds of a new generation. The global phenomenon was communal, shared across space and time. The callow, sweaty youth clutching his shoddy Capital stereo mix “Beatles VI” LP in the cashier line at Gloanburg’s Record Mart at the Springfield Mall in 1985; a wise old Japanese man chuckling softly at a re-run Beatles cartoon on satellite television in a dank Osaka noodle house; the pretty young office girl who was lucky enough to personally witness the Apple rooftop concert in 1969 from across the street; even the post-modern, decontextualized young lad with the Justin Beiber haircut, meaninglessly streaming rare bit torrent Get Back outtakes onto his web cloud mp3 accumulator and asking for a 180-gram vinyl copy of the Sgt. Pepper 2012 remaster for Christmas – they are all equal participants in a transcendent cultural experience. The primal, pre-Beatlemania dance hall rave-ups, unfortunately, were only for there and then. You blinked and you missed it. Listening to “Money” is no substitute. Frankly, other than the great Beatles shows, life was probably pretty lousy for those long-forgotten participants. Everything was in black and white, the air was briny with decomposing fish and all they ate was beans and “crisps.” Jitterbugging wildly to primitive beat groups was their only chance for emotional release; before long they grew up to be snaggle-toothed housewives or German gangsters, like their parents.

The dank basement crowds hopping up and down for a stageful of leather-clad bruisers were already pretty much a thing of the past, replaced by packaged variety shows and established theatres within which collarless suit-clad teen idols bobbed their heads politely for crowds of pants-bedampened 12-year-olds.

Richard Furnstein: Think about it: The Beatles represented the Allies, returning to Germany to check on a defeated nation. They found a generation of reckless degenerates, wallowing in their life mistakes and burning through stolen Jewish gold. The Beatles were swept up by this world of "no tomorrow" sleaze: living in a porn theater, swallowing dusty pharmaceuticals, and hobnobbing with beautiful hipsters named Klaus and Astrid. The best things in life were indeed free for these charming Brits: unprotected sex, mystery pills, misguided "happenings," and delicious weisswurst sandwiches from the club's canteen. They would later attempt to bring the excitement of Hamburg back to Liverpool (and then the world) but the vibe was shattered. Sure, the casual sex, drugs, and sandwiches would grow along with their fame, but The Beatles soon became a tedious job. Their version of "Money" came at the right time; they knew they had made their choice and were willing to accept everything that came along with it.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s clear they were making a deeper point with this particular song choice, not unlike “Everybody’s Trying To Be My Baby” on Beatles For Sale. The group’s relationship with money evolved over their career. From a group of showbiz phenoms on the make (Reporter at press conference: “Will you sing something for us?” Beatles, in unison: “We need money first.” Reporter: “What are you going to do with all the money?” Beatles, in unison: “What money?”), by Revolver they had matured to complaining about Her Majesty’s 95-percent tax rate for their income bracket. During their spiritual phase, they shunned the material world, asserting (incorrectly) that “fun is the one thing that money can’t buy” and spitting contempt at materialistic “Piggies.” By the time of Abbey Road’s elegiac “You Never Give Me Your Money,” the same economic windfall that had been the source of so much gleeful celebration in 1964 (“Let’s write ourselves another swimming pool!”) had soured the relationships at the heart of the band and dissolved the very Love which they’d evoked so convincingly in song. John’s harsh delivery of “Money” in 1963 reflects these budding ambiguities. One the one hand, the song is a sarcastic, ironic lampoon of crass materialism; yet one simultaneously gets the distinct impression that they meant it.

Richard Furnstein: They definitely meant it. "Money" represents the vikings at the start of their voyage: The Beatles are full of ambition and ready to feast on the world. Compare the verve of this recording to the resigned millionaire sign-off of the previously mentioned "You Never Give Me Your Money." Better yet, put on John Lennon's crass lurch through the song on the Live Peace In Toronto 1969 album. Lennon can barely stay awake in this bloated version. His white suit on his ghostly frame, expensive habit in his arms, and late period Howard Hughes beard make him seem like a terrifying hippie dream of the monopoly man. Eric Clapton adds some professional solo work. High dollar to be sure, but lacking the heart and craft of Harrison. Yoko is dancing in a bag. Does anything scream "money" more than performance art? And who's that on bass? The very embodiment of the artistic and intellectual freedoms of those German salad days: Klaus Voormann. 

Robert Bunter: Klaus. Hip German existentialist friend from the early days. Drew the cover of Revolver. Played bass on many solo records. A total key influence and behind-the-scenes buddy. Klaus. Never wrote a cash-in tell-all book; always playing it close to the chest in his cordial appearances in Beatles documentaries. Solid dude. Voormann. Call him up if you need a favor, or just to talk about the old days. A knowing nod, a whispered word, a hand on the shoulder. Don’t worry, it’s all been taken care of. It’s good to hear from you, Klaus. A friend. Klaus.

Klaus.

Good Morning Good Morning

Richard Furnstein: The rooster crows and the loneliness of night falls away. We suddenly confront the sun (Ringo's drum introduction), a million hungry critters, and the sad truths of our life. Woke up, fell out of bed, realized I don't love my wife or my child, and I want to take weird colored drugs with Mal Evans in order to escape. Is there any other way out of this world? It's a depressing worldview. John clearly craved domestic stability (dead mother, absentee seaman father) but couldn't face the drudgery of a suburban home life. Nothing to say but what a day. Pull up a chair and eat your pork chop, dear. "How's your boy been?" finds John referencing his lonely escape into masturbation to pass the time. It's an unfortunate endgame to his dying relationship to the perpetually nervous Cynthia Lennon. It's also a concise way to reference the biological necessities that open and close our limited days on this smog-filled planet. Shower, shave, defecate, eat some good food, and then take three tablets of acid and look at the lights with Magic Alex. That's the game of life.

Robert Bunter: Yes, yes. The mundane human interactions of ordinary folks, which McCartney regards with bemused affection ("Penny Lane," "Another Day," "London Town," the middle section of "A Day In The Life," "Hello Goodbye" and so many others) are terrifying and repugnant to Lennon's childhood-traumatized, chemically-enhanced eyes. One of the fascinating things about the Sgt. Pepper album ("Pepper," as I call it) is the way the magical fantasy-world established on side one (mostly by Paul, though John the dreamweaver pitched in with "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds" and "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite") starts to gradually unravel on side two as the harsh realities of life intrude via Lennon tracks like "Good Morning Good Morning." Finally "A Day In The Life" destroys the charade ... it's like you're watching a crazy variety show in a gaily-colored theater, but as you get toward the end of the second act, the curtain starts to fall down and reveals the half-dressed extras and bored technicians, creating a sense of palpable unease. Then, a nuclear explosion (the "Day In The Life" final piano chord) blows the whole theater apart. Then you wake up and realize the whole magic performance was a dream. You're about to get up and change the record (pristine original Parlophone mono, of course, dummy!) but all of a sudden the terrifying inner groove loop comes on and you're not sure about anything anymore. Anyway, that's how "Pepper" goes. "Good Morning Good Morning" is like the part I was talking about where the curtain starts to fall away. The same beefy brass section and heavy rock guitar tone that made the opening "Sgt. Pepper" theme so charming now seem harsh and discordant. The gentle audience laughter and applause sound effects have been replaced by bleating animals.

Richard Furnstein: This isn't even a "four legs good/two legs bad" fantasy. Lennon's message is that we are all animals. "Good morning, love, here's your sausage and toast." Don't want to see the sausage being made? Too bad, because you are the sausage.

You know what I would to have seen being made? This song. Imagine Paul laying down that searing guitar lead, headphones framing his angel face as he effortlessly gave birth to Joe Satriani. Imagine Ringo perched high on his drum seat, bringing order to John's fractured view of pop music timing. His cymbal hits like landmines of pink clouds popping across the sepia tinted mediocrity visions of the lyrics. Will the clouds raze this city or will they waft across the sleepy countryside like a psychedelic dragon, bringing color, life, and mythical transfigurations to the milky landscape? The escape is coming, and it's not just for the hippies and their bold new pharmaceuticals. The sad businessmen with their aluminum wrapped Scotch eggs can feel it. The sexually frustrated/curtain twitching housewives are begging for it.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that's another angle. Despite the horrifying implications of the bared-fang lyrics, horn section, animals and icepick-to-the-forehead guitar tone (especially after "It's time for tea and meet the wife"), this song rocks harder than anything else on Sgt. Pepper, with the possible exception of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)," which follows it. There is a fine sense of excitement as the song picks up steam toward the end. The Everyman character who's been shuffling thorough his uninspired routine all day is heading home from work. It's five o'clock and already the sun is setting. Did they have daylight savings time in England in 1967? He decides to "take a walk by the old school," a bit of breezy nostalgia. Lennon's arch narrator seems to be making fun of the square, 9-to-5 main character (tellingly, referred to as "you") with his goofy slang ("Now you feel cool," "Now you're in gear"). The smiling You-figure begins to revel in the urban hustle-bustle as he strolls through town, flirting with any girl who happens to ask what time it is. At this point, John switches from second person to first person in order to facilitate a bit of verbal cleverness ("Somebody needs to know THE TIME / glad THAT I'M here") but immediately switches back ("Watching the skirts you start to flirt"). He is me and you are he and we are all together. The song is full of ambiguity, actually. For example, is it: "I've got nothing to say, but it's OK" or "I've got nothing to say but 'it's OK'"? Either interpretation would shift the meaning 180 degrees. Or what about "Nothing to do to save his life, call his wife in?" Is this a doctor regarding a terminal patient on his deathbed with callous indifference, or simply a bored character who calls his wife because he can't find a thing to do "to save his life"?

Don't want to see the sausage being made? Too bad, because you are the sausage.

Richard Furnstein: I've always taken "called his wife in" as a loving tribute to the Boëthian Wheel. That man actually dies. It's unexpected and crude but altogether real. The din of everyday mundane life highlighted in "Good Morning Good Morning" and "Penny Lane" (what a true shame that these songs were divorced from each other in final release form) includes both the light and the shade. The town is indeed getting dark (a man dies) but only an illogical skeptic would deny the inevitable of another day. A lesser songwriter would have shown us the promise of a new day through the miracle of a new baby's cry. Instead, he admits he has nothing to say and lets a gaggle of beasts (including the farm animals and jungle creatures) tell the end of the tale for him. The sun will indeed rise. The chickens need to be fed. Get to work.

Robert Bunter: That would be a great place to end this, but I'd just like to add that there is a logic to the order of the animal noises. The rooster crows for dawn, of course (could that long-dead rooster have known when it was recorded for EMI's sound effects library that he would be immortalized by the Beatles? He seems to crow with uncommon vigor). But at the end, each animal is chased by another larger creature. We hear a tweeting bird, then a cat, then a dog, then horses, sheep, woves and finally, humans (in the form of a fox hunt). In the stereo mix, they chase each other from the left speaker to the right. Then there is a chicken cluck that morphs into a guitar note.

Richard Furnstein: And what leads us out of this joyous cacophony? Only Paul McCartney (the supreme light himself) counting 1-2-3-4 into the Reprise. A primary education for a new day.

Robert Bunter: Beautiful!

I Want To Hold Your Hand

Richard Furnstein: I'm not even sure how I should analyze this song. It's a powerhouse tornado storm locomotive sent from heavenly angels to demolish the stale mediocrity of pre-Beatles rock and roll. It's not the greatest song that The Beatles wrote but it may be the greatest song ever written. No, that doesn't make sense. It doesn't matter. Put on the mono version (clearly) and spazz out. Good luck to your floorboards. Hide your valuables, because I may start stealing things.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that's some assault, pal! I think there's a real violence implied here: the insistent throb of the bass frequencies, the pounding drums, the handclaps like slaps in the face. These surging mopheads represented a threat to the conformist social order, not to mention YOU, the listener. If you're a boy person, you'd better watch out or get with the program because these fresh-fangled supermen are about to take all the girls. If you're a girl person, the raw sexual energy is so powerful that all you can do is rock back and forth in your seat and scream at the top of your lungs. Look at the old footage. Do those girls look happy to you? They have tears streaming down their faces and their eyes are wide with terror. They pull their hair and screech and probably they wet their pants. I don't envy the poor custodian who was in charge of seat wipe-downs in the upper decks of Shea Stadium in 1965, that's for sure. They were screaming in ecstasy, but it was ecstasy of a very edgy sort. They were driven straight out of their heads. Meanwhile, mom and dad are scared, but for different reasons. The last time Father saw anything like this was on the beachhead at Normandy. Mother sees something in Daughter's eyes that is chillingly familiar; remember, she was the one who had to do all the laundry. And young Robert was looking straight at the Sunday night Ed Sullivan TV set with glazed eyes, possibly the most terrified of all. Nothing will ever be the same now; these four lads are miles ahead of him in a race that he didn't even realize was being run. Lots of catching up to do, son. You might want to cancel baseball practice.

Richard Furnstein: All this from a song about HOLDING HANDS. It's an innocent act, like millions of color tinted photographs of little kids wearing oversized adult-styled clothes while holding hands. Aw, how cute. It's not cute, this is how trouble starts. A gentle touch of hands after you move closer to her after coming back to the couch after a "get psyched" trip to the bathroom. An exploratory fondle underneath the booth at a bar. This is how babies are made and diseases are spread and hearts are broken. The Rolling Stones would take it much further in mere months, but they were probably satanists and ate venereal diseases for breakfast. The Beatles were just well meaning boys who were a touch overdue at the barber's. Or were they? Man this song does it all!

I don't envy the poor custodian who was in charge of seat wipe-downs in the upper decks of Shea Stadium in 1965, that's for sure.

Robert Bunter: When things soften up during the middle eight ("And when I touch you I feel happy / inside"), it doesn't really soften up at all. It's an obscene mockery of a tender moment, like a guy whispering "Here, kitty kitty" to a frightened cat in a dark alley that he's about to bludgeon to death with a cat hammer. The confident singer has been screaming in your face about his wants and needs; then all of a sudden the bottom drops out and he's sweetly cooing for just a few seconds, until he can't contain himself any more and starts screaming "I CAN'T HIDE! I CAN'T HIDE!" in a moment of such primal intensity that it wouldn't be out of place on a Stooges or MC5 record. The vocal harmony is in fifths, with no major third to smooth out the sharpness. I'll say it again: this record takes us to unsettling places usually obscured from sight during sane, daylight hours. The Beatles? Innocent young boys looking for a snog on the naugahyde love seat? Richard, these are four violent monsters. John was like one of those Aztec chieftans you see in the crude paintings at Mexican restaurants, with an ornate Eagle beak mask attached to his head, leading a young virgin up the steps of a hideous temple to have her heart cut out to appease Xpoctxzl, the Mushroom God. Paul is a mother snake, eating her own writhing young, still clicking and shiny with the glistening secretions of snake birth. George is one of Alex's droogs from "Clockwork Orange," ripping the doors off suburban homes and violating their screeching inhabitants. And Ringo? He was like a cross between Pennywise the Clown, Alfred E. Newman performing impossible violations of physical laws on the cover of Mad Magazine and one of the unspeakable malevolent forces in H. P. Lovecraft stories.

Richard Furnstein: Okay, point taken. "I Want To Hold Your Hand" is like a prequel to one of The Beatles' greatest accomplishments: "She's Leaving Home." John and Paul had the nerve to rip apart our social structure with their incredible music and bold new approaches to hygiene and causal sex. The world had to change with them; it took real balls to write a tragic song about the changes that they forced on the globe. The past was boring and typically in black and white. Then, after the dust settled, the full prism of deviance, addiction, and rot was exposed. That old drunk in the park was no longer a touch of local color, he was now a shifty eyed speed freak who rubbed his sagging torso against the jungle gym. Your cousin decided that her dream to become a stenographer was boring and now lives with an old biker in a rat infested city. You don't even want to know how she makes money now. The Beatles surveyed the land and realized that they created this technicolor fallout: broken homes and an insurmountable generation gap. Then they wrote "She's Leaving Home" as an olive branch to the world. "Sorry I wanted to hold your comely daughter's hand, I didn't realize that it would destroy your narrow dreams."

Robert Bunter: That's exactly what happened. Did you ever notice that this song doesn't even seem to have distinct instruments? Sure, there's guitars and basses and drums and voices, but they all seem to blend together into one big rumble. The effect was heightened when the song came out in 1964, before the era of high fidelity audio reproduction systems. Back then, the only places to hear this song were on portable record players, AM radio, or the laughable speaker cone on your parents' TV when the Ed Sullivan show was on.

Richard Furnstein: "Ladies and gentlemen, The Four Sexual Aliens Who Will Reconfigure Our Minds And Create Uncomfortable Distance Between You And Your Children!" (APPLAUSE.)